Henna for the Broken Hearted

by Sharell Cook

  Aryan and I wanted our wedding to be memorable, but not costly. We decided to keep the wedding as simple as possible and leave out the sangeet. We also planned to give the reception a Punjabi twist in the form of a bhangra band. The aim was to break the ice and get everyone, both foreigners and Indians, up and dancing together. It was impossible for me to participate in a haldi ceremony.

  ‘Have you seen how turmeric stains my fingers yellow? My whole body can't look like that on my wedding day!’ I was alarmed.

  Aryan was also especially keen not to have a baraat.

  ‘Oh come on, it would be hilarious to see you riding a horse,’ I coaxed him.

  ‘No way!’ he was adamant.

  To add to the tension, a problem was brewing over the selection of a pandit (Hindu priest) to perform the wedding ceremony. Radha had concerning things to say about the Oriya pandit who'd performed her wedding.

  ‘The ceremony went for over six hours. He went on and on, and I could hardly even understand what he was saying. I wanted to pay him to finish fast. I was so hungry and dizzy by the end of it that I fainted.’

  Aryan and I wanted a short ceremony that didn't take longer than two hours.

  ‘Let's get that pandit that your sister uses for pujas,’ I insisted.

  To me, a pandit was a pandit. However, he was a Gujarati pandit. As I was to later discover, Gujarati wedding rituals, although Hindu, differed from typical Hindu ones. Only four rounds (pheras) of the sacred fire are performed in Gujarati weddings, instead of the usual seven. Nevertheless, he would have to do. Our wedding was going to be a blend of cultures anyway. He would merely add to it.

  The shopping continued after my family and friends arrived in Mumbai. They didn't want to risk their health by drinking anything other than mineral water. This led to an elaborate mission to find and buy as much mineral water as possible.

  ‘We got lost and ended up in a slum. The people there were so warm and welcoming, though. They invited us in!’ my mum exclaimed.

  I was relieved that everyone seemed to be enjoying the random delights of India. More shopping continued. Everyone wanted to buy Indian clothes and jewellery for the wedding. Led by Aryan's sister Amita, we converged on a wholesale market near Dadar railway station. Within ten minutes, she was as stressed as me. People had headed off in all directions, leaving us wondering how we were going to keep track of them all. Five hours and much confusion later, everyone had found something.

  Most of my friends and family were staying in a serviced apartment in Bandra, near the wedding venue. It was filled with women, as the husbands had all let their wives come in a group to the wedding. My dad had remained back in Australia too. Although there was an understanding that it was for the best, it created another issue, because someone had to perform the role of my father in the ceremony. Not only that, I didn't have a brother, who was apparently required to escort me to the mandap (stage).

  Only one – brave? – male family member, an uncle, was attending the wedding. He and his wife, who was the sister of my uncle Nick, had been to India previously, and they intended to spend more time travelling around India after the wedding. I roped him in to take my father's place, and thankfully he was gracious about accepting his honorary position. Justin agreed to take the place of my brother.

  My mehendi party was to be held in the apartment two days before the wedding. That same day, I also had to collect my cousin from the airport.

  ‘My luggage isn't here,’ Justine said when she finally emerged nearly two hours after her flight had landed. Apparently, it hadn't been loaded onto the plane and was still in Sydney. The airline didn't know when they'd be able to deliver it.

  We arrived back at the apartment to find restless and hungry occupants, two fretful male mehendi artists and no bed for Justine. The Indian guests were an hour late for the mehendi party and the food that we'd ordered came two hours late. Despite my repeated requests to the staff, the spare bed couldn't be located.

  ‘I can't handle this responsibility anymore. Nothing is going right. I can't deal with it. I'm worn out and have had enough,’ I sobbed. The control freak in me never did cope well under pressure.

  While I'd become accustomed to the idiosyncrasies of India, my friends and family hadn't. By now, they'd grown impatient and needy. They weren't used to eating dinner late in the night, as invariably happens in India, at a time that they were usually going to bed. Food is normally served as guests arrived at parties in Australia. In India, it was served later, before guests departed. Their angst was understandable. But India ran on India time, and always would. It struck me that this was how Aryan must feel when I got fed up with the many small things I encountered. The party was salvaged when Aryan's family arrived with a bag full of saris and began giving everyone an Indian makeover.

  Then we got down to the serious business of mehendi application. The Mughals are believed to have brought the art to India thousands of years ago. Although there's nothing spiritual or sacred about applying henna to a bride's hands before a wedding, it serves as an important mark of transformation and fortuity. The Arabic design, characterised by swirls and floral patterns, still remains in India, but a distinctly Indian design has also emerged. It commonly encompasses detailed lines, lotus flowers, paisley patterns and peacocks, and usually extends most of the way up the bride's arm.

  Of course, mehendi wouldn't be an Indian tradition without some superstitions attached to it. The darker the henna stains the bride's skin, the more her husband is supposed to love her. The new bride isn't expected to perform any household chores until her mehendi has worn off, so brides like it as deep and as dark as possible. A bride's mehendi design also includes a hidden inscription of the groom's initial on her palm. It's believed that if the groom fails to find it on the wedding night, the bride will dominate the couple's married life. The use of henna isn't restricted to weddings though. Women in India also apply it to their hands and feet during festivals and special celebrations, as it's considered to be very auspicious. Henna has even been elevated to the status of body art, worn to make a decorative statement.

  I selected an Arabic design for my mehendi as it was less concentrated. I didn't want to look like I had two black hands and arms. The mehendi artists were fast in their work. As with most occupations, India's mehendi artists traditionally belonged to a particular caste and the skill was handed down from generation to generation. Called Nai, it was a caste that incorporated barbers, hairdressers and midwives. The caste was deemed a lower class one due to impurity from touching customers' hair, feet and blood. In contrast, in modern-day India, talented contemporary henna artists train at beauty colleges and command high fees.

  Soon, over a dozen pairs of hands and arms were elaborately decorated. While we waited for it to dry and stain our hands, we practised some Bollywood dance moves. I left the henna on overnight, so that it would be as dark as possible. In the morning, my bed was filled with crumbly flakes, but to my delight the design emerged a deep brown colour that remained on my hands and arms for weeks.

  Although the wedding day dawned peacefully, it soon resumed the chaotic pattern of the previous few weeks and remained that way until the end. Aryan rushed to his parents' apartment early in the morning for his haldi ceremony, where all the married women applied turmeric paste to his body to cleanse it.

  I knew so little about what was going to happen to me that I found it hard to believe that I was actually getting married. But, eager to experience a new ceremony in a different tradition from my first wedding, I figured it would truly be the fresh start to married life that I needed.

  I was supposed to go with Maliha to the Bandra apartment to get my hair and make-up done. Radha had arranged a professional make-up artist to meet me there. Maliha had a lot to do, however, and was running late as usual. In the end I went without her. With me came the pandit, who was in a hurry to get to the wedding venue and start the preparations. We loaded the car with bags full of coconuts, rice, fruit, betel nuts,
garlands, ghee, sweets, red kumkum powder, brass pots and numerous other items required for the elaborate wedding rituals.

  After my hair and make-up was done, a row of sparkling bridal bindis was placed above my eyebrows and I was slathered in gold jewellery. I could hardly recognise myself. An Indian bride. My heavily kohl-rimmed eyes registered astonishment when I looked in the mirror. At the wedding venue, Aryan was also almost unrecognisable, dressed in a delicately woven gold tunic and dhoti, red scarf and turban. It was the first time I'd seen him in traditional Indian clothes and he looked so handsome.

  As I was hurried inside, my mum welcomed Aryan. She greeted him with a garland and aarti (traditional Hindu prayer with a lamp placed on a platter), and put a tilak (auspicious red mark made out of kumkum powder) on his forehead. She then led him to the stage where two red thrones had been placed. Meanwhile, the soles of my feet were anointed with red dye, and a red-and-gold veil was affixed to my head. Justin held my hand and walked me to the stage. The wedding was ready to commence. A conch shell was blown loudly to attract the attention of the gods and herald the start of the proceedings.

  Aryan and I exchanged garlands to signify the acceptance of each other as husband and wife. Then a long thread was placed around our necks by my family to protect us from evil influences. Next it was time for me to be given away, by my substitute father, to Aryan in the kanyadaan. My right hand was placed in Aryan's right hand, and filled with betel nut, flowers and money. Our hands were tied together, sacred mantras chanted and blessings given. The joining of our hands, as well as the knotting together of my veil and Aryan's scarf, symbolised the union of our souls in holy matrimony. Next, the holy fire was lit. Ghee and rice were poured into it as it crackled.

  If I'd had any idea of what my Indian wedding might look like, it certainly didn't include having a huge ornamental gold crown placed on my head like Lord Jagannath during the Rath Yatra festival in Orissa. Shaped like a betel nut, it was embellished with coloured beads and fabric. Yet, it was an important and unavoidable part of the wedding ceremony. With crowns on both our heads, it was time for Aryan and me to do our laps of the holy fire to confirm our marriage.

  The four rounds, as per Gujarati custom, symbolise the basic human goals of Dharma (duty), Artha (earning wealth and livelihood), Kama (love) and Moksha (liberation from suffering in life). Aryan and I also helped each other touch seven betel nuts with our right toes. The betel nuts represent the seven vows of married life, incorporating nourishment, courage and strength, prosperity, progeny, happiness, harmony and commitment. Next, we fed each other sweets four times as we recited the vows in Hindi. I promised to serve Aryan first and to give food to any holy men who came to the door. Aryan promised to provide for me and come home early so we could eat together.

  As a mark of my being a married woman, Aryan dabbed sindoor (red kumkum powder) on my forehead. Then came the time for him to give me my mangal sutra. Except it was nowhere to be found.

  The chaos had finally caught up with us. The mangal sutra was back in the apartment. A replacement was quickly borrowed, the pandit blessed it, and Aryan put it over my head. At last the wedding was over. People threw flowers at us, and we touched everyone's feet.

  The whole ceremony took around two hours. It was noisy and full of disarray. Guests arrived late because of the traffic. I misplaced the toe rings I'd been given. The conch shell continued to be blown throughout the ceremony. Rice was poured on our heads and went everywhere. All the foreigners, including me, had no idea what they were supposed to be doing, and required ongoing instruction and explanation. There was constant chatter. I struggled to recite the vows in Hindi and understand what I was saying. But it was a happy occasion and utterly memorable. I couldn't stop smiling.

  As soon as the wedding ceremony was over, Maliha rushed me back to the apartment to get ready for the reception that would directly follow. A full change of clothes, hair and make-up was necessary. It was time to put on the traditional red sari that I was so looking forward to wearing. Despite having jewellery hanging off or attached to almost every body part, from head to toe, the Indian women thought I still looked too plain. A packet of sparkling bindis was swiftly located and they began sticking them in my hair. They were on a mission, and none of my protests would stop them.

  Back at the reception, Aryan waited for me, wearing a rich brown Sherwani suit with a long jacket and hand embroidery on the front and sleeves. We took our positions under the flowery canopy of the stage and prepared to greet each of the guests and receive their good wishes. If it's a large reception, this can take all night.

  After lining up and wishing the couple well, the guests usually proceed to the buffet to start eating. The arrival of the bhangra band interrupted the formalities and produced an instant transformation. One minute, the guests were sitting sedately and talking among themselves, in the next, they were up and breaking out in the most incredible dance moves I'd ever seen. Arms punctured the air, shoulders rapidly shrugged, hips swivelled and legs leaped. It was just like in a Bollywood movie.

  The reception was a surprising success, which was such a relief for Aryan and me. We were concerned there'd be a divide between east and west, and disapproval from some people. We needn't have worried. The day brought everyone closer together. Many fears and misconceptions melted away that night of our wedding reception, as both families connected.

  Aryan's family had gone out of their way to make sure my family was comfortable and enjoyed themselves. It couldn't have been easy for them, particularly as they hadn't been around foreigners before and knew very little about western customs. My family had been open-minded towards India and all its tribulations. It gave me hope that with the right attitudes, two cultures can be blended.

  After the night was over, I collapsed at the table where my mother-in-law was sitting to finally have dinner.

  ‘Khaana kaisa hai? (How's the food?)’ she asked.

  The unfamiliarity of the day receded with the familiarity of her question. I was a real part of the family now. An Indian daughter-in-law and wife. Along with the role came new responsibilities, customs and traditions; traditions steeped in legends that I knew nothing about, yet all were to be learned and followed.

  White Indian Housewife

  A LONG time ago, in the days of mythical India, there was a courageous but childless king called Asvapati. The king desired a child so badly that he devoted himself to spiritual practice, in the hope of pleasing the goddess Savitri enough that she would grant him a child. The goddess finally appeared and honoured his wish. The king and his wife had a girl as beautiful as the goddess herself. They named the child Savitri in honour of the goddess.

  Princess Savitri grew up to be so radiant, accomplished and wise that men were intimidated by her presence. No one was brave enough to ask the king for his daughter's hand in marriage. The king was distraught.

  ‘Dearest daughter, the time has come for me to choose a husband for you, but you have no suitors. I will fall out of favour in the eyes of the gods if I don't get you married. You have no choice but to go out and choose a husband for yourself. Choose someone who is virtuous and deserving, and who will appreciate you,’ the king told Savitri.

  Savitri left the palace and went searching far and wide for a suitable husband. She visited other kingdoms and even hermitages in the hope of finding someone pious and worthy. Eventually, she came across Satyavan. He was a handsome prince who lived in the forest with his father, who'd been driven out of his kingdom by his enemies. His father was blind, and Satyavan chopped wood and cared for him devotedly. Savitri decided that Satyavan was the man she would marry.

  The king opposed the arrangement. He found out from a sage that Satyavan was cursed and destined to die in a year. Despite this, Savitri remained adamant.

  ‘He is the only man for me. I will only choose my husband once,’ she insisted to her father. Eventually, the king conceded and the couple got married.

  Savitri went to live in the forest w
ith Satyavan. He cherished her dearly, and they were very happy. But Savitri grew more and more distressed as the predicted day of Satyavan's death drew closer. As he didn't share her knowledge, it was a huge burden for her to bear alone. Three days before her husband was due to die, Savitri began to fast. Early on the day of his death, she performed the Laxmi Narayan puja for protection and good fortune. Then, when he went into the forest to cut the wood from the banyan tree, she convinced him to allow her to accompany him. After a while, he grew dizzy and laid down to rest. At that moment, the forest turned dark and ominous. A tall figure materialised. It was Yama, the God of Death.

  ‘I have come to take your husband,’ he told Savitri, as he yanked Satyavan's soul from his body.

  Savitri refused to accept her husband's fate, and followed Yama as he carried Satyavan's soul away.

  ‘You must turn back. Your time has not yet come,’ Yama ordered Savitri.

  She paid him no heed. ‘Please, bring my husband back to life or let me die too.’

  Yama began to feel sorry for her. He was aware that she had married Satyavan despite knowing he only had a year to live.

  ‘It is impossible for me to return your husband to you as it's against nature's law to give back the dead,’ Yama told her. ‘However, I will grant you three wishes as long as you don't ask me to restore your husband's life.’

  ‘Oh, thank you so much. I will accept whatever you can give,’ Savitri replied. ‘First, please restore my father-in-law's kingdom so that he may lead and protect his people. He has suffered enough already. Secondly, please grant my father the son that he always longed for.’

  ‘It is done,’ Yama agreed.

  ‘Lastly, good Yama, I would also like to bear sons.’

  ‘Granted,’ he replied.

  ‘But I am faithful to my husband and won't have children by any other man. How can a dead body make me a mother? Therefore, you must return him to me.’