Divya’s Wedding
Thankfully, Divya’s
wedding outfit did not turn into the catastrophe it had threatened to be. We
went to the tailor’s, and Divya tried her lehenga
on. It fit perfectly. We thanked fate for this minor miracle. After we got back
to Divya’s house, I helped her fit into the sharara she was going to
wear for the mehndi that evening. I saw little reason in wearing a brand new dress that was very
likely to be strewn with mehndi soon
– or cut off at the knees, as her mother brightly suggested… but however Mandakini
won over Miki and I let her take over, staunchly playing my role of the devoted
(albeit unofficial) maid of honour.
The outfit was sea green,
and I helped her on with the silver jewellery that she was wearing with it. A
lovely delicate necklace and chandelier earrings: no rings or bangles, to keep
her hands free for the mehndi. She had hired a stylist only for the actual
wedding the next day, so I tried to help her on with her make-up – at which she
was far better than I am, so I finally sat back and voiced encouragement and compliments.
Guests had started pouring
in and the female ones invaded the dressing room and offered advice: much of it
unwelcome. I sensed Divya bristle a couple of times, and raised my voice
immediately in a bantering remark and placed a hand on her arm to warn her to
stay calm. I was afraid Divya’s already frayed nerves would give way, but the
evening passed without my fears coming to pass.
A helpful bhabhi offered to do her hair, and I
relinquished my struggle gratefully. I snuck into a corner and changed as
quickly as I could, turning my back on the masses of women that had gathered.
“You’re wearing white!”
cried Divya, while I struggled to tie up my salwar.
“You’ll get mehndi all over it,
stupid!”
The roomful of women
turned to look at me. “I wasn’t planning to get mehndi on me at all,” I mumbled.
“Don’t be silly, you have
to…” At which moment another gaggle of guests came in to look at the bride, and
she pulled her scowling mouth into a simper.
By a wonder, the bride was ready by eight,
only an hour later than the time on the invite.
About eleven women,
including Divya and her mom, squeezed into a Tavera that had been hired for the
wedding. Divya wanted me to get in with her, but she was already surrounded by
female relatives, and her mom yelled to Veer to take me in the Santro. I waved
at Divya and turned to Veer, who was struggling with what looked like a heavy
box.
I helped Veer load the box
into the back of the car, and then I sat by his side while a bunch of young
cousins squeezed in at the back. The venue was just a ten-minute drive away.
When we reached, Divya was
already settled in the place of honour, her hands and feet being worked on by
experts. I managed to squat in a small unoccupied space at her side, and she
turned and gave me a grateful smile. I pulled up and held her clothes at
appropriate times and places, and fed her soft drinks and snacks, and even
helped her go to the loo once. As soon as she was done, she demanded of the mehndiwallah that he do my hands next,
even though a bunch of cousins and aunties were sitting all around with their
hands stretched. I helped her hitch up her sharara,
and she walked over to the dance floor where the young men – her brothers and
cousins – had already gathered. The assistant took over one of the most pushy
aunties, while the mehndiwallah ran
his fingers over my hands in what seemed an unnecessary action and then settled
down to paint them.
It had been years since I
had had mehndi on my hands, and the cold
of the paste shocked me and made me tingle. It was a cool night, and the breeze
was whispering over my hair and making my bare arms shiver, and now my hands
turned ever colder, anointed with mehndi and
held aloft.
There were plenty of
delicious looking snacks floating around that I had to restrain myself from
trying at first because my hands were wet with mehndi. A very handsome
young man - one of Divya’s numerous cousins – came over and offered to feed me.
I refused, but agreed to go up to the dance floor with him. Divya was dancing
enthusiastically, carefully holding her hands apart all the while. Soon more
people – men and women, young and old – joined in, and the dance floor was beating
with the weight of many bodies and stamping feet. Several women jostled me with
their mehndi-stained hands, and soon my white clothes were speckled with
dark green and orange. I had already discarded my dupatta in a corner along with
my handbag. The waiter came around again with a dish of aromatic paneer,
and I rubbed my hands together till the almost-dry mehndi fell off in a little shower, and grabbed a piece.
My face must have shown my
ecstasy at my first bite since an early lunch. The good-looking young man—his name
was Sachin, I had discovered—came over, smiling at my expression.
“Shall I get you something
to drink?” he asked.
“A Coke would be awesome,”
I informed him, spearing another piece of paneer on a toothpick before
the waiter went on his way.
It was only as I gulped
down my Coke that I realised how thirsty I was. After those tiny morsels, my
stomach was growling with freshly-stimulated hunger. My arms ached from holding
my hands up, my feet ached from dancing—and being stepped on by men in heavy
shoes and one middle-aged woman in stilettos. I sank down into a chair near the
edge of the dance floor and looked at Divya, still dancing away, holding on to
Veer.
Much as I disliked
weddings, I was glad to be there, to be by Divya’s side when she seemed to
sorely need friends. I was proud of her strength, of the way she took control instead
of playing the demure, helpless bride. She realised that for the wedding to go
well, she would have to take things into her own hands, and she worked like a
manager organising an event. She gave instructions to her parents, her
brothers, to various cousins, and to me. I was glad to obey, to help make what
was supposed to be her event a little less difficult for her.
While her parents dealt
with guests and made sure the venue and the buffet were perfect, I helped Divya
get dressed and prettied and was at her side making sure she wasn’t feeling
faint or unhappy. I stood by her side, handing her tissues or straightening the
folds of her lehnga, obeying her furious whispered instructions to go
and see whether this or that was in order, and trying – though with little
success – to make her to ignore the petty stuff and concentrate on the fact
that she was getting married. The thought of spending all my life with one
person, someone I had known for less than a year, terrified me, but to Divya
that didn’t seem to bother her as much as the fact that Sunny’s cousin did not
speak to Divya’s uncle with the proper modicum of respect.
But everything happened
without a serious hitch: the priest married Divya and Sunny by a roaring smoky
fire that made everyone’s eyes itch (and for which I had to pass the bride a
dozen tissues as well as do up her mascara later); they stood up and walked
circles around the fire, she following him demurely; they stood on stage in
front of two majestic red chairs that they couldn’t rest their aching bodies on
all evening as they stood and greeted guests that lined up to congratulate them.
“My mouth hurts from smiling,” Divya hissed at me before turning to smile
graciously at yet another guest. Everyone commented on how pretty the bride was
and how the bride and groom looked perfect together, then they went down to the
dining hall and praised the lavish buffet. I snuck down for a quick meal with
Sachin: by then my stomach was growling, the petticoat painfully tight, my
shoes biting, and my earrings heavy on my ears. I took off the earrings and
dropped them into my handbag, and then heaped my plate high with food.
Then there was the bidayi.
Divya clung to her family members and wept, and her parents wept too as if they
would never see her again. I stood around feeling like i was intruding on something
private, until Divya pulled me into a fierce hug, whispering into my ear,
“Thanks so much for doing this, Miki.” I hugged her back and wished her
happiness. Then she was gone, the wedding was over, and we – the bride’s family
sans bride – made our way back to the Joshi house. There were, besides Divya’s
parents and brothers and me, a few uncles and aunts and cousins. Dawn had
broken by the time we got home. Divya’s mother handed out cushions and sheets:
the older people were offered beds, while the rest of us made do with sheets
spread on the ground. We were all so tired that soon the house was silent
except for the sound of heavy breathing and a few snores. I heard birds chirp
and the distant tooting of vehicles before I fell asleep.
1 comment:
Look at that - post up three days early!
I'm off tomorrow, off to Uttarakhand where I hope to meet the brave Chicu (http://uttarakhandandi.blogspot.com/). It's my first week-long vacation in the last couple of years and I'm very excited.
Have fun, you all!
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