Superman and I are on the Lalbhag train from Chennai to Bangalore. There is a dull confusion in my head if I am heading back home or if am leaving home. The distinction was clear to me till a few months ago. Chennai was home and Bangalore was where I worked. What is it about marriage that turns over your point of reference? My existential angst, as it were, seems to form the perfect backdrop to my post today, as does the steaming cup of water-chai beside me and the nasal calls of vendors selling masala vadai, aloo bonda and tomato soup. (Aside: I just realised that it’s been a good five years since I last travelled in one of these trains. The night journeys and Shatabdi Superfast Express are killing the Indian hog-all train culture.)
We were in Chennai to register our marriage. The process was unceremonious to say the least. A dingy government office, an application form (re-filled by my father after Superman and I spent a week filling and re-filling it), parents for witnesses, a reedy sub-registrar, an hour’s wait…and we were legally pronounced man and wife. The contrast to the real thing (or was this the real thing?) is rather stark.
I had always imagined my wedding to be a morning affair, at the end of which you would eat a big meal and go home; or, if you were my new husband, you would go with me on a honeymoon. The wedding included all of the above, but in addition to a Mehendi/Sangeet gala and three evening receptions. So, we’re talking about a five-day party if you were a good friend or close family, too-many-events-to-attend if you were not so close, a lot of anxious moments if you were the parents and tired legs and aching mouths if you were the bride or the groom.
The day before I left office for a month-long break, a colleague of mine advised me to take it all in, to enjoy each moment and not grudge all the fussing and attention that comes with being the bride. I don’t think I top the list of most co-operative brides, but I do remember having the time of my life. Emotional high drama, wardrobe malfunction, bad hair day (on the wedding day!) sleepless nights, yelling matches, shortage of space-physical and otherwise, photographs, fine clothes, diamonds, music, dance, fun, laughter, hugs, love, chaos. My wedding was a veritable potpourri.
As I observe sundry bits of Indian middle class life on board the Lalbhag, I am reminded of a wedding funny, involving the wedding planner. Now don’t imagine some Band Bhaja Baraat brand of a pretty young thing. We're talking about a 70 something old matron who knows all the obscure do’s and don’ts of performing a Mudaliar wedding. As Reception Part I is winding down, our wedding planner walks up to us and says (I quote in the best possible Tamil-English translation) “Don’t dally too long, you’d do better to be done with it quickly.” I am not sure what you made of that, but I concluded that she was asking us to dispense with the evening quickly and to sleep in early. And this, despite being fully acquainted with the blatant ease with which matrons in almost every Indian home will urge a newly-wed woman to have children at the earliest. All I can say in my defense is that I was terribly tired by that time and could think of nothing other than a good night’s sleep. Needless to say that Superman was more that a little amused by the episode and the incident is fast becoming the stuff of legendary family anecdotes.
We are fast approaching Bangalore Cantonment and Superman is casting me worried looks. The train will stop for only a few minutes and there will be a mad scramble for the door. I will leave you to reminisce about chaotic Indian weddings, old matrons and babies, while we pull out our suitcases and look to find our way out.
We were in Chennai to register our marriage. The process was unceremonious to say the least. A dingy government office, an application form (re-filled by my father after Superman and I spent a week filling and re-filling it), parents for witnesses, a reedy sub-registrar, an hour’s wait…and we were legally pronounced man and wife. The contrast to the real thing (or was this the real thing?) is rather stark.
I had always imagined my wedding to be a morning affair, at the end of which you would eat a big meal and go home; or, if you were my new husband, you would go with me on a honeymoon. The wedding included all of the above, but in addition to a Mehendi/Sangeet gala and three evening receptions. So, we’re talking about a five-day party if you were a good friend or close family, too-many-events-to-attend if you were not so close, a lot of anxious moments if you were the parents and tired legs and aching mouths if you were the bride or the groom.
The day before I left office for a month-long break, a colleague of mine advised me to take it all in, to enjoy each moment and not grudge all the fussing and attention that comes with being the bride. I don’t think I top the list of most co-operative brides, but I do remember having the time of my life. Emotional high drama, wardrobe malfunction, bad hair day (on the wedding day!) sleepless nights, yelling matches, shortage of space-physical and otherwise, photographs, fine clothes, diamonds, music, dance, fun, laughter, hugs, love, chaos. My wedding was a veritable potpourri.
As I observe sundry bits of Indian middle class life on board the Lalbhag, I am reminded of a wedding funny, involving the wedding planner. Now don’t imagine some Band Bhaja Baraat brand of a pretty young thing. We're talking about a 70 something old matron who knows all the obscure do’s and don’ts of performing a Mudaliar wedding. As Reception Part I is winding down, our wedding planner walks up to us and says (I quote in the best possible Tamil-English translation) “Don’t dally too long, you’d do better to be done with it quickly.” I am not sure what you made of that, but I concluded that she was asking us to dispense with the evening quickly and to sleep in early. And this, despite being fully acquainted with the blatant ease with which matrons in almost every Indian home will urge a newly-wed woman to have children at the earliest. All I can say in my defense is that I was terribly tired by that time and could think of nothing other than a good night’s sleep. Needless to say that Superman was more that a little amused by the episode and the incident is fast becoming the stuff of legendary family anecdotes.
We are fast approaching Bangalore Cantonment and Superman is casting me worried looks. The train will stop for only a few minutes and there will be a mad scramble for the door. I will leave you to reminisce about chaotic Indian weddings, old matrons and babies, while we pull out our suitcases and look to find our way out.
