The second morning was religious ceremonies, pre-nuptial Hindu rites nuanced with Punjabi, Marathi, and Gujarati flavors. As the ceremony proceeded in one corner, families continued to catch up and gossip and eat throughout the rest of the room, as if independent of the wedding's events. My uncle got everyone together, everyone who wasn't directly involved in the ceremonies, and announced that his family was moving to a new bungalow. Everyone became emotional and cried and hugged one another, as the pundits continued to create a s sort of background score with their chanting.
I heard my name being called, and turned to see the bride-to-be and her parents beckoning me from their seat by the pundit. I assumed they were calling someone else, but realized I was the only "rucha" in that crowd of people. I hesitantly walked over. I was told to sit. I sat. I leaned over to the almost-bride. "I have no idea what I am doing." She smiled. "I need a sister to do the next bit." I stared blankly at the pundit, at the cameraman, at my family who wasn't paying attention. After I tied the "thing" to her head, the pundit stopped chanting long enough to tell me to pose for the camera.
That night was the Sangeet. There were classical musicians and singers, as well as my up and coming, already acclaimed cousin who blew us away with his enchanting voice. We listened, we cried, we were trampled upon by wild toddlers, we ate as if there were no tomorrow.
For me, there was barely a tomorrow. I missed many of the typical festivities surrounding the wedding, like hiding the groom's shoes, because I had to take an early car back to the ashram in order to relieve myself, of the itchy gold jewelry, makeshift slip, and last night's dinner. As soon as I had come out of the bathroom, I saw that the rest of our group had followed, and all 10 were telling me to take rest amidst the renewed conversation and random, continual movements.
By the time I woke up, everyone, not only my group of my mother's sisters and their husbands, , but all of her cousins, their families, the drivers, and even the bride-groom's family knew of my mishap. I walked into the reception, head helld high in my sari and high heels, feeling tall and older and sophisticated, only to be met by a barrage of questions and concerns regarding my intestinal health. Soon, I was tripping over my sari, pani puri dribbled all down my chin, and threat of another diarrheic attack prevented from from a second dish of rose ice cream.
And then everyone was crying again. People began to leave the wedding, saddened by seeing empty chaat dishes, and by the realization that this was the end of it all.
Except that in 15 minutes, almost everyone gathered in one of the common rooms at the ashram, and sang songs, ate Skittles, and talked about homosexuality, the crowded commuter trains of Mumbai, and Russell Peters till dawn. My sister and I got little sleep, our minds stirring with excitement, our stomachs with aloo tikki.
And then we awoke to the sounds of chirping burds and my chirping aunts, left only with vestiges of the last three days, a broken toe, sensitive stomachs, and eyeliner smudged beneath our eyes.
I heard my name being called, and turned to see the bride-to-be and her parents beckoning me from their seat by the pundit. I assumed they were calling someone else, but realized I was the only "rucha" in that crowd of people. I hesitantly walked over. I was told to sit. I sat. I leaned over to the almost-bride. "I have no idea what I am doing." She smiled. "I need a sister to do the next bit." I stared blankly at the pundit, at the cameraman, at my family who wasn't paying attention. After I tied the "thing" to her head, the pundit stopped chanting long enough to tell me to pose for the camera.
That night was the Sangeet. There were classical musicians and singers, as well as my up and coming, already acclaimed cousin who blew us away with his enchanting voice. We listened, we cried, we were trampled upon by wild toddlers, we ate as if there were no tomorrow.
For me, there was barely a tomorrow. I missed many of the typical festivities surrounding the wedding, like hiding the groom's shoes, because I had to take an early car back to the ashram in order to relieve myself, of the itchy gold jewelry, makeshift slip, and last night's dinner. As soon as I had come out of the bathroom, I saw that the rest of our group had followed, and all 10 were telling me to take rest amidst the renewed conversation and random, continual movements.
By the time I woke up, everyone, not only my group of my mother's sisters and their husbands, , but all of her cousins, their families, the drivers, and even the bride-groom's family knew of my mishap. I walked into the reception, head helld high in my sari and high heels, feeling tall and older and sophisticated, only to be met by a barrage of questions and concerns regarding my intestinal health. Soon, I was tripping over my sari, pani puri dribbled all down my chin, and threat of another diarrheic attack prevented from from a second dish of rose ice cream.
And then everyone was crying again. People began to leave the wedding, saddened by seeing empty chaat dishes, and by the realization that this was the end of it all.
Except that in 15 minutes, almost everyone gathered in one of the common rooms at the ashram, and sang songs, ate Skittles, and talked about homosexuality, the crowded commuter trains of Mumbai, and Russell Peters till dawn. My sister and I got little sleep, our minds stirring with excitement, our stomachs with aloo tikki.
And then we awoke to the sounds of chirping burds and my chirping aunts, left only with vestiges of the last three days, a broken toe, sensitive stomachs, and eyeliner smudged beneath our eyes.
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