The Great Indian Wedding

December saw me stuffing my things with a vengeance into a humongous suitcase once again. I was headed to good old India, and this time for a lengthy twenty days, instead of a meager, rather volatile and unfulfilling twelve days like last year. Oh the joys of travel! I was talking to somebody the other day about how a journey home after extended absence makes one stupid. For instance, when I landed at Frankfurt for a tolerable (and much needed) four hour layover, my unbridled happiness made me flip out my fancy phone and soon enough, I was fervently texting my friends back home, updating my facebook status (which on other days would be deemed unnecessary) completely oblivious to the fact that I was on international roaming during which most cell-phone apps ceased to be free. I was too busy basking in my Grad-school afforded luxuries which allowed me to flash my credit card and indulge myself with a scrumptious brownie while reading Vikram Seth, instead of running around looking for a calling card to make that tragic minute-long voice-trailing-in-the-middle phone-call home. It was only when I came back and stared in disbelief at my phone bill that I had an epiphany. Happiness is fleeting. Almost cruel. And all this stupidity thanks to my 'Smart'phone. Rather ironic don't you think?

Anyway coming back to the things that made it all worth it. I landed in Bombay, a quick detour, before heading to Calcutta. I had planned to stay over with a couple of my best friends there and explore a different city with renewed appreciation for home. There was non-stop chatter about love-lives or the lack of it over glasses of wine till wee hours in the morning. There were unforgettable meals in quaint hole-in-the-wall Parsi eatouts. There were brushes with brilliance at Prithvi. There was blatant ridicule for tourists who posed awkwardly before the Taj, trying to replicate possibly the most overdone instance of trick-photography, stretching their arms out at odd angles in the hope of grazing the top. There were sunsets across the Marine Drive and moments of idle staring into space. There were truckloads of bad photographs where our nostrils looked too inflated thanks to unflattering camera angles. There was extended philosophizing surrounding a certain redundant 'dentist's appointment'. There was heat during what was supposedly 'winter'. There was dust, incessant honking and unruly traffic, and a butt-of-all-jokes NRI version of myself stuck in the middle of this chaos, too accustomed to zebra-crossings for his own good. The romance of it all was intoxicating, the certainty reassuring. That warm fuzzy feeling came rushing back. It made me smile.

After an eventful two days in Bombay, I landed in Calcutta. The week spent there was a blur, out of which two days were spent in recovering from a severe jet lag. Isn't international travel fun?! But I had less to complain about this time round since I had a wedding to look forward to. My mad cousin R was getting married! Yes. She's crazy. Not only because she has rather unruly hair which makes her head look like a bird's nest bustling with unseen activity. But because she is a rather bumpy emotional roller-coaster herself. Her mood swings are legendary in the family and she has no qualms in admitting how big a drama queen she really is. Incredibly creative, talented with more love to share than she can manage, you'd love to hate her and hate that too. (Well, that's a bit complicated. But I'm sure you understand what I mean. And R, incase you're reading this, just focus on the last statement. The rest aren't that important.) Anyway, after a rather emotional bachelorette party sans strippers and lots of 90's cheesy bollywood music, we started preparing for the big day. And a day of massive proportions it was! Initially I envisioned a very different stay at Hyderabad which involved a lot of relaxation, idle banter and exploring the sights and sounds of the city, not to mention gorging on truckloads of unhealthy, calorie-peaking food. I did get to do some of it. But the one thing we didn't get to do was 'relax'. It was only when R was walking us down the wedding venue carrying a sketch of what it should look like on the day and explaining everything in excruciating detail, did I realize that the supposed event-manager was the bride herself, and us cousins, her hapless minions. As if that was not enough, her brother A and I were in charge of decor. Yes. You heard right. D.E.C.O.R. For the ENTIRE venue! Considering my prior experience in this field included over-decorating a foot-long glittery Christmas tree once every year such that it couldn't stand anymore and had to be kept sadly leaning against a wall, I felt myself breathing really hard through a severely constricted windpipe.

What followed in the next two days was nothing short of disaster. It all started with cousin A and I heading to the flower market to procure three hundred kilos of orange and yellow marigolds at 4 AM. I had never seen a flower market before and did not , in the least, know what to expect. It was nothing short of a battlefield. There were at least a hundred numbered shops, each selling exactly the same set of flowers. There was ample yelling and ferocious bargaining, some of it in Hindi, some of it in Telegu, some of it in unflattering gestures. And two city boys with zero experience were stuck in the midst of it all. On top of that, cousin A had one leg in an ugly green cast and was limping all along, thanks to some ice-skating related mishap in Germany. Excellent! But we survived the ordeal, thanks to our God-sent chauffeur Akbar. A small little chap, forever smiling, and bargaining impossibly, he was a treat to watch. Cousin A and I were just wax models, frozen in time and space, staring at him in awe, as he brought down prices from 50 to 35 bucks a kilo! Now that's some serious haggling I would say.

Having stuffed the nine huge sacks of crumpled flowers in one autorickshaw (a major feat in itself) we headed home to take care of the rest, as the auto followed us in snail-speed, wobbling precariously on its semi-deflated wheels. The next day was spent in putting up all those flowers strung together to make a seemingly impossible pattern that cousin R had come up with. By that time, I was convinced that she hated us all. Thankfully we didn't have to do this maddening task ourselves (which I feared we would have to at one point). As help, we were introduced to Khaled, the flower guy who spoke only Hindi and Murthy, the electrician, who spoke none at all. Now isn't that exciting? Cousin A and I looked at each other. We had to make a quick call on who to instruct. I was going for Khaled any day, as the only Telegu I knew was 'Vaidhava' (meaning stupid) and needless to say, that's not very helpful. But cousin A was fast, even on his limp feet. Before I could say anything, he called dibs on Khaled, and began instructing him about the flower arrangement. I had a clueless Murthy staring at my face. Sigh. I went ahead with accomplishing the impossible and I decided to use my hands a lot to do it.

Me: Murthy Bhai! The green lights go here and the yellow lights go there.
Murthy: (silently looking here and there.)
Me: Murthy, did you understand what I said? I was thinking of having the green lights on alternate bushes and have strings of yellow lights behind the mandap, in the form of a separated curtain. (At this point I was waving my limbs frantically in the direction of the bushes and drawing imaginary lines in the air.)
Murthy: (still silent, staring blankly)
Me: Murthy! (A bit agitated at the failure of afore-mentioned enthusiastic gesticulation) Say something. Kuchh Bolo. TALK. (Trying every language I knew)
Murthy: (calmly) Aaa. (shaking his head sideways)
Me: (exasperated) Murthy! Understood? Yes (nodding) or No (shaking head)? (hoping to give his inexplicable head movement some much needed direction)
Murthy: Aaa. (Swaying head sideways ambiguously.)

I suddenly imagined a wedding with no lights, and cousin R, shuffling in the darkness in her trousseau, looking for a kitchen knife to stab me with. I glanced at Cousin A dragging his injured foot around, and Khaled following his every move, nodding vigorously. Oh how I wish Murthy would nod. Just once. But he didn't. And it made me want to cry. In addition, cousin R wanted to hang hand-made bucket lanterns along the entrance (Yes we made them too). I tried to explain the concept to dear Murthy. I didn't bother to look at him this time. It would only result in more heartbreak. So after some aimless instruction from my side, exaggeratedly pointing to the wire canopy above which was set up in order to hold the lanterns, while Murthy stared at the ground looking for a pen he had dropped and couldn't seem to find, I decided it was time for me to give up and fervently pray for some divine intervention. Three hours before the in-laws were supposed to arrive, the bride decided to hand out some last minute construction work. She wanted a gate to be constructed, which would supposedly serve as a sign for the groom to get off his horse! I ran to Khaled hoping against hope that we were still left with some flowers to build this magic gate. He somehow anticipated this, and before I could ask him anything, without even looking at me, he raised his hand gesturing that we were out of flowers. Great! I turned to look for cousin A. I saw him playing an awkward game of hopscotch in the distance cutting a rather sorry figure. I assumed walking/running was no longer an option for him thanks to that darned cast! So the only other option was a gate made out of fairy lights. It would seem rather magical from a distance surely, I thought, but the prospect of explaining the concept to Murthy made it nothing short of a call from hell.

Me: Murthy Bhai! How's everything going? All OK?
Murthy: (dryly) Aaa.
Me: Good. (Hoping 'Aaa' meant Okay.) We want some lights twirled around these two poles right here and a couple of light trails hanging between them. Something like a gate. (Holding my palms at an angle which looked more like a thatched roof than a gate. But never mind.) Could you do it?
Murthy: (busy scratching his head with the pen he seemed to have lost a few hours ago and staring into space) Aaa.

At this point I was convinced that 'Aaa' meant No, because Murthy's face did not reflect the slightest signs of understanding. But that's all I could do and I just hoped and prayed for the impossible to happen. And the impossible did happen! When I came downstairs in the evening, R's uncomfortably large camera (which I incidentally didn't know how to use) slung across my shoulder, I couldn't believe my eyes. The twinkly lights were on, and the venue looked absolutely gorgeous. At that moment, the only thing I wanted to do was to kiss Murthy, riding high on a wave of awe and gratitude for a job well done, but I couldn't find him anywhere. I was a tad dejected, but I had no time for despondency. I had to run around following every event, the unimaginably heavy wretched camera in place, capturing precious moments for cousin R's album. But Murthy, if you're reading this (I'm sure you're not), you ought to know that I love you and you're my hero. You inspire me.

The wedding itself was another episode altogether. The bride's side were Bengali, mostly comprising quintessential Tagore-reciting, phuchka/Rosogolla eating, book-fair visiting intellectuals, whose favourite pastime on a rain-soaked Calcutta day was to discuss politics or literature over a steaming cup of tea and Marie biscuits. The groom's side were Marwari; an acutely business minded, shrewd, education loathing, strictly vegetarian, Bhangra dancing lot raised primarily on Bollywood. With gritted teeth and bared claws, they judged each other with every morsel of their being. What followed was a night of drama, flared tempers, heated exchanges, reluctant compromises (or the lack of it) and a battle for ultimate superiority. I could imagine a hundred men in the background, beating their gigantic drums, letting out occasional earth-shattering cries of war. Well that might be an exaggeration. But all that stress and lack of sleep made me see things. Literally. At one point, I saw a kid furiously tugging at one of the flower strings, determined to pull it down. I remarked sarcastically, "Beta, Aur todo. Pull the life out of that thing." The girl, at this unexpected encouragement, began tugging at the pole with renewed vigor, the intensity of the effort throwing her off her feet. She landed straight on the ground, bereft of grace or dignity. She cried out in embarrassment. I giggled like a child. It was a victory, too sweet to digest.

When the wedding was over, we all sighed in relief. The remaining unwed cousins went straight to the terrace for a breath of fresh air, suffering from severe marriage withdrawal symptoms. I'm not sure how long its going to last, but it'll be a while before any of us treaded the path, I can assure you. But when I returned exhausted, to my quiet routine life in Seattle, a week after the wedding, I realized I missed it. The laughter. The madness. The herding. The people. The differences. The conversations. That warm fuzzy feeling.