Diary of a Reluctant Ruler

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We were welcomed with opened arms into the household, the bride’s sisters throwing salt at the door frame before we entered to ward off the nazar, or evil eye. James seemed a little overwhelmed but perfectly happy as we exchanged gifts and hugs, everyone acting with genuine pleasure, as if we were old friends already. With our things swept away to our rooms we were ushered through to an inner courtyard were a group was playing the Dolki, singing and dancing. The noise was tremendous, from the drums and singing, but also from the mass of people already there talking and laughing.

“It is the Sangeet Sandhya,” one of the bride’s sisters, Choti, explained, pulling us over to a table, “A little like your hen parties - do you know much about Hindu weddings?”

“Not really,” I replied, “I’ve heard they last a long time?”

“It is almost two weeks of celebration sometimes, yes,” Choti replied, “The first thing, the offering to Lord Ganesh, we did twelve days ago – to request that the wedding goes well. Then last week Indira went into seclusion – so that the Dara does not see her before the wedding, which is bad luck. Tonight, the Sangeet, where the bride’s family celebrates with music and we put on a bit of a – Jay jay, how do you say-” at this point she reeled off a phrase faster than I could make out.

“Ah,” Jay-jay (which I soon gathered was short for Jahanara) said, sitting down beside her sister, “Performance, we do a performance for the bride, for Indira. Like musical theatre sometimes, although traditionally the sisters simply dance.”

“So that is this evening,” Choti continued, “Then tomorrow night we have the mehendi – which of course you will have to attend, Meredith, - were we put henna on the bride’s hands and feet.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of that,” I nodded, smiling at their immediate friendliness.

“Your James will have to find something else to do,” Jahanara cut in, “You shall have to go visit Dara, and the groom’s household! They will no doubt be doing something.”

“No men are allowed to the mehendi lagwana,” Choti told James, grinning mischievously.

“What is the actual wedding like?” James asked, accepting the metal cup of water offered him by Jahanara.

“Thank you,” I smiled as she passed me a cup.

“The actual wedding takes almost the whole day, with the Baraat, the procession from the groom’s house to the bride’s, the ceremony which takes sometimes three hours, the bride saying goodbye. For us that is the end, but the bride and groom continue to the temple for blessing, and then to the groom’s house, where they go through several more rituals and traditional games to welcome the bride into the groom’s family.”

“Sounds very complicated,” I grinned, sipping the cool water.

“Complicated but fun,” Jahanara replied.

The musicians paused their playing as someone called something out in Hindi.

I really need to ask Marie to teach me Hindi when we go back…

The phrase, ‘Where is the toilet?’ would be useful for a start.

“We must go get Indira, excuse us,” Choti called, disappearing off into the crowd with her sister. The rest of the evening passed quickly, the girls reappearing quickly with their sister in tow, dressed all in yellow and smiling in embarrassment as she was paraded past her uncles, aunts and cousins. Indira’s siblings quickly took to the raised part of the courtyard, were they recounted a comedic version of Indira and Dara’s brief courtship, with Jahanara playing her sister and an elder brother playing the groom. The rest of the evening descended into dancing and general laughter.

James retired to bed early with a headache, but I stayed up, talking with Jahanara and Choti, who introduced me to Indira. She was very quiet to begin with, but shortly after I found this was because her strict Hindi aunt had been watching us from the table opposite. We laughed over the matter, and I told her about grandmother’s etiquette lessons. She seemed intelligent and optimistic, talking to me about her engagement and Dara with enthusiasm.

Indira’s mother came over shortly before twelve o’clock, chivvying her off to bed under the pretence that she might prematurely wrinkle before the wedding day if she didn’t get enough sleep.

Argh! Quick, must sleep!

I don’t think that’s been scientifically proven.

So? Cake hasn’t been scientifically proven, but it’s still tasty.

You probably can prove that actually.

*sulks* whatever, geek brain.

Indira too invited me to the mehendi party before she left, which I looked forward to with enthusiasm.

The night was hot, making me toss and turn underneath the mosquito net, which got caught around my right hand where a mosquito decided to make a meal of me, biting me three times in neat little row.

The next morning I dressed in a churidar kameez which was my favourite of the indian costumes we’d bought. It consisted of a long tunic which was the kameez and tight trousers called daman, and felt pretty much like wearing a long t-shirt and skinny jeans.

The day passed quickly, as I helped the sisters prepare some of the many dishes which would be served that evening, although I’m sure I really only hindered them with my terrible cooking ability. We laughed over my inability to knead dough, and although I felt a little stupid there was no animosity between us. I only saw James briefly in the afternoon before he was headed off accompanied by Indira’s brothers to meet the groom. And then that afternoon I walked with the Jahanara, Choti and some of their numerous cousins to a nearby temple with a clean stream running through it, to gather water for that evening’s mehendi and hardi ritual.

When we returned, every female relative seemed to have descended into the house, with the floor of both courtyard and terrace decked with pillows and carpets, and women reclining and talking, eating the sweet desserts we’d prepared before. Indira’s mother took the water off of us and mixed it into turmeric, sandalwood, saffron and various other ingredients, creating an orange paste called uptan or hardi which was then rubbed into Indira’s skin, first by her mother-in-law, then by her sister-in-law, then her mother, sisters etc. until each member of the immediate family had blessed her and massaged the paste into her arms and face. I’d first felt it was an odd custom, but seeing it I realised that it was all about integrating the bride into the groom’s family, as many of the rituals surrounding the wedding were intended to do.

Having talked to Indira the night before, I knew that her marriage had been arranged by her maternal uncle, and that although the engagement had been made two months ago, the couple had only met four times. I’d been astonished by her enthusiasm in the marriage, especially when I was still getting regular cold feet about marrying James, who I’d known for nearly a year and a half now, and would have known nearly two years by the time we got married.

Indira had only grinned at my nervousness, telling me that any intimate relationship was a journey and that in India the first landmark was marriage, rather than the western culture, which liked to put friendship and emotional intimacy first.

“The only thing I will miss about your western customs in marriage is-” Indira had cut off, looking down.

“What?” I had asked, curious.

“The honeymoon,” she’d grinned shyly, “We don’t have one.”

“Oh… then how, where?”

“Dara still lives with his parents, though their house is large,” Indira told me, “So our wedding night will be spent there.”

“That must be a little embarrassing,” I’d whispered.

“Well, yes, but it is tradition,” she had replied, “I just wish we could have a week together, just us. We know so little about each other.”

Last night I’d gone to bed wishing for even half her courage and faith, her trust that she and Dara would grow to love and trust each other. I was brought back to the present by Indira returning from her bath to wash off the paste, her dark-olive skin glowing from the saffron and turmeric. I wondered whether I could help her in the desire for a honeymoon, and a resolution began to form itself in my head. The mehendi ritual itself began then, taking my thoughts away from my plan. Henna was applied to the bride’s feet and hands, once again the groom’s mother and sister taking turns to draw the intricate patterns.

“They hide the groom’s name in the henna,” Choti told me, throwing herself down next to me in an unladylike fashion which earned a frown from her mother, “If he cannot find it they say that the bride will –how do you say… - the bride will own the trousers?”

“Wear the trousers?” I asked, grinning.

“Yes, that’s it!” Choti laughed, “What did I say?”

“That she would own them? Have them?” I replied.

“Where does this phrase come from, this ‘wear the trousers’?” Choti asked.

“Traditional only men would wear trousers in western communities,” I replied, explaining that it was only a very recent change in culture for women to wear trousers.

“Oh, here women have been wearing trousers for… well, a long time!” Choti laughed.

The party continued late into the evening, henna patterns appearing on everyone’s hands, including my own after some encouragement from Choti, Indira and Jahanara, who literally forced me to sit still. Later still, though most of the younger girls and those sleeping elsewhere had disappeared, Indira, her mother and mother-in-law sat together in close consort. Then her soon-to-be sister-in-law Kanti joined them, and Indira laughed aloud at something she said.

“They talk about the wedding night,” Jahanara told me, noticing my eyes travel over to them, “It’s traditional, for the married women to tell the bride how to please the groom. The whole mehendi ceremony is designed to turn the bride from girl into temptress for her husband.”

I felt my face go a little red.

“You western cultures do not talk about kama much, do you? Although it seems intrinsic to your values,” Jahanara commented.

Kama kama kama kama kama kameleon!

Chameleon.

That’s what I said. Kameleon.

No CHAmeleon.

KAmeleon!

Spelt C-H-A, not K-A.

Whatever. kama kama kama kama kama kameleon…

“Kama? I asked.

“Seeking physical or emotional pleasure,” Jahanara replied, “Our culture intrinsically links it to the need for marriage.”

“No, it’s true, we don’t talk about that sort of thing much,” I nodded, self consciously realising my own discomfort, “Maybe if I had sisters it would be a bit different.”

“You don’t have sisters?” Jahanara asked.

“No, just one brother,” I replied.

“One brother!” Jahanara smiled, “I must seem greedy with three sisters and four brothers.”

“Not at all,” I smiled back, “Just blessed.”

“Perhaps you would feel differently if you were a part of the family!”

We laughed and continued to talk until late into the night. I slept better in the heat, and the pesky mosquito didn’t reappear.