*The Great Wedding Chicken Chase*

In the sleepy little town of Chalangpur, weddings weren’t just events—they were full-blown festivals. Loud, chaotic, and packed with enough drama to fuel gossip for months. So when Uncle Bashir’s daughter was getting married, the whole town had been buzzing for weeks.

Uncle Bashir was a firm believer in tradition. “No wedding is complete without live chickens,” he’d announce at every family gathering, as if quoting ancient scripture. No one really knew why, but no one dared question it. Some said the chickens brought luck. Others whispered it was a test of courage—because catching one wasn’t exactly easy.

The morning of the wedding started beautifully—until someone noticed the unthinkable.

The chickens were gone.

All fifteen of them.

Vanished from their coop like they’d never existed. Only scattered feathers and one lonely slipper remained.

Uncle Bashir ran through the courtyard in his half-buttoned kurta, lifting flowerpots and checking under bedsheets. “Who steals chickens on a wedding day?” he wailed. “This is sabotage!”

Meanwhile, out in the open field behind the house, fifteen very cheerful chickens were living their best lives. Scratching the soil, pecking at bugs, basking in the sun. And watching them, wide-eyed and determined, was Pappu.

Pappu wasn’t known for his brilliance. But what he lacked in smarts, he made up for in enthusiasm—and an unshakable love for biryani. His plan was simple: catch the chickens, save the wedding, and claim the seat of honor right next to the food table.

With a plastic basket in one hand and a stick in the other, he marched into the field like a warrior.

First, he tried talking to them. “Brothers… sisters… let’s go home. There’s gravy waiting!”

The chickens stared. One sneezed. Another pecked his toe hard enough to make him yelp.

Undeterred, Pappu switched tactics. He charged at them, flapping his arms and shouting, “Bawk bawk!” in what he believed was fluent chicken.

The chickens scattered. Pappu tripped over a rock and landed face-first in a muddy puddle.

Back at the wedding, guests were arriving. Aunts were adjusting their saris, kids were sliding on the polished floor, and Uncle Bashir was close to a meltdown.

Then came Shabbo—the bride’s cousin. Sharp, quick, and always the one to fix things. She took one look at the chaos and asked, “Where’s Pappu?”

“Went after the chickens,” someone said.

She sighed. “Knowing him, he’s probably arguing with a goat by now.”

Grabbing a dupatta and her water bottle, she headed out like a detective on a mission.

She found Pappu crouched behind a bush, covered in mud and feathers, whispering to three chickens like they were in a hostage negotiation.

Before he could react, one chicken launched itself onto his head like a feathery crown.

Pappu screamed. The chicken clucked. They both ran in circles until Pappu crashed straight into Shabbo.

They tumbled to the ground. Chickens fled.

“Are you trying to catch them or audition for a circus?” Shabbo asked, brushing dirt off her jeans.

Pappu sat up, blinking. “I was this close.”

She shook her head. “You don’t need strength. You need strategy.”

So they teamed up.

They tried breadcrumbs. The chickens ate them and walked away.

They tried sneaking up. Pappu sneezed mid-crouch—game over.

Finally, Shabbo had an idea. She pulled out a bowl of rice and stood perfectly still.

The chickens paused. One tilted its head. Then, slowly, they came closer.

One by one, they were gently coaxed into baskets.

An hour later, Shabbo and Pappu returned—sweaty, scratched, but triumphant—carrying the clucking culprits.

The wedding exploded in cheers. Aunts threw rose petals. Someone started playing the dhol. Uncle Bashir wiped his eyes. “Today,” he said, voice trembling, “we witnessed true bravery.”

The ceremony went on—full of laughter, music, and stories of the Great Chicken Chase. Kids played “chase the chicken” in the courtyard. One aunty even gave chase in high heels and nearly took out the flower arrangement.

At the feast, Pappu got the seat next to the biryani. Shabbo got a handmade medal—crafted from tinfoil and pinned to her dupatta with pride.

And the chickens? They were spared. Uncle Bashir declared them “honorary family members” and sent them to live in peace at his cousin’s farm.

---

*In the end*, the wedding wasn’t remembered for the fancy decorations or the expensive clothes.

It was remembered for the time the chickens escaped, two unlikely heroes saved the day, and everyone learned that sometimes, the most beautiful moments come from the most ridiculous messes.

And if you ever go to a wedding in Chalangpur?

Ask about the chickens.

They’ll still be talking about it at the next one