It was time once again and the Yeti family was already bored; the tourists came, grinned like hairless apes, were scared by all the wrong things. But the good part was they left plenty of money. Abhayaa, known to family members as Granny, was comfortably situated on her high stool in the souvenir shop; teenaged sister Abhidi had teased Granny’s hair into an acceptable pouf, figuring a little added drama might increase the evening’s take. Mama Abhadi had prepared a wonderful meal and despite her protestations, had created a most exotic and lovely wedding cake for the guests. Papa Moral and young son Muktananda had made sure to groom each other’s back hair in preparation, having already experienced the discomfort of guests who were unaccustomed to Yeti with a poor sense of grooming. At the appointed hour, Uncle Naresh opened the door to the happy guests who had come up from the temple after the wedding. They were obviously ready to party.
“Mama,” Papa called from the kitchen, has Muktananda brought in the morning paper yet? I want to read the Society section to see whether last night’s festivities were mentioned.” Mama attempted to keep her countenance even, having already seen the report. She was confused and upset herself since all the guests had raved about what a wonderful time they had. The food had been devoured with some guests even being so bold as to ask both for recipes and take-away trays (who does that at a wedding reception?! she’d thought to herself). Granny had spent until daybreak counting the profits from the gift shop (although Mama attributed her slowness to her arthritis; it was getting more and more difficult for her to use the family abacus and she refused the modern convenience of a computer, calculator, or adding machine). She had told Muktananda, Naresh, and Abhidi to stay in their rooms in anticipation of her husband’s reaction. She handed him the paper and moved to sit next to her mother-in-law at the other end of the long table.
“What does it say, son?” Abayaa loved to get things going.
Papa flipped quickly past the cover story, the local news and weather, and the daily Soduku; the smile that had been tickling his lips faded fast as he read the few lines supplied by the American reporter who had lurked at the edges of the event:
The so-called wedding of the century was held last night at the local temple and was followed by a rather tepid reception affair. The Americans had landed a week ago to much fussing and have managed to spread their money amply throughout the village. The bride was resplendent in the evening light and the groom and his party were impeccable. The reception however was something else entirely. Unfortunately the ceremony was held in a dark and dreary castle about which the locals rave. Other than the hairy family in charge of the place and an interesting (read: weird! You should have seen the wedding cake!) menu, I don’t see what all the fuss is about. I give this one a thumbs-down.
Papa folded the paper, placed it neatly next to his table setting, pushed back his chair, and retired to the veranda, where he promptly began to yell things in Yeti-tongue that should never be uttered in mixed company. The hillside protested his commentary and promptly emptied itself of a few tons of snow, which slid rapidly toward the sleeping town below.
Just a little something written for today’s Write Now! Prompt. Visit the link to add yours.
Note1: the Yeti names included in this story are Sanskrit; to learn more about the meanings of each, do a search on Baby Names World