familycharms

As I mention in the previous entry, I have only seen a few pictures of Ma and Baba’s wedding, one of which is a photo of Baba wearing a topor, a conical hat made out of paper and shola (a sponge-wood plant). Apparently, the topor was created because Shiva wanted a crown for his wedding but it looks ridiculous and hardly very crown-like.  Indian Hindu weddings can be really sombre (and long!) so I love that the poor groom has to endure such a comedy hat.  I wonder how Baba felt about wearing the topor?

Traditionally, an Indian boy from a middle-class family would be expected to go through an unbroken period of  15-17 years of study; in school, college and a career-linked professional degree or a PhD. I chose to do a combination of both.  Then follows a period of consolidation for the future and moving up the career ladder.  In this period, familiarity and friendships with girls were considered fraught with danger signals and possible distractions from life-goals.

‘Love-match’ as V.S. Naipaul described it so succinctly in his masterpiece ‘A House for Mr Biswas‘ was a rarity. The expected turn of events would to be get married around the fifth year of working, arranged by the family.  I followed the course.  

My wedding preparations were a little more perfunctory than your Ma’s.   My friends and colleagues assumed the roles of advisers. I printed invitation letters for them in English, got myself a custom-made suit, suitable for a Suitable Boy. Working in Hyderabad at the time, I got myself a heavily embroidered silk kurta too. Loaded with these, I took the train home to Silchar.

During those last days of carefree bachelorhood, I witnessed modest preparations at home, streams of relations coming from distant places, canopies for the band-party being put up, guests coming for a little chat, some mishti (Bengali sweets) and tea with my parents while throwing encouraging words at me.  I preferred to spend most of the time with my friends, outside. But my freedom of movement was blocked one day before the date of the marriage. I was strictly home-bound. The hours were filled with a series of rituals of blessings, Sanskrit invocations and tastings of home-made sweets of coconut and milk forced on me by all and sundry, my elders, directly or remotely. Before, I used to look at these home-made delicacies with eager desire but now I really couldn’t look at them.  I was stuffed.  But, I couldn’t say ‘No’. That would be rude.

In the evening of the day of marriage, a cavalcade of cars began to roll out of our home towards the bride’s home which was walking distance. The procession was led by my father. Half-way through the journey I remembered that I had forgotten my shawl. The cars stopped, someone ran home to fetch the shawl, thus setting in a state of mild panic at the bride’s house. Eventually, the shawl placed on my shoulder, I was fully decked for the occasion. The destination seemed like a palace. I was ushered in by a bevy of girls, charmingly draped in silk sarees – whispering and giggling. As I alighted I was received with the forceful conch shell blowing symbolising an auspicious welcoming. Then there was the moment of puffing and gentle adjustments to place a funny-looking head-gear (topor), seen in folk theatres – a very typical Bengali and antiquated tradition not seen in any other parts of India.  

The giggling girls cajoled me into drinking something similar to a smoothie that was supposed to give me some much needed energy: I  was supposed to be fasting while the rest of my family were busy feasting on savouries and sweets. Soon afterwards I was taken to a canopy decorated with full length banana trees and was made to sit on an ornate chair and the bride was made to walk around me very slowly, seven times in a small circular track, helped and attended to by scores of relatives.  At the end of each round, flowers were thrown. I was sitting motionless, breathing heavily and counting the circles – each circle was making me increasingly motionless, breathless, requiring my lungs to work even harder.   At the end of it , we exchanged garlands, photos were taken, joyous cries all round and then I had the glimpse of her: my wife for the first time ever. In the traditional sense she then became my wife, my charge, my responsibility. I could just walk away with her and no one could stop me, legally. But, we were not finished, the marriage was a lengthy process.

The groom’s party then went for the dinner and I was ushered to where the priests of the two sides were busy preparing the works for the Vedic rites of the marriage –  to be performed in front of a sacred fire.  With the invocation of the Vedic chants and sutras, my father-in-law offered the hands of his daughter to me along with with the necessities of starting the new life together. I barely understood the meanings of the Sanskrit incantations as the sentences were rushed by the priests and the words were not properly formed in their toothless mouth-cavities. One sentence stuck with me though: “Yadidang hridayang taba, tadidang hridayang momo” meaning ‘my heart is where your heart is’. Those wise sages figured out the spirit of marriage three thousand years ago!!

It was the early hours of the morning by the time the ceremony was done. I became part of another family.  There was a full English breakfast in the next morning, served on fine bone china. Instantly, I realised I was married to a family where food was a specialty. The breakfast was just a sample and I was informed that it was my wife who prepared the fluffiest omelet I ever tasted. Then another round of circling of the bride and a series of playful rituals in which the poor groom’s patience is sorely tested.  A sumptuous lunch followed soon after – this is the ‘Bada Khana’, served in the traditional fashion to a large number of invitees, including the groom’s party; items were served one after the other and me seated at the centre – once again the centre of all attention, for a very large circular bell metal  dish was brought for me with all the servings, decoratively put on individual bowls. I was not supposed to finish the food as the left overs would be given to my wife. Another custom – undesirable in the modern context. Be that as it may, I wished I had finished all of the biriyani – that was finest ever I could remember to have ever tasted before and since.

Next was the moment which we left for my parents’ house.  My mother-in-law took my hand and looked at me with great emotion and affection and joined our hands together. The process was repeated by all the family members, one by one.  I silently witnessed the sad sentiments written all over their faces, tears rolling down cheeks at the prospect of the impending separation of their dearest daughter from the security of her family and away to an unknown destination.  I saw my father-in-law was sobbing, silently he took took few steps behind. I became slightly jittery as if everyone was pointing the finger at me as the fall guy. Soon we left the big house, leaving behind the sense of pervasive merriment of yesterday and now, filled with a new sense of responsibility for the well-being of an unknown person by my side.

Arriving back at my modest home, the scene was totally different.  A sense of joy and celebration.  Another round of welcoming and blessings.  More mishti!  And then two days later, as was the custom, we came full circle when I returned with my wife to her parent’s home to visit.  This time it was all very intimate affair.  This time, I came to visit my second family.