An Indian Wedding without Music

The day I do not want to be reminded of is my wedding day. It will sound weird, no sob stories here, I married a man I knew for last 10 years, he happened to be my classmate in high school. But yes it was an unusual wedding, a typical North meets South, for a rich weds poor love story.

I remember getting a text message from my would be husband early morning 5am on the wedding day, who was driving along with his family and baratis, 150km away from the Wedding Mandapam. He wrote “I cannot believe that I am getting married to you.” This day was a victory for him, which seemed an impossible feat when he proposed me 9 years back.

A day before the wedding was eventful, in the scorching summer of May for the first time Mehndi was applied in detail all over my arms, legs and hands. The beautician gave me a nice face and body massage, but that could not relax me, she said you are tensed and worried for your wedding. I could not sleep well. A South Indian put through North Indian ceremonies. Most of which I have seen only in Bollywood movies, my family members were clueless and embarrassed most of the time during the wedding formalities.

I remembered the day I left Amravati in March 1996. I was leaving the school after my board exams, and I vowed to myself to never return to this city ever in my life. But after 9 years I was back in Amravati. I reached two days before my wedding, with my family and a bunch of very close relatives from Thrissur. The entire wedding, the tour was organised by my parents. It was a tough task for them to get the best hotel and Mandapam booked a few months before in February, along with AC train tickets. It was a big challenge for them to have wedding arrangements being managed in an alien city, with some weird people and unknown culture.

 

The photographer was bothering me too much since 8am, asking me to pose for pictures. He was the same guy who took my pictures in school winning various awards and accolades. He was the official photographer for all occasions in our school, where I met my husband. The beautician refused to put kajal in my eyes, she said, “you are dark skinned better avoid it”. Mallu girls fondly put kajal everyday, I was not a fan of kajal but I had to give it up, on my wedding in the bridal makeup. The muhurat was 10:30am, almost dressed, make up done, I was waiting for my mother in law to handover the Odhni (veil) to complete my bridal attire. There was this Head Mistress, Principal of the Amravati School where I studied who also happened to be my mom’s good friend, fed me breakfast. Mehndi and makeup were constraints to enjoy the classic poha nashta.

 

My aunts were not leaving my side, they wanted to see the gold jewelry my mother will put on me. The red kanjeevaram silk saree was draped around me in a North Indian style. My mom in law arrived exhausted hardly able to stand properly after a 4hr long twisty twirly drive through the ghats to give away the items for the bride from the grooms side.

Finally I could hear some music, from the baratis, some boys dancing, having fun. The groom riding on the horse, was welcomed by my mother and aunts. The grooms gang gave pagdis to my father and uncles, they were delighted to wear the head gear and pose for pictures. The stage was set, groom was standing other side of the white partition held by maternal uncles from both sides. This white curtain, between groom and bride, marked a warning that we both will unite when this curtain falls and there is no looking back. The pandit called for, the bride, using a microphone. It was now the muhuratam, time for me to walk up the aisle.

Groom’s gang made up to the Mandapam in time as demanded by my parents. Usually in North Indian wedding the muhurat time is only a place holder in the wedding invitation. But for South Indians it’s critical to tie the knot exactly during the muhurat proposed, integrity with time matters most.

 

I swiftly started to walk, a lady my school teacher walking behind me stopped me, and asked me to keep my head down, and walk slowly. The audience were mostly the staff of my school, few relatives from grooms family, including many of our common friends and family members. I was nervous carrying a huge burden on head not just the flowers decorated around my hair, but the thoughts of blame, shame, and guilt of disgracing, disappointing, embarrassing family members to follow my chosen path. Each step I took closer to the, stage, I recollected, my brothers words. A week back when we were preparing to leave from Thrissur to catch the train to Amravati for this wedding he said, “ no matter what you do, right or wrong, you will always find me on your side”. He also said, “The road to return home is closed after marriage but my heart belongs to you“. On the other hand my mother warned, me “you should never turn to us for any financial support. With this wedding the our responsibility is over, we have done our best, the journey is yours, you can go your chosen way.”

I had left my job, and I was getting married to love of my life, a tribal man from the jungles of Melghat. Only qualifying criteria for my family to allow a decent wedding was that he was a doctor having a job of Govt Medical Officer.

We tied the knot, I could see my husband happy smiling for the photographs, guests walking onto the stage to bless the newly married couple. Our common school friends were jubilant, it was victory of their beloved friend to marry the woman of his dreams. Opportunity to party, drinks and merry. They kept asking my husband money to buy alcohol. I was shocked to know people drink on the wedding day also. In South Indian culture this is the only day we don’t drink, when there is something sacred, puja or an auspicious occasion in family. But the groom’s gang did not spare the wedding day also. I guessed it, this was just a beginning of the shockers I am going to deal with for the rest of my life. There was no music playing, only a microphone, the pandit was using while chanting the mantras, apart from that the chattering, murmuring sounds from the audience, noise of infants crying, or kids playing around. My mother did not arrange the orchestra for the wedding, she missed the nadaswaram, she didn’t want that to be replaced by Bollywood songs usually played in the North Indian Weddings.

There were side conversations in the groom’s family about my skin color, my weight. I was almost double the size of an average tribal woman. My mother in law looked beautiful, fair, slim and athletic, when I first met her in school. She assumed that her son, was introducing her to a new teacher, but was surprised to know I was his classmate. On the wedding day she looked like a typical old woman, down, and upset, her face was swollen with the worries of having lost her son to me. My husband’s younger brother would often mock him, that he is in love with an auntie (an older woman). I remember joining the boarding school in Amravati where I met my husband in 1994. I was tall, dark, and obese, in contrast to the Marathi girls of my class who were slim, fair and beautiful. Once my parents agreed to this marriage a year back, I tried to reduce weight, and on the wedding day I was the best. My body shape, skin color and the gold jewelry I was wearing were also the reason, most of the women in the audience were giggling and gossiping.

It was time for lunch, that was served royally, unlike South Indian Wedding meals served on banana leaf. My mom made sure my favourite food, ice-cream and pani-puries were included in the menu. I could not enjoy the meal. My husband’s friends disturbing on and off for money to buy more drinks. Looking at the disturbed faces of our parents, closest relatives I could not swallow the food. Only the kids who came for our wedding enjoyed the ice cream and pani puris throughly.

After lunch we got ready for the next round of ceremonies. The saat pheras. This would take a few hours to complete so we were relaxed and followed the pandit’s instructions. In between we were talking and having fun within ourselves. The pandit was a young man in early twenties, he was enjoying our chit-chat in between the pheras. I was relaxed and calm, no matter what my thoughts and concerns of people or circumstances were there, I was a married woman now. And I had to take on the journey of life here on, on my own. Post the pheras the Pandit was asking for his fees, my husband kept bargaining 500 for 1000 rupees. My parents kept looking at me, for the pathetic condition of people, culture and finance on my husband’s side. There was nothing in the groom’s side to match my parents caliber, social status and class. My mom was happy that only a few relatives saw this wedding live. I had badly damaged her social image, hurt her pride, my wedding was the darkest day of her life.

We were back on the stage time was 3pm. The events were almost done, children were having fun with the mike. My brother was asked to sing a song. My mother takes a lot of pride when my brother performs a song or dance in public. He started to sing, the song was the famous “phulon ka taaro ka Saab ka kehna hai”, from the old Bollywood Classic film Hare Ram Hare Krishna. In the movie this song is sung by a brother for his sister, movie roles played by legendary Dev Anand and gorgeous Zeenat Aman as brother sister duo. In this song the brother tells his sister that, she is one in a million and no matter what happens in life, they will always remain together forever. The song brought a big smile on my face, and tears together, I got the sense that I will miss my loving little brother forever from now. This song was the only happy and most treasured moment of my wedding. The gifts were exchanged, between families, it was time for bidai and leave the Mandapam. My mother hugged me, she cried a lot, her precious possession was not her any more. My aunts helped my mother settle down, she was not willing to give me up. My father in law walked upto her and said don’t worry sister we will take care of your daughter. That statement made my mom stop crying, and she let me go. 

My parents and other family members stayed back for the night at my mom’s friends place the school Head Mistress House. Me, my brother and my husband with his family and baratis prepped for our journey to return home. I had only four baggage, including two suitcases and two bags, to go along with a few gifts from the Wedding, a new husband, and a new family to start a new life. My brother came along to drop me to my new home, it’s a ritual in wedding of my culture. The coconut was broken on the floor, Aarti was complete, me and my husband touched the feet of our parents to get their blessings for a new life. We got into a mildly decorated silver Tata Indica. My brother took the co-driver seat. The driver pulled the gear to move the car and I was all set for a brand new adventure called Married Life.

Conceptually for me, in an arranged marriage, life will be an experience of falling off the cliff with no clues to survive. You can break your bones or die. But in love marriage, it will be like jumping into a well of which the depth you know. You can breathe, swim or get drowned. In both cases for me getting married was falling or drowning but not rising. Having met my husband in my high school, we found love when we were not clear what we will do in our careers or life. After a decade long struggle for acceptance we were now a newly married couple taking on this mysterious journey never explained in fairy tales called happily married every after.