Nobody on the bride’s side could say exactly who had invited Mr. Verma. He wore a neat grey blazer, carried a leather folder and approached the biryani counter with the quiet determination of a man who had not eaten since 1996.
“Very nice arrangements,” he said to Mohan, who was standing nearby holding a paper plate and an expression of mild exhaustion. “Are you family?”
“Groom’s side. Cousin.”
“Wonderful. I am a friend of the family.” Mr. Verma did not specify which family. “And what do you do, Mohan?”
“Software.”
“Very good. Very stable. Do you have a life insurance policy?”
Mohan put down his fork. It had taken him eleven years of adulthood to learn this, but he now recognised the voice of a man who was about to turn a wedding into a meeting.
“I have the one my company gives.”
“That,” said Mr. Verma gently, “is like having an umbrella that belongs to the office. It will not follow you if you leave.”
It was a decent line. Mohan was impressed despite himself. He took a second helping of raita and prepared to listen.
Mr. Verma opened the folder, which contained brochures, a calculator and, to Mohan’s astonishment, a small packet of wet tissues. “Tell me,” he said. “If something happened to you tomorrow, how long could your family manage?”
“Mr. Verma, it is a wedding. Can we speak about something more cheerful?”
“Of course,” said Mr. Verma, undaunted. “If something happened to you at a wedding, how long could your family manage?”
Across the hall, the groom’s father was dancing with remarkable energy. Mr. Verma watched him thoughtfully. “That gentleman,” he whispered. “Does he have a policy?”
“He is sixty-eight, Mr. Verma.”
“There are products for every age. Even for people who dance like that.”
By the time the dessert was served, Mohan had learned the difference between term and endowment plans, written down his email address and been promised a callback “at a convenient time.” In return, Mr. Verma had finished two plates of biryani and a rasmalai.
At the exit, Mohan held the door open. “One honest question,” he said. “Did you actually know anyone here?”
Mr. Verma smiled and patted the folder. “Mohan, in my profession, everyone at a wedding is a lead. But the biryani,” he added with feeling, “was entirely personal.”