The temptation with a sangeet set list is to make it big. Forty Bollywood hits, a bhangra block, one slow song for the parents, and a reprise of whichever song was number one the year the couple met. It works. It also collapses into itself by 10pm, because every song is doing the same thing.

The sangeets we remember — and we've been to a lot — are built in three acts. Not three playlists. Three arcs, each with its own volume, its own audience, its own reason.

Act one is personal. The first ninety minutes belong to the family. This is where the aunties perform the choreography they've been rehearsing in someone's living room for six weeks. This is where the groom's college roommates do the bit. Music here should be specific — a song your grandmother loves, a song from the film your parents met watching. If it means something to one person in the room, it earns its spot.

Act two is the bridge. This is the DJ's hour. You hand over the floor and trust them to read the room. Usually that means the last two decades of Bollywood — but good DJs know when to drop in an unexpected regional hit, a Punjabi folk track, a Tamil remix. The bridge is where guests who weren't sure if they were going to dance start dancing.

Act three is release. The last ninety minutes are loud, communal, and don't need to be clever. This is where you play the hits. Kala Chashma will happen. Chaiyya Chaiyya will happen. Nobody needs to be surprised. They need to be sweaty.

One practical note: build the transitions. The worst sangeets are the ones where the family dances end and the DJ sits silently while cables are unplugged. Brief your DJ to hold a soft bed under the choreography segments, and to lift into act two without a pause. Momentum is the only thing that keeps the floor full.

A sangeet is not a concert. It's a roast, a reunion, and a dance floor — in that order. Build the set list that way, and the room will do the rest.