I’m sitting on the stoop of my ground-floor hotel room, looking out on a grassy courtyard lit with thousands of fairy lights.

There's the bustle of people and music in the near distance. Blissfully, the monkeys are asleep and no longer trying to steal my shoes.

I’m joined by three very close friends, Tom, Finn, and Ollie.

I’ve not seen Finn and Ollie for a long time, and we're attending a Hindu wedding tomorrow for Ollie, who is getting married to his fiancée, Chetna.

For the pre-wedding briefing, I've appropriated a table full of finger food left over from a cultural performance put on by our hotel Namah Resort, and poured us all a glass of whiskey to sip while we chat about what we should expect.

The briefing on how not to mess things up

We are unfamiliar with the customs and ceremonies that await us, so Ollie breaks down the upcoming proceedings.

It doesn't take rigorous questioning to establish that there are some very large gaps in Ollie’s knowledge, and that the itinerary will be as much a surprise for him as it will be for us.

He lists some common dos and don’ts.

Don’t drink alcohol in front of the elders. Do tip the dhol players.

Much to my relief, Ollie informs me that I need not learn anybody's name. Rather, I should just call everyone “aunty-ji” or “uncle-ji.”

We are also told that, at one of the ceremonies, Ollie must remove his shoes.

The bride and the groom's respective parties will have to fight for them, and it's our goal to return them to Ollie before the final marriage ceremony.

That seems easy enough.

We have a significant weight advantage over the other guests, and vow to use it to our advantage.

But some traditions we cannot abide.

We love Ollie and want to get stuck in, but in a country with more than a few open sewers, and unfortunately covered in a layer of hideous plastic waste, we collectively draw the line at the feet-kissing tradition.

Call it a cultural difference.

Fully briefed, we relax a little.

Ollie catches me up on his engagement and his previous trip to India to meet his in-laws for the first time.

He also explains to me the astrological complexities of modern matchmaking and lover‑approval between different Indian cultures.

Some members of his partner's family had insisted that they have the relationship approved by a licensed Hindu astrologer, a Jyotishi.

Based on the bride and groom's birthdays and birthplaces, the Jyotishi didn’t approve of the marriage.

Normally, a Jyotishi's disapproval would be relationship over.

Unperturbed by tradition, Ollie sought a second opinion.

A second Jyotishi fortunately approved their match.

I asked Ollie about the price difference between the first and second of these romance specialists. He didn’t dignify me with a response.

Act 1: Mehendi

On our taxi journey through the dense Uttarakhand jungle to the wedding destination, I get to know Ollie's parents a little better.

They are both lovely, but it's clear Ollie takes more after his dad: calm, introverted, and well-considered in both speech and action.

Qualities that are wonderfully out of place at a loud and effusive two-day wedding celebration.

I've been assured that upon arrival, we’ll have time to settle into our quarters and change into fresh clothes before the first ceremony, mehendi, at which Chetna will receive her glorious henna tattoos.

We pull into the venue and are immediately swarmed by an enthusiastic throng of dhol players and dancers in traditional dress.

Looking very unprepared in my string vest and Eurohike bag, in which I sweated my way around Agra, I fully commit to the dancing, shimmying my way through the throng towards the venue entrance.

Two young women who were dressed as the Colombian flag adorn my outfit with a marigold necklace and smear auspicious rice on my forehead.

But things immediately go wrong for us the second we step over the threshold.

Our kurtas are the wrong colour

The first uncle-ji I meet informs me that we must wear green kurtas to mehendi—the colour green symbolising prosperity and fertility.

We don't have green kurtas.

The off-brand ones we did find involved us questing through the markets of Agra, fending off every scammer between the Yamuna and the Ganges.

Ollie averts his gaze, knowing full well this detail was omitted from last night's briefing.

His father magnanimously offers me his spare green kurta.

But there's a reason it's going spare.

The top fits like a glove, is lightweight, and glitters fabulously in the early afternoon sun.

The trousers, however, have been tailored to fit a railway viaduct, both in scale and dimension.

They resemble one half of the McDonald's logo.

For a human to wear them, they would need the waistline of the 600-lb UFC fighter Emmanuel Yarbrough and the ankles of a toddler with a severe case of rickets.

We look like shoplifters

In other bad news, Tom's hastily-bought scarlet kurta still has its magnetic security tag on. If he were to wear it like this, it would look like he had shoplifted it.

I rush to the reception and ask desperately if they can help. The man behind the counter accepts the garment and shoos me away as if this is a daily request.

By some miracle of logistics and willpower, the kurta arrives back in our room, de-tagged and crisply ironed within 20 minutes.

Delhi belly

But the worst is yet to come.

During our pre-mehendi lunch, Finn’s stomach rejects the spiciness, variety, and overall foreignness of the dishes on offer.

He's consigned to bed and remains there for the rest of the day.

One man down already, we head to mehendi.

The grounds of the hotel have been lavishly decorated for each ceremony.

Mehendi takes place at a small stage decked out in colourful drapes with several rows of seats for the guests. Not that we'll be using them.

When we move to sit down, singing dhol players appear like genies from a bottle.

All the guests begin to dance, and the seats are tossed to the periphery, never to be used.

A drape is pulled aside to reveal a young man who's in charge of the DJing. He blasts out some absolute bangers to get everyone dancing.

And we all dance for four hours straight, while a group of henna artists decorate Chetna with the most intricate body art I have ever seen.

Intermission: Tekken and cricket

Tom and I retreat from our hot afternoon rave, sweat sticking our cheap polyester kurtas to our curry-filled bodies.

We head to check on our fallen comrade Finn, but we’re intercepted by some of the dapper uncle-jis who we have been dancing with.

We’re ushered into a games room with table tennis and arcade machines loaded with Tekken.

My misspent youth permits me an undefeated streak on Tekken, and our table tennis skills are more than sufficient to hold off the opposition.

We then all pile outside for a careful game of courtyard cricket.

Needless to say, we play an innings that puts our nation and colonial ancestors to shame. It doesn't help that it's dark by now and that the ball is the same colour as the grass.

Before we can shame ourselves any further, an aunti-ji interrupts the game and tells us all to “go and get dressed! The next ceremony is starting,” making us feel about four years old again.

Act 2: Sangeet

But the interruption needn't have come so soon.

A full four hours pass after the game of cricket, yet Tom and I are still the first arrivals at sangeet, a ceremony dedicated to singing and dancing together.

We are in high spirits, or rather, high spirits are in us.

A resourceful uncle-ji rapped on our door earlier with a bottle of "Black Dog" spiced rum.

The label stated “for military personnel only,” but it works just as well on civilians.

My job this evening is to bear surprise gifts from the groom to the bride.

Both Ollie and I do not know when the gifts are properly due, so I remain on high alert, and on the correct side of drunkenness until I receive my signal.

The other guests begin to drift in around 10pm.

At sangeet, the guests have been asked to dress in smart Western outfits, so we don't have to worry about the colour of our kurtas.

This ceremony is held outside again, but in a different area of the venue.

Large tureens filled with various curried delights flank both sides of the pretty courtyard filled with sofas for the guests.

Undeterred by Finn's lunchtime fate, Tom and I partake heavily in the food.

As we eat, we watch family members dedicate song and dance performances to one another: husbands to wives, daughters to mothers, and boy-band-like uncle-jis to no one in particular.

Ollie and Chetna chill out on the stage throughout the duration of the proceedings like a courtly couple.

Knowing Ollie as I do, I suspect this is just about his worst nightmare—being centre-stage on a raised platform and relentlessly photographed for hours on end.

But they are in their own happy little bubble, chatting and laughing.

It's very sweet that, despite all the noise, bright lights, and extravagance, they remain entirely undistracted from each other.

But my warm and fuzzy thoughts are interrupted by a mental alarm.

I’ve zoned out.

And Ollie is suddenly giving me the look, so I dash over to pass him Chetna's gifts before receding back into the crowd of onlooking relatives. No more jobs.

The romantic and bromantic dances eventually taper off around 1am, and Tom and I, shattered, execute an Irish goodbye.

We've got to keep energy in the tank for the second half of the wedding tomorrow.

Act 3: Haldi

Although the wedding has been generously laid on, there seems to be little coordination between the catering and the ceremonies.

Mere seconds after we’d been ushered to lunch and settle down with heaped plates, a crowd of guests and venue staff drum, bob, and clatter their way past the canteen in an undulating sea of bright fabric.

So we dash back to our rooms, swap kurtas to appear like we're wearing fresh outfits, and join the procession.

When the column of bodies reaches its destination, we find Ollie and Chetna sitting in separate paddling pools.

Guests take it in turns to smear them with a paste of turmeric, sandalwood, and rosewater suspended in milk.

Officially speaking, the haldi ceremony is for families to cleanse the couple and offer them blessings. But it's less serious than it sounds.

There's lots of laughter, silliness, and breaking down of barriers between the two parties, helped along by the opportunity to playfully slather someone with sticky yellow paste.

Haldi is also far more sedate than yesterday's ceremonies. I sense everybody is stilling themselves for the final marriage ceremony tonight.

We’re in Ollie's accommodation for the run-up to the last and most important ceremony—saat phere.

Finn feels well enough to join us, and we're happy he's finally able to celebrate.

The wedding photographers are forcing Ollie to pose like Colonel Gaddafi.

There are five photographers all in all, standing a foot apart.

Five photographers is four too many, as humans can only look in one direction at a time, so five of them competing for the best poses is self-limiting.

But chaos is by now a fun and endearing feature of the wedding.

Ollie looks superb in his finest outfit yet, complete with elaborate folds and drenched in pearls and sequins.

When the photographers are finished, we enjoy a quiet moment alone with Ollie and sooth his pre-matrimonial nerves as best we can.

But, after travelling over 4,500 miles, partying with strangers become friends, and grateful at being invited to play a part in the ultimate destination wedding, it's time for Ollie to finally get married

Act 4: Saat phere

We summon the rest of Ollie's entourage and dance him up to the ceremony.

A fabulously-decorated corner of the venue has been kept in reserve for the climax.

But our path to it is blocked by a huddle of key aunti-jis in brilliant saris barricaded behind a ribbon.

To gain entry, Ollie must barter for a pair of scissors from the aunti-jis to scythe his way into the ceremony and, ultimately, to his bride.

Knowing Ollie to be a very polite Englishman, the aunti-jis must have achieved a tremendously agreeable markup on their sale.

But we’ve been fooled! Chetna isn’t even in the venue.

More photos, more dancing, and more food last until 2am, at which time we’re informed that the moon is correct for the formal saat phere culmination.

By now, we are weary with jet lag, heavy travel, dancing, alcohol, and excess food.

Tom, Finn, and I slump into our seats, hot and exhausted, but relieved that we've bested our fatigue and given Ollie the best showing of solidarity we could muster.

Joota chupai. The battle for the shoes

Our relief is premature and there's a sharp cry of glee from the door.

Forgetting his own briefing notes, Ollie has carelessly abandoned his shoes and walked off to pledge his solemn and eternal vows. These will not be uttered in the ornate grounds, but in the dowdy canteen where we abandoned lunch earlier.

Already, the shoes have fallen prey to a sharp-eyed uncle-ji wearing an ear-to-ear grin.

It's surprising how quickly myself, Tom, and Finn block both exits to the pool area outside the canteen.

Ollie is culturally forbidden from the game, leaving the three of us and Ollie's two siblings vastly outnumbered by the home team.

Eyes flitting to the pool, I consider a few socially unacceptable ways to regain the shoes, but eventually, some pressure defence and a small error affords me purchase on the current shoeman.

As I fight for grip, Finn—who happens to be a judo instructor—quickly removes the shoeman's belt and ties it around the man's ankles like we're in a John Woo film.

He topples, his grip loosens, and I take possession of the shoe.

I pass it to Ollie's other guests, hoping our man can get married with at least one foot covered.

Time to take on the second shoeman.

With a turn of speed and a well-placed Tom, I manage to pace down and trip the second shoe-possessing uncle-ji.

Being careful not to turn him into pâté with my heaviness, I grab onto some limbs and unfold him.

Tom grabs his remaining limbs and pulls, forcing the man to choose between possession or being torn in two.

Tom eventually gains the shoe, and I escort our victim to one of the hotel rooms, victorious against all odds.

I return to the ceremony hall, conscious it has been some time, to ask Ollie and Chetna how to proceed.

I’m greeted with the original shoe thieving uncle-ji, grin broader than ever, holding both of Ollie's shoes.

Tom walks in shortly afterwards, looking very sheepish indeed.

Apparently, he fell for the playground classic, “it's against the rules to lock yourself in a room with a shoe, you cheated, give me the shoe.”

He was always one for rules.

Defeated, we sit down with the other team to compare grass stains, ripped clothing, and argue about unfair play.

Just married

During the post-match camaraderie, saat phere begins.

While we chat with our opposition, I can’t help but wonder why the one ceremony held around an enormous, roaring fire was the only one to be held indoors.

While Ollie and Chetna pledge their vows, the canteen fills with billowing folds of lethal grey smoke.

The other guests choke, but remain seated and resolute.

It's very late now, and my eyes are already stinging with tiredness.

I try to keep the doors open, but find myself battling some children glued to social media on their phones who want them closed, lungs be damned.

Through reddening eyes and the onset of acute bronchitis, it's sweet to watch Ollie and Chetna joking with each other as they take their vows.

Some of the vows reflect tradition rather than reality.

They are both successful career professionals, engaged in what's best described as a modern, equitable relationship—meaning that some of the promises they make during this traditional Hindu wedding are laughably off the mark.

This said, their knowing laughter doesn't detract from the magnitude of their obvious mutual devotion, and it is a beautiful thing indeed to see them make such commitments in a way that suits everyone in attendance, regardless of culture and creed.

Saat phere finishes with a circumambulation around the fire pit seven times under a barrage of marigold flowers, ripped apart to provide colourful confetti to throw over the newlyweds.

Attending a Hindu wedding. Check

It's 4am, so we all break off for a mug of masala chai to wind down.

Ollie actually needs his shoes now, but has to haggle to get them back.

Given their decrepitude, I suspect he makes another overpayment.

Our adversarial uncle-jis now shower us with gifts of bagged nuts and some Ganesh-head medallions to take home as souvenirs.

Given that tomorrow we've booked a five-hour taxi ride to catch a two-day train that will take us across the width of northern India, a bag of nuts is the perfect gift.