Pitajee to make sure Kasturi does not run away from her own wedding (Just kidding).
I laughed out loud when I read it. The ‘Just kidding’ in brackets. It’s so Mum.
3.30 p.m.
Dear lord, another puja!
6.00 p.m.
‘What pattern do you want?’ asked the boy who had come to apply mehendi on my hands. More girls than I bothered to count – and Pitajee of course – gathered around me, chattering excitedly like little monkeys.
‘Can you make a hospital?’ I asked brightly. Pitajee led the guffaws. ‘No, really. I really want a hospital on my hands,’ I tried to say, but my voice was drowned out in the racket.
‘What?’ said the young boy, shocked out of his wits when I insisted vehemently. ‘Auntyji,’ he bleated for Mum, scared to be left alone with me.
Mum’s rather short post on the blog today was titled, ‘What to do when the bride is trying her best to be difficult’.
8.00 p.m.
Why doesn’t anyone tell you how much hard work getting married actually is? I have been sitting down for two hours with my hands stretched out, the wet, cold mehendi making it all the more uncomfortable. They are now beginning to feel very numb.
As are my feet.
The others are feasting on a delicious dinner of aloo-puri. Every once in a while, someone comes and pops a little bit of food in my mouth. Pitajee, on the other hand, walks around munching slowly on the gastronomical delight that is aloo-puri, smirking meaningfully and purposefully avoiding eye contact.
Bugger!
8.30 p.m.
Extract from a post that Mum put up on her blog today titled, ‘Pearls of wisdom for brides-to-be’:
Pimple, darling, I hope you are reading too.
1. Love between husband and wife is not unconditional. It has to be earned, continuously.
2. While people cannot be perfect, relationships can be.
3. In being all of the things that you become after marriage, mother, wife, daughter-in-law, sister-in-law, do not forget that you are also you.
4. Have arguments with the aim of solving the problem, not just for the sake of having an argument.
5. If possible, get a house with two bathrooms. Men really do have a sprinkler attached somewhere.
9.00 p.m.
Anu has had her mehendi done as well. Instead of Saumen, she got Amay written in one little corner on her right hand.
I almost teared up as I read her text.
Sangeet, 8 December 2013. 8.00 a.m.
I get to see Purva today! Yahoo!
Buckets full of cousins from across the country and the world are pouring in. Most of the guests are staying in my apartment and the one adjacent to it that has been kindly lent to us by the landlord for the wedding.
There is bedding on the floor everywhere. In various corners of the two houses, extended family members sit in cozy clusters and gossip over a million cups of chai. Ramu has taken the position of Head Chef and has a team of three people under him.
It’s not easy to get a girl married!
Noon.
‘Sleep!’ barked Mum, looking darkly at me.
‘But I don’t feel like sleeping,’ I said.
‘I don’t care, just sleep,’ she said dismissively. ‘You need to look rested for your sangeet in the evening.’
At that moment, Dad barged into the room. He looked a little bewildered. ‘Is Badi Buaji flying in or taking the train?’ Dad asked, looking at Mum, who had about ten lists in her hand.
‘Buaji is already here,’ said Mum.
‘Oh dear!’ said Dad, wiping his forehead. ‘Then someone is waiting somewhere. Get me Pitajee! We need to find out who is where!’
And with that, he rushed out of the room.
6.00 p.m.
A dazzlingly beautiful, even if I say so myself, yellow anarkali, hair set in gentle curls, hands resplendent with bangles, mehendi and the huge diamond engagement ring.
Flanked on either side by Paddy, Pitajee and my cousins, I walked into the brilliantly decked hall for my sangeet in a trance, not believing that it was all finally happening!
Incidentally, Purva was the first person my eyes fell on as I looked around. Clad in a cream, understated kurta, he looked so utterly elegant and handsome that I almost gasped in shock. When did he start looking so gorgeous, I wondered to myself.
‘Jiju!’ squealed one of my younger cousins. ‘He is so handsome!’
‘He is looking dapper, isn’t he?’ said Paddy, unable to keep the surprise out of her voice.
‘The ladki,’ said Purva, coming closer and winking at me. ‘And the ladki waaley,’ said Purva, slapping Pitajee on his back. I grinned. After very little debate, Pitajee had decided that he would attend the wedding as my guest. Hence the ladki waaley jibe.
Anju Aunty came to me and smothered me with kisses in front of a very amused Purva.
‘Leave her alone,’ he said, laughing and pulling us apart.
‘Why? Why? Is no one else allowed to kiss her?’ said one of Anju Aunty’s cousins, winking at Purva and me.
‘No, no, Auntyji. Why don’t you kiss her as well?’ said Pitajee, poker-faced.
6.30 p.m.
Purva’s family was given the front row, a stage was set and the music blared from every corner.
I felt excited as I munched on bread pakoras, all the while texting images of my sangeet to Anu.
7.20 p.m.
As men with trays of delicious fried food made sure everyone was fed, the masis and chachis (known to not get along), in an exemplary show of solidarity, danced to ‘sasural genda phool’. They missed steps, looked around sheepishly, but finished the song to thunderous applause.
The momentum had kicked up!
8.00 p.m.
Friends from B-school, who had travelled from across the country to be in Delhi for my wedding, performed an absolutely crazy dance to a medley of songs that had everyone wanting more.
A chachi, who wanted to sing a ballad about a daughter leaving the proverbial Babul ka Ghar but had been told not to because we had all collectively decided to not make my wedding a teary affair, showed her rebellious side and sang ‘Disco Deewane’. Dadi almost spasmed in shock and I doubled up in laughter.
The wedding photographer went mad and took about four thousand pictures.
8.30 p.m.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ bellowed my mamaji, who was hosting the event. ‘For a girl in her parents’ house, her sister is said to be her confidante. When she weds and goes to live with her husband’s family, it is the devar, who takes the sister’s place!’
Shouts of ‘Yes! Yes!’ from the now very animated crowd.
‘What happens when the sister of the bride and brother of the groom get together for…’
The thunderous cheering that followed drowned his last words, as strains of ‘Waah Waah Raam Ji’ from the epic Hum Aapke Hain Kaun began trickling in, much to the delight of everyone in the hall. Nothing like a good old Bollywood song!
And in front of our delighted eyes, onstage appeared Vikram, clad in a white kurta-pyjama and brown sleeveless jacket. Next to him stood Mili in a brown lehenga. The bride’s sister and the groom’s brother. Our very own Madhuri and Salman.
I yelped in delight as the two swayed to ‘Bhaiyya Aur Bhabhi Koh’. The two were good dancers and swayed effortlessly to the music, imitating steps from the movie. The cheering that started when the song was announced did not stop even during their performance.
10.15 p.m.
Friends from AIIMS, Purva’s batchmates from the various courses he had done, friends from my B-school and engineering college, neighbours and family members, all set aside pride and dignity and danced with abandon to Bollywood numbers for hours.
The night, already a big hit, reached its crescendo when Purva and I were dragged onto the stage and surrounded by enthusiastic aunts and uncles who insisted we jiggle to the beats of ‘Daaru Desi’.
‘And so,’ said Mamaji as Purva and I s
ettled back into our chairs and awaited the announcement for dinner, ‘the night comes to an end…’
I cheered along with others, mildly surprised at how much I had enjoyed my own sangeet. I was getting up when I realized that Mamaji was not finished. A few more words to wish me luck maybe?
‘But before that happens,’ he said, smiling broadly, as three microphones were brought and placed about five feet from me, ‘maybe we all have time for one last performance?’
Everyone, except me, cheered.
Who was going to perform now? Hadn’t everyone already been onstage? I looked at Purva, who shrugged, looking puzzled himself. A lot of cousins were missing, I realized with a start. Were they eating already?
‘Amay on the tambourine,’ boomed Mamaji as Pitajee got up from right behind me, tambourine in hand, a smug you-have-no-clue-what-is-coming-your-way grin on his face.
‘Vikram on the guitar,’ said Mamaji, as I gasped.
‘Purva, what’s going on?’ I hissed at him, but he looked as lost as I did.
‘And the lead singer, Dr Purva Dixit,’ Mamaji hollered, to thunderous applause. I was stunned, as Purva, who had been pretending to be as bemused as I was, winked and slowly got up to stand behind the microphone.
I realized that I had both my hands to my mouth in shock. I know that Purva sings, of course, but I also know how much he hates singing in public.
‘For you, Kasturi,’ said Purva into the microphone, his eyes boring into mine, ‘from all of us.’
By this time, I realized, almost everyone was standing in their places. Sitting there, in the midst of silence, shocked out of my wits, I waited.
Vikram began strumming the familiar tunes of one of my all-time favourite songs. ‘I’m Gonna Be…’ I looked on stunned and Pitajee beat the tambourine to the tune with a grin plastered on his face.
I gasped as realization hit home. This was the song Dad had once, many, many years ago, sung for Mum. Purva knew this and was recreating the same moment for me. In front of the whole world! Purva had not opened his mouth yet, but tears were already pooling in my eyes. It could not get any more perfect!
Only it would.
‘When I wake up, well I know I’m gonna be, I’m gonna be the man who wakes up next to you,’ Purva sang in his golden voice, mimicking The Proclaimers so well that I wondered for one mad minute if he was just lip-syncing.
In that one instant a little charpai had materialized next to the trio, and Veena, my littlest cousin, and Rahul, Purva’s little nephew, were just waking up. Little Purva looks at little Kasturi who is trying her best to make her yawn look believable and gives her a big hug.
‘Aww!’ I heard someone say.
‘When I go out, yeah I know, I know, I’m gonna be the man who goes along with you,’ crooned Purva to the beat that Vikram and Pitajee provided.
The charpai had vanished and in place of the little kids, Mum and Dad stepped out of a door cut out of cardboard. Mum had a little pink purse slung around her shoulders, ready to go out. Grinning at me and singing the song, hand in hand, Mum and Dad walked past me, looking giddy like teenagers.
‘Mum!’ I screamed in delight, along with others.
‘If I get drunk, well I know I’m gonna be, I’m gonna be the man who gets drunk next to you,’ sang Purva as his mausaji appeared, pretending to be intoxicated next to a stern-looking Mausiji. The look on Mausiji’s face was so disapproving that we all collectively burst out laughing.
‘If I haver, yeah I know I’m gonna be I’m gonna be the man who is havering to you,’ sang Purva, grinning at me again. His cousin Utkarsh appeared, talking rubbish to a seemingly irritated Padma. Padma, mock anger written all over face, thwacked Utkarsh with her hands, making all of us laugh again.
By now everyone was on their feet, clapping to the music in unison. Every eye was on the three men who were performing a few feet away from me. Purva, Vikram and Pitajee sang the beautiful, gorgeous chorus, hitting the right notes, the right voices all put together so beautifully, that I had goosebumps on my hands as I listened to them, enraptured.
‘For I would walk five hundred miles and I would walk five hundred more…’
And then just Purva. ‘It’s the beat of a man who walks a thousand miles,’ sang Purva, his solo voice ringing out loud and clear to the rhythm that had everyone mesmerized, ‘and fall down at your door.’ And with that, twenty of our friends and cousins, who had been gathering around the boys all this while, came forward and fell down at my feet, much to the amusement of the other guests. Mad cheering followed this, but Purva continued.
‘When I’m working, yes I know I’m gonna be, I’m gonna be the man who is working hard for you.’ Dad again appeared, this time wearing his doctor’s coat, stethoscope around his neck, and as Purva sang this line, he winked at me and pretended to quickly perform one surgery after the other, eliciting much laughter from everyone around.
‘And when the money comes in for the work I do, I’ll pass almost every penny on to you,’ Purva crooned into the microphone, his body swaying to the beat. His confidence and charisma had me completely shocked. This man was born for the stage! Where was the shy, quiet doctor I knew?
To my utter astonishment, Mr Vijaywada emerged from the crowd as Purva sang this, showering fake currency notes at his delighted wife.
‘Mr Vijaywada!’ I yelped, laughing and crying at the same time, stunned at all the people who had got together for this little act.
‘When I come home, yeah I know I’m gonna be,’ sang Purva, his melodious voice ringing across the hall, and his Tauji appeared and started running Bollywood-style towards a cardboard cut-out of a house, beside which stood Taiji smiling with a cup of tea in her hand. ‘I’m gonna be the man who comes back home to you.’
‘And if I grow old, well I know I’m gonna be,’ sang Purva as, to my absolute delight, my nanaji came forward, limping a little. This was the first time that I had seen him walk without his walking stick but that was not what had my eyes popping out. Nanaji was clad in a beige kurta exactly like Purva’s.
‘Oh my god,’ I cried, laughing like a madwoman, making no attempt to hide my tears now.
‘I’m gonna be the man who is growing old with you,’ he sang as Naniji, clad in a yellow anarkali, identical to mine, walked in and shyly stood next to Nanaji, in the midst of deafening hooting.
‘Naniji!’ I screamed in delight, as the two of them grinned back at the screaming, shouting, clapping, hollering audience. Nanaji and Naniji, dressed like Purva and me, looking so darn cute with their white hair and gentle smiles that I could just hug them for hours. How much planning had this taken? And how the hell did they convince Naniji to wear an anarkali?
And before I knew it, it was time for the lovely, fun-filled chorus that I had heard at least a gazillion times before. The three men synchronized perfectly. ‘I would walk five hundred miles and I would walk five hundred more. It’s the beat of a man who walks a thousand miles to fall down at your door.’ Purva used both his hands to point at me and again twenty cousins and friends, giggling uncontrollably, tumbled at my feet.
‘Tadalala.’ Forty people took the cue to join in the chorus and surround me in a circle.
‘Tadalalalala. Tadalalallala. Tadalalalla.’
By now, pretty much everyone in the hall was surrounding me, singing the chorus. That was a spectacular moment. About a hundred people, singing together the chorus of a song most had probably never heard of before.
Purva silenced everyone with a gesture and sang the last two lines alone. My hands had not left my mouth since the song had begun. This was beyond anything I could have imagined.
‘I would walk five hundred miles and I would walk five hundred more,’ sang Purva, pulling out the microphone from the stand and walking towards me, his eyes not leaving mine even for a second. ‘It’s the beat of a man who walks a thousand miles to fall down at your door,’ he finished with a flourish.
And then it was, for a few seconds, mad.
&nb
sp; I was laughing and crying, and suddenly everyone had pulled the nearest person into an embrace. There was not a single dry eye and not a single face that did not bear a wide smile. I may not say this enough, but Dr Purva Dixit, you are, indeed, one special man!
The man I was about to marry was not the romantic sort, really. He was simply a hard-working doctor who would much rather be in the OT opening hearts than in front of a hundred people singing. Yet he sang for me! Not only that, he chose a song that he knew held special meaning for me and my family. He got both families to participate and managed to get more than thirty people to fall at my feet, not once but twice.
I felt like the luckiest girl on the planet.
10.17 p.m.
I was brushing away happy tears when I saw Pitajee sneak out of the group hug, phone stuck to his ears, his face white.
‘Is everything okay?’ I tried to ask over the din that surrounded us.
When Pitajee turned around to look at me, his eyes were large with amazement.
‘Kas…’ he was about to say something but seemed to change his mind. ‘Er … Mum wants me home, I think,’ he mumbled hurriedly. He looked around and, seeing Purva busy with everyone, pulled Vikram out.
‘Come with me please, Vik?’ he asked Vikram, who readily agreed.
‘Pitajee!’ I shouted, as someone pulled me back into the hug.
‘Kas, it’s fine, it’s fine,’ Pitajee shouted, hurrying away, a bewildered Vikram at his heels.
38
9 December 2013, 11.00 p.m.
I sat there wondering.
The day had been eventless, well as eventless as it could have been, given that it was my wedding day. I had had a meltdown early in the morning – the whole thing was getting a bit much for me – followed by some more puja and then hours in the parlour getting ready.
A lot of guests had left after dinner and many had commented on the … err … original orange-and-purple flowers used for the decorations
Purva and I were half married. The jaimala had happened with us airborne. Vikram had picked up Purva and some cousin hoisted me even higher. Eight feet up in the air, I almost fell on top of Purva, much to the sadistic delight of everyone else.
Can This Be Love? Page 19