I got diarrhea at my very first Indian wedding. As people threw colorful rice at the bride and bridegroom around the ceremonial fire, I squatted above a porcelain hole in the floor, in my new mustard and turquoise and gold lengha, all my make up and dignity surrendering to the harsh humidity and stench of the wet bathroom.
My family and I escaped the cold, grey city for to spend a week in the East. Always our most faithful companion, the Indian heat remained by our side for the duration of the trip. The excessive air conditioning on the plane deceived us, and we almost immediately began wilting in the Mumbai humidity upon arrival. We reached my aunt's house at about 4 in the morning. Everything was dark and quiet, except for the excited chatter from my uncles and aunts who also arrived that morning.
As I trudged through the living room, a quick movement suddenly caught my eye. A large figure suddenly arose from underneath the table. I froze in fear. When my eyes adjusted to the dark, I saw that it was only the live-in help, some of whom also emerged from the couch. Outsid of their shiny, marble apartment, I could see hundreds of slums in the soft, shy sunlight.
The family rented out rooms in the nearby ashram. It was clean and peripherally spiritual. We stepped out of the car, only to be met by cousins, families, random elderly, acquaintances, and even stray dogs, who, each in their own respective gaits, swarmed us in a predictable frenzy of high-strung emotions, back-slapping, awkward re-introductions, and welcome (or unwelcome) comments about weight gain/loss. I wondered if I could get an extension for my French paper, if I should touch this arbitrary older man's feet, or if there was toilet paper in the bathrooms. Thinking was too tiring, so my sister and I took showers instead.
The Mehndi Ceremony was first. People mingled and hastily caught up with each other as we all waited our turns. I began talking to a lady who was probably my grandmother's age, about my career plans, my outlook on life, and my deceivingly prepubescent face. She told me about her son who is stationed in Jammu, and how the place is both beautiful and fatal. I felt comfortable talking to her in Gujarati. After about 15-20 minutes, she was close to adopting me, and replacing that soldier son of hers. Till the last day of festivities, I had no idea how we were related.
The ladies hired to do the mehndi were hardworking, extremely talented, and brutally honest. They assumed I didn't understand Hindi, and had no hesitation criticizing the hair on my arms, discussing loudly about how I don't wax. In order to create the most intricate designs, they would contort my arms into odd positions, mistaking them for canvas or clay; I had no choice but to lean awkwardly close to them so to prevent a searing pain in both my elbows. And then they would push me back hard into my plastic seat, telling me, "relax." So, I would relax. Mehndi would get smeared on the chair. They would scold me for not holding still, for breathing too hard, for trying to resist the super human positions in which they held me.
That night was the DJ/dance/fun/chili paneer appetizers night. There was not only Bollywood and hip hop, but pseudo-traditional dances from Gujarat, Maharasthra, and Punjab, embracing the different backgrounds of the two families coming together. More relevant to my immediate interests was the chili paneer, followed by a generous buffet, which I attacked while people were dancing. I am still curious as to why my bowels did not cooperate that weekend.
My immediate group comprised my mother's parents, all of their daughters and their husbands, in addition to my sister and me. We were 11 people sharing 2 bedrooms in the Ashram. A few people took beds, and the rest of us threw down mattresses and sheets on the floor. Every inch of the floor was covered, so that my legs were inclined and resting on the side table, and my mother and aunts kept tripping over them as they took midnight trips to the bathroom. Sometimes my mother didn't even attempt to step over them, and would just walk on me in her rush to get to the other side of the bedroom. There was never any dearth of conversation topics, which ranged from politics to Bollywood gossip to menopausal updates, and between their sweet chatter and my mother's violent needs to traverse her children, my sister and I hardly got any sleep.
The mornings were dizzy, frenetic, and taught me truly the nature of a love-hate relationship. My mother would kick me awake, or poke me with her toe because I "look so sweet" when I am sleeping. With a tube of bright red lipstick in hand, my aunt would chase her sister, my other aunt, around the room, which was still littered with bedsheets and people. My grandfather would absent-mindedly read the newspaper among strewn about saris and body insecurities, while my grandmother would yell at him to leave the room. People of all ages threw tantrums, threw cell phone chargers, threw clothes. I blew a fuse with my hair straightener and my grandfather lost his precious shaving kit. My uncles and father peacefully took turns using their bathroom to get ready, and would pop their heads into our room every so often to remind us of their irritating ability to dress with ease, unaffected by raging passions and histories of familial tension and rivalry. On the last morning, the day of the actual wedding, (when I succumbed to the culminating effects of sugar cane juice, binge paneer eating, and everpresent ghee), I was running around in search of a slip, and finally my mother simply wrapped a sheer scarf around my waist and safety pinned it to my underwear. Then, we all went down for breakfast.
My family and I escaped the cold, grey city for to spend a week in the East. Always our most faithful companion, the Indian heat remained by our side for the duration of the trip. The excessive air conditioning on the plane deceived us, and we almost immediately began wilting in the Mumbai humidity upon arrival. We reached my aunt's house at about 4 in the morning. Everything was dark and quiet, except for the excited chatter from my uncles and aunts who also arrived that morning.
As I trudged through the living room, a quick movement suddenly caught my eye. A large figure suddenly arose from underneath the table. I froze in fear. When my eyes adjusted to the dark, I saw that it was only the live-in help, some of whom also emerged from the couch. Outsid of their shiny, marble apartment, I could see hundreds of slums in the soft, shy sunlight.
The family rented out rooms in the nearby ashram. It was clean and peripherally spiritual. We stepped out of the car, only to be met by cousins, families, random elderly, acquaintances, and even stray dogs, who, each in their own respective gaits, swarmed us in a predictable frenzy of high-strung emotions, back-slapping, awkward re-introductions, and welcome (or unwelcome) comments about weight gain/loss. I wondered if I could get an extension for my French paper, if I should touch this arbitrary older man's feet, or if there was toilet paper in the bathrooms. Thinking was too tiring, so my sister and I took showers instead.
The Mehndi Ceremony was first. People mingled and hastily caught up with each other as we all waited our turns. I began talking to a lady who was probably my grandmother's age, about my career plans, my outlook on life, and my deceivingly prepubescent face. She told me about her son who is stationed in Jammu, and how the place is both beautiful and fatal. I felt comfortable talking to her in Gujarati. After about 15-20 minutes, she was close to adopting me, and replacing that soldier son of hers. Till the last day of festivities, I had no idea how we were related.
The ladies hired to do the mehndi were hardworking, extremely talented, and brutally honest. They assumed I didn't understand Hindi, and had no hesitation criticizing the hair on my arms, discussing loudly about how I don't wax. In order to create the most intricate designs, they would contort my arms into odd positions, mistaking them for canvas or clay; I had no choice but to lean awkwardly close to them so to prevent a searing pain in both my elbows. And then they would push me back hard into my plastic seat, telling me, "relax." So, I would relax. Mehndi would get smeared on the chair. They would scold me for not holding still, for breathing too hard, for trying to resist the super human positions in which they held me.
That night was the DJ/dance/fun/chili paneer appetizers night. There was not only Bollywood and hip hop, but pseudo-traditional dances from Gujarat, Maharasthra, and Punjab, embracing the different backgrounds of the two families coming together. More relevant to my immediate interests was the chili paneer, followed by a generous buffet, which I attacked while people were dancing. I am still curious as to why my bowels did not cooperate that weekend.
My immediate group comprised my mother's parents, all of their daughters and their husbands, in addition to my sister and me. We were 11 people sharing 2 bedrooms in the Ashram. A few people took beds, and the rest of us threw down mattresses and sheets on the floor. Every inch of the floor was covered, so that my legs were inclined and resting on the side table, and my mother and aunts kept tripping over them as they took midnight trips to the bathroom. Sometimes my mother didn't even attempt to step over them, and would just walk on me in her rush to get to the other side of the bedroom. There was never any dearth of conversation topics, which ranged from politics to Bollywood gossip to menopausal updates, and between their sweet chatter and my mother's violent needs to traverse her children, my sister and I hardly got any sleep.
The mornings were dizzy, frenetic, and taught me truly the nature of a love-hate relationship. My mother would kick me awake, or poke me with her toe because I "look so sweet" when I am sleeping. With a tube of bright red lipstick in hand, my aunt would chase her sister, my other aunt, around the room, which was still littered with bedsheets and people. My grandfather would absent-mindedly read the newspaper among strewn about saris and body insecurities, while my grandmother would yell at him to leave the room. People of all ages threw tantrums, threw cell phone chargers, threw clothes. I blew a fuse with my hair straightener and my grandfather lost his precious shaving kit. My uncles and father peacefully took turns using their bathroom to get ready, and would pop their heads into our room every so often to remind us of their irritating ability to dress with ease, unaffected by raging passions and histories of familial tension and rivalry. On the last morning, the day of the actual wedding, (when I succumbed to the culminating effects of sugar cane juice, binge paneer eating, and everpresent ghee), I was running around in search of a slip, and finally my mother simply wrapped a sheer scarf around my waist and safety pinned it to my underwear. Then, we all went down for breakfast.
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