The antarpat symbolizes our separate identities, poised on the threshold, about to come together in holy matrimony. At the precise time of our muhurta, not a minute before or after, the antarpat will be removed—from the north. Amid much fanfare, John and I will gaze upon each other, garland each other with fresh flowers, and be pronounced husband and wife. Until then, the priest continuously chants the mangalashtaka, eight shlokas of prayers and blessings, and guests shower akshata—uncooked, unbroken grains of vermilion-dusted rice—while they recite, excitement mounting, “Kuryat sada mangalam…shubha mangala savdhan…”
From where they sit, it’s excitement. From where I stand, it’s anxiety. Waiting to see and be seen by my groom, I’m a nervous wreck! I expected it to be nail-biting to stand up in front of everyone, the center of attention, but I didn’t realize quite how unnerving it feels knowing everyone else is seeing what I can’t, the whole picture, while John and I are limited to half, a partitioned pair of goldfish in a fishbowl.
What’s the other goldfish doing over there? I want to see his face. His eyes. Some gauge of what he’s thinking. Is he thinking what I am? That he’s either crazy in love with me, or just plain crazy, or else he wouldn’t be here! Can he feel my presence? Can I send a telepathic message? E.T. phone home!
Holding the garland I’ll give him, I think of the brides and grooms who came before, over thousands of years, who stood as we are. At their mandaps. Separated by their antarpats. Awaiting their muhurtas. In the olden days, brides and grooms had little to no prior contact. Imagine what they must have felt in these agonizing moments…. Uh, then again, Kiran: Let’s not go there right now.
I’m fasting this morning, as is John. That’s all we need after everything everyone’s been through getting to this point, for me to start hyperventilating and pass out at the altar.
“Kuryat sada mangalam…shubha mangala savdhan…”
My father finally gave his blessing. I wasn’t expecting a Hallmark card, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed. The unvarnished version is, Dad felt outnumbered, beleaguered by the army of open-minded people that surrounded him. He didn’t have the energy left to fight anymore, so he surrendered. His “blessing” went, and I quote: “Do what you want. It’s your life.”
Makes you all warm and tingly, doesn’t it?
My mother said, “Give him time. No one changes overnight.”
I kept thinking of Uma Auntie, who would have loved even that much from her father. I tried to focus on what I did have, to be grateful, and see the glass as half full. But as wedding plans kicked into high gear, and Dad went through the motions on autopilot, doing what was expected of him—his duty, as written in some instruction manual titled Responsibilities of the Father of the Bride—I couldn’t help but feel pin-pricks of sorrow, never far beneath the surface of any joy. I wished he and I could see eye to eye, that he could share my happiness. But we never had, and it was unlikely he ever would.
The first time John and I met in person, my nerves were so frazzled, I had to take a valium beforehand. “What if he doesn’t like what he sees?” I said to my mother. “What if I don’t? What if he smells funny? What if…? What if…?”
She sat me down, took my hands, and looked me in the eye. In a voice as serene as a yoga instructor, she said, “Trust me. Do you think I ever would have let things go this far if I had any doubts?”
It was late summer, and John and I had continued to “date” long-distance. That was my father’s mandate, his prerequisite for any chance at his blessing.
“If you haven’t changed your minds by then, we’ll see….”
“Fair enough,” John said.
We were going to meet in Paris, just the two of us, in May. We planned our itinerary and everything. Then, right before we booked it, we both—independently—reached the same conclusion: We’d come this far, let’s keep doing this Indian-style, the old-fashioned way, by the book. For the novelty, if nothing else.
And so, in August, John and his family flew from Austin to D.C. to meet my family and me. Traditionally this was called a “bride-viewing.” Mom seated his family in the living room; Dad escorted and presented me.
When I came in, John was the first to stand. He shot up from the couch, clutching a huge bouquet of roses, lilies, and freesia. He wore a navy sports jacket with gold buttons over a white shirt that showed off his golden tan. The instant I saw him, the moment our eyes met, my heart turned to mush. All those clichés—weak in the knees, short of breath, you name it—I felt every one. And from the besotted look on John’s face, I knew he felt the same.
It was so cute—his mother nudged his arm with her elbow a few times, and when he didn’t respond, she whispered, “Flowers, Johnny. Give her the flowers.”
We hugged, but with everyone watching, nowhere near as long as we wanted. Separation was pure agony. Minutes crawled by as I poured tea, served snacks, did the customary chitchat. It was disconcerting to hear John, his voice so familiar I’d recognize it anywhere, coming from this handsome stranger’s mouth. To be sure, it was great packaging, but unfamiliar. I kept stealing glances at him—I wanted to stare outright—trying to reconcile the known and the unknown.
Finally—finally!—our parents left us alone. We lunged for each other. Smushed together. Clung. Breathless. I pressed my cheek to his chest, my ear over his racing heart. He threaded his fingers into my hair, cradling my head, cradling me against him.
“You’re so tall,” I whispered.
Him, “You’re so beautiful.”
“You smell good.”
“You feel great.”
“I can’t believe you’re real.”
A chuckle. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m nervous.”
He leaned down, whispered near my ear, “Don’t be nervous…I love you, Kiran.”
My eyes stung. My fingers bunched his shirt. I looked up, into his eyes, blue irises swallowed by desire-enlarged pupils. “That’s what I was waiting to hear. I love you, too. So much.”
He kissed me then. A soul kiss. A you-were-meant-for-me-and-I-was-meant-for-you kiss. Pure magic.
We both agreed: It was worth the wait.
Trying to incorporate two faiths to show respect for both families, their traditions and beliefs, is no easy feat.
I asked Rani, “How did you and Bryan do it?”
“A secular ceremony at the university chapel,” Rani said.
“Okay, you’re no help to me.”
“Sorry. Ask Preity.”
I did. I called. We bonded. It was weird. Imagine if Batman and the Joker struck up an alliance—there’s something hinky about that, isn’t there?
Preity and Eric had two ceremonies, two weeks apart. A Lutheran ceremony at his family’s church in Minnesota, and a Hindu ceremony at a mansion in Middleburg—Northern Virginia horse country. Eric rode in on a white mare!
I should have gone, I was kicking myself.
John and I were leaning toward one combined-faith ceremony until I talked to Preity. “I have one word for you,” she said. “Wardrobe.”
An excellent point, which steered John and me toward the idea of two separate wedding ceremonies in one whirlwind day.
I found myself phoning, none other than, Preity—again—for a gut-check. Was it too much? Was it feasible to pull off? We brainstormed, and at the end of the conversation when everything met with her enthusiastic approval, I was not only excited but relieved. I thanked her profusely for letting me bend her ear, for being my sounding board.
No one else in my life could have related to the thousandth decimal point the way Preity could. I didn’t have to explain myself to her. She could explain me to me! And she did! She knew exactly what I was trying to accomplish with the nuptials and what I was up against, because she’d lived it.
As children, we didn’t have anything in common beyond our parents being born in the same country. Now, like our parents, Preity and I, too, had shared life experiences.
Ho
ly samosas, Batman.
For my first wedding, I did all the planning, and I did it all my way. This time, I deferred to my mother. “Whatever you want,” I said, handing over John’s and my proxies. “Just tell us when and where to show up, and what we’re supposed to do.”
Mom and the aunties got right on it. She must have thought, If only you’d done this sooner, my pillu, life could have been so much less complicated. Not that this way was any cake-walk, mind you.
Since Indian wedding rituals and traditions differ according to subculture, each auntie had her own must-haves. I happened to be interviewing with family practices in the D.C. area, so I was in town for the Hindi-Bindi Club’s first brainstorming session, lucky me, and watched with amusement as Mom presided, something akin to herding hamsters.
“Any minute now, someone’s going to suggest conch shells,” one auntie said.
“Am I that predictable?” said Uma Auntie.
“You’re that Bengali,” said Saroj Auntie.
Uma Auntie was pushing for the blowing of conch shells. Minor, compared to Saroj Auntie, who was lobbying hard for two prewedding bashes and for the groom to ride to the wedding ceremony on a white horse, accompanied by a marching band. All this before anyone had even broached the subject of food!
Across the room, Mom’s and my gazes met. Arré deva!
“Maharashtrian weddings are simple affairs,” Mom said, ever so diplomatically to the aunties. “It’s more about sanskar than naatik.”
Here, I leaned over and consulted the nearest auntie for English subtitles. Sanskar means “rite of passage.” Naatik is “theatrics.”
“So let the wedding ceremony be boring—I mean, simple,” Saroj Auntie said.
“You meant boring,” Mom said. She turned to Uma Auntie, tattling like a schoolgirl, “She meant boring.”
“Come now, Meenu,” Saroj Auntie said in her conciliatory voice. “What’s a little masala between friends?”
“And don’t Punjus have enough to spare?” said Uma Auntie with a wink.
“I just think if you’re going to do it, do it up,” Saroj Auntie said. “Let the wedding ceremonies be traditional, but before and after? Why ho-hum if you don’t have to? When will you and your guests all be together again? This is once-in-a-lifetime only. Everyone should have fun, fun, fun, hai na?”
Mom appeared to reconsider. “Maybe a little chutpata…” She asked me, “Would you like a sangeet the night before the wedding? And a mehendi party before your chuda?”
I leaned back, held up my palms. “Whatever you want, Mom.”
At this, the aunties crooned over what a good daughter I am. (Ha! Selective amnesia, anyone?)
Sangeet means “singing session.” It’s a song-and-dance bash.
Chuda, the Maharashtrian version of a bridal shower, is a bangle party. The bangle-wallah brings his wares to the home, and the bride and her girlfriends play games and select their bangles. The bride’s bangles are green glass—the auspicious color of new life—which the mother of the bride ceremonially presents at the chuda.
Mehendi is henna. With a cone akin to that used for icing decoration on a cake, a skilled artist paints intricate designs on the palms and feet of a bride, a gesture of wishing the bride luck. Mehendi takes several hours to dry and stains the skin for up to two months—at first, a deep red that fades to terra-cotta tones, then gradually disappears, like a temporary tattoo. A mehendi shindig, like the chuda, is a women’s party. Attendees often have their palms decorated, too, for kicks—though nowhere near as elaborately as the bride’s.
I didn’t tell the aunties this, but the day before, when my fiancé (I’ve loved saying that…but will love husband far more!) and I were discussing wardrobe requirements for our impending East-West fashion show, John said he was most looking forward to me modeling one outfit in particular…. He couldn’t wait to see me dressed in just “mehendi and moonlight” on our wedding night.
Did I mention I’m in love with him? I am. Big time.
Mom said, “Yes, on mehendi. Maybe, on a sangeet, but if we do it, no weepy farewell songs.” She directed her gaze at Saroj Auntie, who inched up a lone index finger, wordlessly inquiring just one? “Not even one. And no baarat.” She nixed the horse and marching band.
Saroj Auntie’s mouth dropped open. “But John’s a cowboy. Don’t you see the parallel—?”
“I see that our cowboy is six foot three. If the ‘horse’ winds up being a weak, malnourished Arabian pony, we’ll be in trouble.”
Uma Auntie added, “And if he needs a tetanus shot the next day for sitting on a saddle with a rusty, protruding nail?”
“Yeh India hai,” Mom said, a reminder that we’d be in India, not the States. “And don’t forget our most critical constraint. For a Maharashtrian wedding, the muhurta will be in the morning.” This is the most auspicious hour to conduct the hour-and-a-half wedding ceremony as calculated by the pandit (priest), factoring the time of year and the patrikas—horoscopes—of the bride and groom.
From the “O” of Saroj Auntie’s mouth, she had forgotten. She settled right down. “Like I was saying, the groom should arrive in a nice, quiet stretch limo…”
Everyone laughed, and the afternoon passed that way.
Mom compiled the suggestions, culled them into a select list of those she liked best, and instructed John and me to order à la carte off the menu.
“Are you sure there aren’t some Muslim and Jewish traditions they’d like to incorporate?” I overheard Dad say to Mom. “Parsi? Buddhist? Jain? Wiccan?” My father has the best sense of humor when he doesn’t intend to be funny.
Oh, well. You can’t have everything. That’s what they tell me. Over and over. Like a mantra.
“Kuryat sada mangalam…shubha mangala savdhan…”My mother can’t hear any of this. Until the muhurta, she’s staying in the dressing room—with her ears plugged, she told us.
Traditionally, the bride’s mother wasn’t present because hearing these shlokas was too emotional for her. Today, it’s simply considered bad luck.
Before the ceremony started, Mom did a reading. My dressing room was upstairs, John’s downstairs. I peeked from the balcony. John did the same directly below me, out of my sight.
Mom gave an overview of the process—also in the program—and explained, for the benefit of those who didn’t know, why she was “bunking” the ceremony, reappearing only after garlands were exchanged. “So no one can think I don’t love my daughter.” She wagged her index finger. “Or my future son-in-law. I love both very much. That’s why I’m leaving at the end of this reading.”
“Kuryat sada mangalam…shubha mangala savdhan…”
My parents bought a brand-new, three-bedroom, three-bath, two-balcony flat on the outskirts of Pune, in the foothills. Hoping to nudge Dad into retirement, Mom declared she would winter in India with or without him. Vivek and I placed bets on how quickly Dad would cave; he can’t function without Mom.
The new digs served as our lagna-ghar, wedding house; John’s family made their camp his former host family’s home. Vivek, his wife, Anisha, and I arrived ten days before the wedding. We were surprised at how Scottsdale, Arizona–like these new developments felt. Our parents had a First-World oasis in the Third World. Mountain view. Gated community. Ritzy brick driveway. Plush lawns. Immaculate gardens. Swimming pool. Gym. Mom and Dad weren’t roughing it here—this place was posh!
After an exhausting day of power shopping, I wished I could take my feet off and carry them home. I showered, changed into my jammies, and tumbled onto my parents’ bed beside my mother.
“Uh-oh…She’s making another list…”
She knew I was kidding. No way could I have pulled off this highly complicated, long-distance wedding without her stupendous organizational skills. The previous month, she’d sent me the mock-up of the wedding program she made for the three days of festivities. An individual pamphlet for each day. Blurbs on Hindu rituals—definitions, translations, history, anecdotes, jok
es. (Inspired, John’s mom did the same for the Christian ones.) I was so moved, so deeply touched by the massive time, effort, love she’d poured into everything. I broke down in tears, phoning her right away. “You really do love me…” I said, and she said, “Of course I do, pillu,” as if there had never been any question.
The latest of her infamous lists read: Things I Want to Do Before I Die. “Don’t tell me it’s morbid,” she said. “We all need goals.”
I skimmed the page. “Impressive. But where’s ‘Have sex in a public place’?” I tapped the page with my fingernail. “That needs to be on here.”
She sighed, the long-suffering-mother kind, and shook her head. All the encouragement I needed.
“You know, your building elevators are pretty cozy. That could work—”
“Kiran.”
“What? Oh. Sorry. They call it a lift. British English takes some getting used to, doesn’t it? Here, give me the pen. I’ll add it for you.” I reached for her pen.
She switched it to her other hand. “Pooré.” Enough. As in, cut the crap.
“My mouth needs a lock on it,” I said in Marathi before she could, making her laugh despite herself. “Hehehe.” I flashed my devious smile, adding, “Yes, it is lots of fun to harass Mom. How do you say ‘corrupt’ in Marathi?”
“I’m not telling you.”
“Okay, I’ll ask Ramesh.” The driver. “He’ll tell me.”
“Ha! He wouldn’t dare. I’ve already warned him if he teaches you any curses or naughty words, he’s fired.”
Vivek and I were only now discovering our mother omitted several choice words from our Marathi instruction.
“Good thing my future hubby speaks Marathi like a native, huh?” I said.
She heaved another sigh, the ol’ classic what’s-a-poor-mother-to-do kind. “I suppose it’s too late to call off the wedding…?”
The Hindi-Bindi Club Page 31