It occurred to me then that this was a heck of a distance to travel to a wedding, especially as I was yet to meet Pramul and Rittika, the couple getting hitched. Still, my Indian friend's email had bragged of Lucknow's reputation as the "hospitality capital of India". "In my country, no one minds a friend-of-friend tagging along to a young couple's nuptials," he wrote.
It would also be a chance, he went on, to witness the celebration of an "arranged marriage", a form still practised by 95 per cent of Indian couples, and one that he was convinced had a far greater success rate than our Western version. Not being entirely unfamiliar with marital difficulty myself, it was an invitation I couldn't pass up.
Hindu weddings are elaborate affairs that take place over several days, with religious ceremonies interspersed with parades, fireworks and copious food and drink. As they are celebrating not just the joining of two young people, but the union of two families, it is also a prime opportunity to make a show of one's wealth. And wealth is what you need - wedding costs start at half a million rupees ( pounds 40,000). Judging by the carpet rolled out by Pramul and Rittika's kin over the next three days, they weren't short of a few bob.
Tilak, it turned out, isn't just the sacred mark on a Hindu forehead, but a wedding-eve gathering for the groom's family and friends, and the first major event of this three-day wedding marathon. It was a bachelor party of sorts hosted by Pramul's uncle, a Lucknow law professor, and it entailed a religious ceremony performed by a priest.
"You must eat, please, as much as you can," said the first of seemingly dozens of family members who, through the evening, would urge me towards the vast silvery urns of Indian delicacies. As for alcohol, while it isn't exactly condoned by the Hindu religion, the guests showed little restraint.
Just then, the bride arrived, and I asked an aunt if the couple's seeing each other the night before the wedding wasn't considered bad luck. "In arranged marriages, there is no question of luck," she said. "The fam ilies have all agreed to every detail. The priest has selected the most propitious moment for the couple's joining."
"But what about love?" I ventured.
"First comes marriage; love follows."
Guests at Hindu weddings want for nothing. The families often provide guests with hotels, drivers, train transportation and every meal. Next morning, Sanjiv dropped us in another part of the city, where we found ourselves under yet another giant marquee where the groom's family had laid on lunch. Kingfisher beer was served to the men, while the women busied themselves with mehndi, the painting of the bride's hands and feet with henna to signify the strength of love in marriage. The daytime heat beat through the canvas roof, and soon male snores were resounding around the tent. It was time to retreat to the hotel and rest up for the marriage ceremony later that evening.
As night fell, the groom's family and friends, numbering about 200 in all, gathered for some pre-ceremony fortification courtesy of the Indian elite's favourite beverage - the whisky-soda. Fireworks began to explode outside, signifying the start of the "baraat". This deafening parade, with flashing neon lights and vigorous dancing, is the groom's official procession to claim his bride. Pramul, dressed in a jewelled turban and brocade jacket, sat astride a white horse bringing up the rear of a column of musicians and well-wishers. He had a bemused look on his face.
With mounted police blocking traffic, the parade snaked its way for about two miles towards a larger and grander marquee lit up like the Millennium Dome on New Year's Eve. Pramul was led to the mandapa, the four-pole canopy where the ceremony would take place. Once the bride in her red and gold wedding sari had joined him, the ritual began.
It was an agonizingly long ceremony; no one was expected to sit through the whole thing. While the priest invoked Shiva and Laxmi, and threw roasted grains into a small fire, the guests drifted to and fro, sneaking to the back of the tent for a smoke and a quick snort from the bottle hidden in the shirt of the whisky wallah (alcohol at the wedding ceremony itself is, perhaps, pushing the Hindu deities a little too far). Relations approached the tent from time to time and handed the couple fat envelopes of cash to be placed discreetly into the folds of the bride's sari.
After more than two hours, Pramul and Rittika rose hand-in-hand and took seven steps around the fire, and the marriage was formalised. With further serenading from the "dholak", the couple and their families made their exit. The chill off the Gomti River drove the remaining guests into the night.
The following evening, after a day's sightseeing in the old city, we hailed a taxi to take us to yet more wedding celebrations. Despite the language barrier, we felt confident the driver could find the venue. "Big tent. Flashing lights," we said. "Many people."
We found a big tent, sure enough, but the banner emblazoned with the newly married couple's names proclaimed "Jaya and Pratul". Still, no one seemed to mind two stragglers at the wrong wedding sharing their merriment, and we found ourselves duly garlanded, plied with drinks and directed to the heaving urns of food. A quick call on a borrowed cellphone, however, soon had a car despatched to our rescue.
At the correct venue, we found a giant photo-opportunity, the thousand guests all jockeying for a snap with the beaming couple. A military band played hits from the 1940s, and waiters circulated like mosquitoes. The cake was cut with a long, glistening sword and applause resounded into the night. Honoured guests were then called to the platform where the couple sat, where we proffered our congratulations and received gifts of silks and handmade sweets in return. Then, once again, the urns of food made their inevitable appearance and the revelry moved into high gear.
We had to leave the party early to catch a late-night train, and so we bade farewell to Kanak and Sharad and Nidhi and Vipin and Tushar and Santosh and the multitude of other family members. The swaying of the overnight Gomti Express to Delhi kept sleep at bay, and I pondered the future of Pramul and Rittika. If the start of their married life is anything to go by, it will be a long and happy one.
November to March is the Wedding Season in India, and while there's no guarantee that every celebration will open its arms to the tourist, Hindu weddings are very public occasions, and the passer-by can't help but be caught up in the fervour. Watch for the parades, look for the neon lights, linger by the tent flaps and the chances are good that a warm welcome will await you.