by Sharell Cook
As the months passed, the issue of our marriage – or rather, the fact that we were still unmarried – magnified. We couldn't keep living together like we were and get away with it. An outrage was brewing. The landlord kept asking when our wedding would take place, and the housing society wanted to see our marriage certificate. My visa would also expire soon.
I hadn't spoken to my family much about the possibility of getting married before I moved to Mumbai. I didn't want to prematurely concern them, in case something went awry. Back home, my dad was concerned. He wasn't comfortable that I was so far away and in a serious relationship with Aryan. A combination of work commitments, intense dislike of crowds, and an ear problem prevented him from coming to Mumbai to find out for himself what was going on. Having contracted tinitus from ongoing exposure to loud noise at work, his ears were very sensitive. No doubt he'd struggle to cope with the constant din of the traffic in Mumbai. I did, and my ears were fine.
It wasn't very surprising when my dad's sister Patricia and her husband Nick announced that they'd be visiting Mumbai on their round-the-world trip. My aunt would report back to my dad. My cousin Virginia also came to visit. And then my mother.
All of them took to India in the best spirit possible; they were adventurous and bold. My cousin and mum even rode the Mumbai local train.
‘Is Aryan always this peaceful and happy?’ my mum asked. ‘He seems to be really good for you.’
She noticed and appreciated his sweet, easy-going nature, just as I did. And the way he balanced out my episodes of stress and anxiety. Aryan's family was delighted to meet my mum. They lavished her with gifts, and were thrilled to see her dressed in a sari.
My mum went home content that I was in the hands of a caring family, and excited about the opportunities that India was bringing me. I let her break the news of my impending wedding to my dad and other relatives. It was cowardly, but I didn't want to deal with any disapproval. I was finding it difficult enough coming to terms with the life-changing decisions I was making, and only wanted to keep positives in my mind.
Aryan's parents suggested that we get married on their fiftieth wedding anniversary. We planned a simple Hindu ceremony, followed by a reception. We'd also need to have the formality of a registry wedding. Since I wasn't a Hindu, the religious ceremony wouldn't be enough. It would be meaningful to us though, and the day we'd choose to celebrate as our wedding anniversary.
Aryan and I decided to get the civil ceremony over and done with as soon as possible so that we could meet India's moral requirements and get my visa sorted. I reeled at the thought of two weddings, especially the rambling process that would be involved in getting married at a government registry office.
I was still struggling to feel secure in Mumbai, let alone get married. Aryan also marvelled at the direction his life had taken. When we met in Kolkata, neither of us had any intention of getting married, least of all to each other. A few years later, here we were, on the brink of tying the knot. I'd only recently come to terms with being single again – did I really want to risk getting married again?
The fact that Aryan had no qualms about marriage was reassuring. He'd had plenty of time to have fun and explore being single. He'd lived his life without any regrets. He knew who he was and what he wanted – he was never going to need to go off and ‘find himself’. I could trust him to be committed. That, combined with my faith in the bigger picture of my goals in India, helped me feel confident in our decision.
Aryan wasn't concerned that I had been married before. Having had a number of prior relationships himself, he was as accepting of my past as I was of his.
We decided to view the civil ceremony as a procedure rather than a wedding. Our idea of starting our future lives together was not in a dim and decaying government office, crowded with impatient couples and disinterested public servants.
The Mumbai Office of Registrar of Marriages, located behind the Old Customs House in the Fort District of south Mumbai, certainly was a typically run-down government office. It had flaking paint, a decaying ceiling, plastic chairs, reams of stacked papers and a stray cat running around. Two gold-and-red velvet thrones sitting near the entrance were small concessions to the austerity, and hinted at the importance of what went on there.
It took us four hours to submit our Notice of Intention to be married. The process was hampered by one particularly unhelpful officer, who either provided us with no answers or misleading answers to our questions. Getting the photocopies of my documents notarised was another challenge. The notary public from the Magistrate's Court next to the registry office refused to do it because they were a foreigner's documents. He didn't want to take the risk of them being fake, even though he could see they were all the originals.
The only option was to take a taxi to the High Court a short distance away. An agent waited out the front.
‘How can I help you?’
‘We need to get these documents notarised.’
‘No problem,’ he assured us as he took the photocopies.
‘Wait! Don't you want the originals as well?’ I called out to him.
‘Not necessary, madam.’ He returned the photocopies to us within five minutes, with the addition of arresting big red seals and numerous other official stamps. All for 50 rupees ($1.20) per document.
A little over a month later we returned to the registry office, this time to solemnise our intention to be married. Both of us wore jeans. It was another lengthy process involving more forms, photocopies, three witnesses and waiting. At last, our names were called. The marriage officer handed us each a piece of paper with our vows on it, stating that we would be each other's lawful husband and wife. We recited them. Then, it was time to sign on the dotted line. Slightly baffled and bewildered, Aryan and I were pronounced married.
Afterwards, we sat on the thrones and exchanged wedding rings while fascinated strangers, who were also there to be wed, took photos of us with their cameras. But the process wasn't over yet.
‘Come back again only after two weeks to collect your marriage certificate,’ one of the officers told us.
Relieved to have gotten the biggest step out of the way, we headed to Leopold's Café and opened a bottle of champagne.
Next came the process I'd have to go through to be able to remain in India. As the initial step, my tourist visa needed to be extended and converted into an entry visa. Permission for that could only be obtained from the Foreigner's Division of the Ministry of Home Affairs in Delhi. I turned up to locked gates at 8.30 a.m., on a hot Delhi morning, in order to get a good position in the queue when the compound opened. Two hours later, the waiting room was about to overflow with the masses that continued to stream in.
I gazed around at some of the more interesting characters. There was a Sardar (male follower of the Sikh religion) sporting a fluorescent pink turban and a disgruntled American. No one had been able to tell the American the proper process for submitting his visa application, or even if there was a number system in place. He was about to reach boiling point when someone finally pointed out the number on the top of his blue form. People from the Middle East surrounded me, many with whole families in tow. With no babus (government employees) in sight, they lounged all over the unattended interview desks.
The process moved surprisingly quickly after the staff filed in. They cleared the interlopers, sifted through the piles of forms and commenced calling applicants. My interview took less than ten minutes.
‘Come back at 5 p.m. to collect a letter with instructions to be submitted at the Foreigner's Registration Office in Mumbai,’ the unexpectedly friendly babu told me.
In a country of more than one billion people, what were the chances that I would encounter two foreigners from Varkala in Delhi at the same time? But that's exactly what happened.
‘I saw Lucy in the Visa Facilitation Centre,’ Aryan mentioned as we left. Sure enough, she was there again in the evening when I went to collect my letter. Lucy, from England, was a lo
ng-term resident of Varkala.
‘I've come to Delhi in the hope of getting some final advice on my visa renewal. It's been dragging on for over eight months and has become too involved to be dealt with in Kerala. So over 130 phone calls later, I've ended up here,’ she sighed.
‘Varkala has changed a lot since you were there,’ Lucy continued. ‘So many foreigners have been forced out by locals who've been complaining to the authorities. They either haven't had their business visas renewed or have been deported. Some are even up on drug charges.’
That evening, Aryan and I also encountered the Little Book, Big Secret man in Delhi's grungy Paharganj backpacker's district. He was, of course, spreading the word about his conspiracy theory. Like Lucy and me, he'd come to Delhi with a greater purpose.
‘My family and I don't have visas. We've been doing the rounds of the Ministry of Home Affairs to find out if we'll be allowed to stay in India. No one seems to be able to give us an answer though. We've been called back there three times already.
‘Something big is going to happen in the town of Bowen, Australia, in September,’ he gravely called out to us we departed.
As it turned out, our registry wedding was much less stressful than our real wedding. A combination of a family crisis, Indian time frames, hectic lives, travelling away from Mumbai and not knowing what was involved in arranging an Indian wedding soon had me at my wits' end. Two weeks before the wedding was due to take place, the venue (a groovy roof garden in Bandra) and entertainment had been organised, but nearly everything else was still outstanding. Even the wedding invitations were still being printed. I'd notified close friends and family in Australia of the wedding, but wanted to send them their invitations in advance too.
People in India didn't make plans weeks in advance however. They acted spontaneously. This meant that guests only needed to be formally invited a few days ahead, particularly as we were keeping the guestlist small. The invitations would be personally hand-delivered by family members. There was no way I would be able to send the wedding invitations to Australia in time for people to receive them.
My friends and family were due to arrive in India around five days before the wedding. Most of them had never been to India before and would need looking after. I wanted to have plenty of time to spend with them and take them sightseeing. I didn't want to have to worry about last-minute wedding plans.
I tried to get as much as possible organised for the wedding before they arrived, but I was so helpless. Everything took longer than expected. I didn't know where to get things or even how I should dress. An Indian wedding was completely out of my realm of expertise. There wasn't even one style of Indian wedding to guide me. What took place and what people wore depended on the community they belonged to. Not only that, two outfits were required: one for the wedding ceremony and another for the reception.
Oriya weddings are known to be simple and modest affairs. The attire for the wedding ceremony would be more conservative and traditional, while the bling would be saved for the reception. Unlike weddings back home, wedding ceremonies in India are private affairs, usually only attended by close family members and friends. It's understandable, as these ceremonies can take the whole day. The remainder of the guests, often hundreds and sometimes thousands, turn up for the wedding reception lured by the promise of an extensive buffet of food. More guests mean more importance, and more prestige. It's a huge contrast to weddings in Australia, where numbers are often kept as low as possible to save money, and it can be viewed as rude to attend the party (and the free feed!) without attending the ceremony. Despite our minimal guestlist for the reception, around 150 people were still expected. A substantial-sized wedding by Australian standards, it was considered small in India. Only a dozen of the guests were from my side. Many people I wanted to be there couldn't travel because of the global financial crisis.
Aryan's mother had stashed away a red-and-gold sari from Orissa for my wedding ceremony. However, I didn't have my reception sari or jewellery. I was beginning to get upset about everyone's lack of concern about the wedding arrangements. Even Aryan had become tired of my nagging about needing to get everything done. He was obviously clueless about what remained to be done and how long it would all take to finalise. I started to resign myself to the wedding being a disaster.
Then, early in the morning ten days before the wedding, Aryan received a phone call. It was his eldest sister, Maliha. It seemed that people had at last woken up to the fact that it wasn't long until the wedding. Orders were given. Aryan had to collect the invitations from the printer that evening. I had to go shopping for my sari that afternoon.
It took four hours of looking, comparing and dressing up to find a suitable sari for the reception. Maliha and I both agreed the sari should be red. It should be practical enough for me to wear again in the future, but still formal enough for the wedding. It also had to be made out of lightweight material and not too heavily decorated, because it would be the middle of summer. Richly decorated saris are surprisingly hot to wear.
That's where our agreement ended.
‘One of the signs of a good sari is the embroidery work around the border. It should be heavy and hand stitched,’ Maliha told me.
I liked simple patterns. To my mind, which was used to relatively plain western dress, the saris that we looked at appeared overdone and garish.
The salesman at the first store showed us dozens of saris. Two interested me but Maliha delivered the verdict: ‘The border work on this one isn't good’, ‘This one isn't made out of good material’.
The saris she liked all had big patterns or too many different colours on them. I wanted something delicate.
At the next store, a further twenty saris were duly pulled out from behind the counter. Our opinions continued to differ and I was starting to lose hope. I almost resigned myself to settling for something that I was less than happy with. Then the salesman showed us another sari. We both looked at each other and smiled. It was made out of georgette, and had an unusual but striking hand-stitched border. The rest of the sari was quite plain, which also appealed to me. I tried it on over my jeans, and we agreed it was the one.
Days later, bad news awaited, though.
‘I'm sorry, but I don't like it,’ my youngest sister-in-law, Radha, informed me when she saw the sari. A fashion designer, she was married to Aryan's youngest brother. She was also in charge of designing Aryan's wedding outfits. Radha thought it was too plain.
‘It doesn't have enough embroidery on it. It looks too casual to be worn as a wedding sari.’
I was devastated. I was so far out of my depth that I couldn't even choose a decent wedding dress for myself. She did have a point, though. The more I looked at the sari, the more I agreed with her. It was impossible to take the sari back and exchange it as it had been hemmed and the blouse stitched. There was only one thing left to do – get more sequins sewn onto it.
Five days before the wedding, only chaos reigned. Cars, flowers, lights, decorations, menu, mehendi (bridal henna on the hands) were all still in the process of being organised. There had been, on average, four hours of shopping every day. Most of that time had been spent looking at items and comparing them. I felt constantly besieged by the number of choices to be made.
The previous day I'd been taken shopping for the jewellery that I'd wear to the reception. I needed to cover myself in many ornaments, the bigger the better. Items would be adorning almost all parts of my body – forehead, ears, nose, neck, arms and feet. This round of shopping was followed by another four hours of shopping the next day. I had no idea it would take so much effort! Bangles, bindis (forehead decoration), gifts for my sisters-in-law, gifts for me and the most important thing, the mangal sutra (meaning ‘auspicious thread’, it's made out of two strings of black and gold beads, joined by a gold locket).
To buy this necklace, which would be my Hindu equivalent of a wedding ring, Maliha and I had to venture into the fray of Indian gold-shopping. As Indian fam
ilies favour investing their money in gold, it's serious business. Most families have a preferred jeweller, and Aryan's family was no exception. Like any good Indian gold store, it was perpetually busy. The daily prices per gram of gold were listed at the entrance to the shop. Inside, there were no fewer than twenty shop assistants tending to the flock of women who crowded the counters.
All kinds of gold jewellery were being placed on scales and their prices calculated according to weight. The bright yellow colour glittered charismatically. It wasn't 18-carat gold, which was widespread at home. This gold was 24 carats, as pure as it's possible to get.
As I had fair skin, I'd always preferred silver to gold. However, that was going to have to change. Despite my attempts to choose a small and delicate necklace, Maliha forced a substantial gold locket upon me.
‘People will be looking at it and commenting. We don't want to appear cheap,’ she insisted.
Indian weddings, I learned, were about showing off. Families spent lavishly, even if they couldn't afford to. Poorer families took out huge loans to finance the expense.
‘I know of weddings that have cost 40 lakh rupees ($100,000),’ Maliha said. India was far from the impoverished country that some people thought it to be. A home could be purchased with that amount of money.
The expense comes from the number of events in a Hindu wedding. A typical wedding consists of an exhausting six parts over three days – sangeet (evening of singing and dancing performed by female family and friends), mehendi (application of henna designs to the bride's hands), haldi (cleansing application of turmeric to the bride and groom's skin), baraat (marriage procession featuring the groom riding on a horse or elephant), pheras (wedding ceremony where the couple walks around a fire) and the reception.