.
A wedding and a root canal later, I can look back on August and say it was memorable if not anything else!
For the wedding was intended to be a “petite low-calorie Indian Wedding” It remained much of that albeit on a binge eating spree. It included a fancy-dress Carnival that spread over six costume changes, myriads of relatives:- obscure and ( I am tempted to use scure) not so obscure- scores of friends, a distraught Doberman and little statuettes of Ganesa in various poses of recline and incline.
So much for intent and action. Form and content began with a hasty printing of not inexpensive invitations worded “We invite you to the marriage( cringe cringe) of our son…” which were even more hastily replaced by the correct(er) “…wedding of our son” after a couple of harried transatlantic phone calls and a dozen emails. The “Professor” was mercifully correctly spelled the second time. Yahoo avatars were morphed and dresses for receptions major and minor along with shoes and ties were shopped for lovingly and then tiredly- towards July end.
There was a 17 hour long airplane trip with delays caused by low oxygen supplies and lower patience levels, squalling children and re-runs of Spiderman 3. I enjoyed myself on the flight- there was little else to enjoy. Delhi, where the all-important wedding dress shopping was to take place was a humid cacophony of monsoon, blaring sounds and a raucous shopping marathon- a meet the in laws and then not-talk-to-them. And then we parted- he to cross then re-cross to the Deccan, acquiring a sacred thread in the process, me to the cooler more heavenly confines of Naini Tal getting some sleep for my jet lag.
Relatives descended on us like a horde of migrating birds. Clothes, jewelry( oh yes there was enough to sink the Titanic) and an array of fittings with the feistiest tailor ever , negotiations with an oily jeweler and cups of tea drunk with increasing frequency. There was confusion, babble, song, wine( to keep the festive spirit going) and a few frayed tempers and raised voices, when Aunt XYZ felt that Aunt ABC was being preferred to her. All this while Kalyan was jolting his way through Central India in a train, amidst his tribe.
There was a henna and turmeric application process with 6 hours of sitting still amidst girl talk, plenty of risqué jokes and advice to and about temporary tattoos at strategic places. Of course Bacardi did help ameliorate the frazzled nerves a bit.
There was a blue zari sari- chocolate brown shirt combination Tilak ceremony, with oodles of sweets, rich lunches and millions of clan members. Videographers and photographers lurked in the background like panthers in jungle shadows. There was another costume change- into a hot pink sari and striped shirt combo (we had worked these out earlier) and an evening of frenzied gyrating to “ek bar aaja aaja aaja…” among other desi versions of the Macarena, even while sitting demurely on an overstuffed sofa and not knowing how to respond to "Congratulations, beta, many happy returns"
The wedding was a beautiful ceremony. Minus inessentials, there was no “giving away” of a daughter. Rather it was an affirmation of our intent to love, live and grow with each other, for each other. A vow between two people to complement each other through thick and thin, happiness and sorrow. And a dappled sunshine just brought out the brightest in it all.
Time for another change. Struggling under the weight of a stone-work sari matched with his grey suit, we greeted another set of familiar and not so familiar and totally unfamiliar people with more food, still more sweets and yet more talk and merry making. The romantic honeymoon was a two day retreat nursing heavy colds and catching up on sleep.
Then a cross country exodus to another set of celebrations,which quickly metamorphosed into strange forms of Chinese torture. There was a puja with much exchanging of bananas and cloth (not clothes, but Cloth…) , obese priests who had mastered the art of sitting immobile for hours, whispered admonishments to tie hair or wear bindis, dress in this that or the other. A language gap is a very effective shield against understanding “great expectations from the daughter-in-law”, I found out.
There was another reception, with yet another change of clothes- obviously. Photographers in South India are not a shy lot. They descend like so many birds of prey, hounding you with flashes and they wield immense power in taking pictures of the most unnatural poses one can muster. And somehow the entire party was about standing with myriad people we neither knew nor cared to know. The feeling was mutual I later figured out. More camera flashes later, we settled down to a stone cold dinner, with quite a few dishes on the lovingly planned menu over- it was late, you see!
Why people get married was revealed to me in the next week , when a dentist bent down on me and drilled into my upper right molar. With Kalyan holding my hand, the terror and the pain of the drill and various forms of torture became a litle more bearable. I learned, there are some things you need another person for- an Indian Wedding Celebration is one of them, a root canal another.
Returning home on the same 16-hour direct flight was very comfortable, maybe in contrast to the vacation
Alankrita
A wedding and a root canal later, I can look back on August and say it was memorable if not anything else!
For the wedding was intended to be a “petite low-calorie Indian Wedding” It remained much of that albeit on a binge eating spree. It included a fancy-dress Carnival that spread over six costume changes, myriads of relatives:- obscure and ( I am tempted to use scure) not so obscure- scores of friends, a distraught Doberman and little statuettes of Ganesa in various poses of recline and incline.
So much for intent and action. Form and content began with a hasty printing of not inexpensive invitations worded “We invite you to the marriage( cringe cringe) of our son…” which were even more hastily replaced by the correct(er) “…wedding of our son” after a couple of harried transatlantic phone calls and a dozen emails. The “Professor” was mercifully correctly spelled the second time. Yahoo avatars were morphed and dresses for receptions major and minor along with shoes and ties were shopped for lovingly and then tiredly- towards July end.
There was a 17 hour long airplane trip with delays caused by low oxygen supplies and lower patience levels, squalling children and re-runs of Spiderman 3. I enjoyed myself on the flight- there was little else to enjoy. Delhi, where the all-important wedding dress shopping was to take place was a humid cacophony of monsoon, blaring sounds and a raucous shopping marathon- a meet the in laws and then not-talk-to-them. And then we parted- he to cross then re-cross to the Deccan, acquiring a sacred thread in the process, me to the cooler more heavenly confines of Naini Tal getting some sleep for my jet lag.
Relatives descended on us like a horde of migrating birds. Clothes, jewelry( oh yes there was enough to sink the Titanic) and an array of fittings with the feistiest tailor ever , negotiations with an oily jeweler and cups of tea drunk with increasing frequency. There was confusion, babble, song, wine( to keep the festive spirit going) and a few frayed tempers and raised voices, when Aunt XYZ felt that Aunt ABC was being preferred to her. All this while Kalyan was jolting his way through Central India in a train, amidst his tribe.
There was a henna and turmeric application process with 6 hours of sitting still amidst girl talk, plenty of risqué jokes and advice to and about temporary tattoos at strategic places. Of course Bacardi did help ameliorate the frazzled nerves a bit.
There was a blue zari sari- chocolate brown shirt combination Tilak ceremony, with oodles of sweets, rich lunches and millions of clan members. Videographers and photographers lurked in the background like panthers in jungle shadows. There was another costume change- into a hot pink sari and striped shirt combo (we had worked these out earlier) and an evening of frenzied gyrating to “ek bar aaja aaja aaja…” among other desi versions of the Macarena, even while sitting demurely on an overstuffed sofa and not knowing how to respond to "Congratulations, beta, many happy returns"
The wedding was a beautiful ceremony. Minus inessentials, there was no “giving away” of a daughter. Rather it was an affirmation of our intent to love, live and grow with each other, for each other. A vow between two people to complement each other through thick and thin, happiness and sorrow. And a dappled sunshine just brought out the brightest in it all.
Time for another change. Struggling under the weight of a stone-work sari matched with his grey suit, we greeted another set of familiar and not so familiar and totally unfamiliar people with more food, still more sweets and yet more talk and merry making. The romantic honeymoon was a two day retreat nursing heavy colds and catching up on sleep.
Then a cross country exodus to another set of celebrations,which quickly metamorphosed into strange forms of Chinese torture. There was a puja with much exchanging of bananas and cloth (not clothes, but Cloth…) , obese priests who had mastered the art of sitting immobile for hours, whispered admonishments to tie hair or wear bindis, dress in this that or the other. A language gap is a very effective shield against understanding “great expectations from the daughter-in-law”, I found out.
There was another reception, with yet another change of clothes- obviously. Photographers in South India are not a shy lot. They descend like so many birds of prey, hounding you with flashes and they wield immense power in taking pictures of the most unnatural poses one can muster. And somehow the entire party was about standing with myriad people we neither knew nor cared to know. The feeling was mutual I later figured out. More camera flashes later, we settled down to a stone cold dinner, with quite a few dishes on the lovingly planned menu over- it was late, you see!
Why people get married was revealed to me in the next week , when a dentist bent down on me and drilled into my upper right molar. With Kalyan holding my hand, the terror and the pain of the drill and various forms of torture became a litle more bearable. I learned, there are some things you need another person for- an Indian Wedding Celebration is one of them, a root canal another.
Returning home on the same 16-hour direct flight was very comfortable, maybe in contrast to the vacation
Alankrita
1 comment:
Very sweet...and offcourse, well written - I always do enjoy reading yr take on mundane life - somehow, yr pen bring out the humour n magic of e'day life... this my dear is a gift....n CONGRATS again :)
Post a Comment