For one week there were festivities. A close family friend, who is somehow related to us, got married… His wife was beautiful in a kind of villainous way. She had the characteristic sharp hooked nose and piercing brown eyes and a tendency to flash only half-smiles. Her husband however, was the complete opposite. In true Sindhi fashion, he got tipsy (wasted? Sindhi men hold their liquor well) at every function (the Sindhi wedding spans a couple of days and plenty of booze) and bobbed about everywhere dancing with every aunty and all the other girls there, unmarried or married. You’d think the bride might have got worried or jealous, but she just sat there, serenely watching over her husband and I bet quite glad to have the annoying video cameras and lights away from her for a bit. Imagine the discomfort!!? On her face she literally has layers of make-up, in her hair about a bottle of hairspray all pinned up with about a million pins and on her body, her poor body, feet after feet of heavy, itchy garment wrapped around her. All this effort and expenditure to look good in front of the cameras and the unrelenting, unforgiving eyes of the Sindhi public!
I hate going to weddings unless they’re of a close family member or friend. Even then, I try to excuse myself by any means possible. I try to be out with my friends, I try to feign sickness and I try to tell my mom that I won’t even be noticed therefore pre-empting the lecture on showing up as a mark of respect and courtesy. This time around however, even though staying home seemed like the best prospect, I didn’t bitch too much about going. I don’t know why but I just went along with it. Perhaps I am going soft in the head…. Perhaps I’m growing into my genes… Perhaps I have taken a bit of liking towards my peers? Who knows? Anyway I went.
First of all was a beach party. It was supposed to be a youngster’s only party but inevitably, some adults showed up. Actually I think the adults were a good match for the ‘youngsters’. The booze flowed and the groom went positively mad. I have hung around this guy (I use the term ‘hung around’ loosely) for more than 15 years and I have never seen him so much as step on to the dance floor! He lifted his soon-to-be bride into the air and carried her all over the dance floor. His audience, i.e. us, stood around, smiles frozen into our faces mechanically clapping, hoping against hope he wouldn’t trip up all the while cringing in embarrassment inside. What did I say about unrelenting, unforgiving Sindhis? True to form, I sneaked off for a few cigarettes once or twice while nursing my perfectly made Bacardi Limon and coke with one of my sister’s friends but crept to the dance floor and performed a scary Sindhi dance, which even I didn’t know I had in me! My darling sister had one-half of a drink and became officially, the cheapest drunk alive but I averted disaster by pointing her to the direction of the crowded dance floor where she could shake the worst off. All in all, I made the most of it, hung about with my cousin P, my sister G and her friends and had a pretty good time.
There were other functions we had to attend too but I am quite lazy to recount them all. Suffice to say is that they were pretty much the same. Oh what the hell… I might as well summarize them (for my adoring, I-could-do-nothing-wrong readership)… The next occasion was the Mehendi and Sangeet- a 2-in-1 extravaganza, mainly held together to save shit loads of money. During this function, the bride to be gets especially dolled up with every possible form of make-up and jewellery she can get her hands on and for some symbolic reason I am unaware of, gets her palms and arms painted with Mehendi- a kind of plant paste that when washed away leaves a temporary tattoo on wherever it is applied. Some people even use it on their hair in much more copious quantities to cover up their gray hairs. It’s the organic way of doing things. Fuck L’Oreal! Apparently the Mehendi is supposed to be a girl’s only occasion but because the Mehendi has to seamlessly transition into the Sangeet (this time a musical and booze extravaganza) the guys are given special attendance. Of course the guys don’t mind coz its ogle, ogle and ogle all the way. The modern day hen party can be paralleled with what the traditional Mehendi is supposed to be, minus the strippers, condoms and penis cakes of course.
My sister and her friends- all friends of the groom- did a dance for the couple. It was quite fun to see all of them mess up one by one. It’s all very good fun…gorgeous people, fine clothes, brilliant company appropriately oiled by the cocktails which everyone accepts as their due but secretly thinks it’s the only way they will get through the evening. Fun times!
The next function was quite mellow by contrast. It was held at the groom’s house so it was only a select crowd. My sister, cousin and I went as the family representatives and we trudged up to the sixth floor since the fucking elevator was out of order- a state which was mysteriously fixed by the time we left and we had already come down the million steps. Such a pleasant surprise to see the elevator door open and pot-bellied uncles pop out, swimming in the sweet but dull effects of their evening’s consumption of their life’s manna. Anyway I have just realized I have spent valuable time recounting an inane story about an elevator that’s just menopausal.
The affair itself was quite religious since the priest had come and set up a small fire in which the groom had to throw stuff into at select timings during select prayers chanted by the Maharaj as we all call him. This didn’t stop the uncles from popping open the Johnny Walker mid-prayer while their wives ran about serving food and furtively taking sips out of their husband’s glasses all the while hoping the other wives wouldn’t see. Sigh. Is there any wonder why our parents don’t know much about us? We’ve learnt from the best. In effect, when we get married, we graduate from the School of Deception and go on to another journey of perpetual lies; little white lies or big black ones depending on how good (bad?) your parents were… There is always something to hide. I am probably also going to graduate from the School of Digression if I don’t stop soon… After the prayers were done, a little tradition, also something I was unaware of was enacted. Someone had to strip the groom! Don’t ask me why- it could be some homo-erotic cult group behaviour for all I care but it was fucking hilarious. Our dearest groom had been informed already about this little, sordid tradition and had attached a lock to his belt, thereby preventing any sort of rape that he would have been subjected to.
The wedding reception (I missed the wedding coz a) it was in the evening, just the time I like to chill and b) it was in a temple) was quite dull in my opinion. Apart from being sick of the same old faces by this time, I was also feeling the claustrophobia that sets in when one is around one’s family too long. I had to get out but had no such luck because my familial duties and instincts were too strong. Yes, contrary to popular belief, I do have a heart.
So it all came to an end! And I was still in one piece. I wonder if parents are aware of the fact that weddings are helpful to their agenda of making their children more…er.. Sindhi? I know it made me appreciate it a teeny-weeny bit more. I had made it out to be a superficial mess but while that still exists in a slightly moderate way, the new generation is quite fun, some of them even having the gall to whisper, ‘do you have a cig?’ in my ear! To which I replied, quite delightfully, ‘No! But shall we go look for one??’
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