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‘That’s what you think of me. Don’t you?’ my mother said as we reached the first floor. She paused to catch her breath.
Shipra masi’s expensive sandals could be heard four seconds before she arrived the first floor.
‘See this stupid sister of mine. She said no to any big gifts,’ Shipra masi said to me.
‘You did?’ I said to my mother.
My mother looked at me.
‘You will never understand how much I love you,’ my mother said.
I hung my head in shame. My mother smacked the back of my head. I deserved a slap.
Shipra masi waved her hands as she spoke.
‘You and your mother, both the same – impractical. She tells him, “I sent my son to do one MBA, I am getting two MBAs in return. Ananya is the best gift,”’
Shipra masi said, ‘OK, she earns a lot, but Kavita, why say no if someone is ready to give. Why not grab it.’
‘Because we are not that kind of people, Shipra masi,’ I said and gave my mother a hug, ‘she is all talk. But she can never behave like Duke’s mother.
Never,’ I said.
I came into my hotel room where ten cousins, six aunts and four uncles sat on my bed. I sat on the floor as space was at a premium. We had twenty rooms to choose from, but my relatives would rather be cramped together than miss out on juicy gossip session.
The younger cousins battled for the TV remote. I repeated the schedule to my aunts.
‘They are big bores. How can they do puja the whole day?’ Kamla mami said.
‘They don’t even have sangeet?’ my mother said.
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‘I think they are trying to save money,’ Shipra masi said.
‘What language will the pujas be in? Madrasi? Another aunt said.
‘Tamil, maybe Sanskrit,’ I said.
‘I am not coming,’ my mother said.
I glared at my mother.
‘Where do we eat?’ an aunt expressed everyone’s concern.
‘The meals are in the dining hall at the wedding venue. Let’s go to bed, we have to wake up early,’ I said.
We had planned to meet in the hotel lobby at seven-thirty in the morning. We only left at nine.
‘What is the address?’ Rajji mama said.
I took out the piece of paper Ananya’s dad had given me.
‘I can’t read this,’ Rajji mama said.
I took the paper back. It said:
Arulmigu Kapaleeswarar Karpagambal Thirumana Mandapam 16, Venkatesa Agraharam Street, Mylapore, Chennai After three attempts of reading it, I had a headache. I counted the letters, my wedding venue had fifty alphabets in it. Delhi never gets this complicated. One of my older cousins had her wedding in Batra Banquets, another one in Bawa Hall.
We struggled for twenty minutes on the streets of Mylapore before we reached the venue. Fortunately, the locals had abbreviated the name of the place to AKKT
Mandapam. From actors to political parties to wedding halls, Tamilians love to keep complicated names first and then make acronyms for the same.
‘What do you mean breakfast is finished?’ Shipra masi said.
‘Illa, illa,’ a pot-bellied, dark-complexioned, hirsute chef said and shook his hand.
He wore a lungi and a chef’s cap. If he wore the cap no prevent hair in the food, AskManiG.com
he needed a body sheath, given his hairy arms and chest.
‘Orunimishum,’ I said ‘what happened?’
‘Your son speaks Tamil?’ Shipra masi said to my mother.
My mother rolled her eyes.
‘No, I don’t. It’s a common word for wait a second,’ I said.
‘Now he belongs to them. They’ll make him do anything,’ my mother lamented loudly.
‘Mom, please. Let me resolve this,’ I said.
‘What will you resolve? They will make us cook food also,’ my mother said.
‘Everybody, please sit in the dining hall,’ I said then turned to the chef. ‘Can’t you make something?’
‘Who will make tiffin then? We have to serve it at eleven,’ the chef said.
I checked my watch. It was nine-thirty. My family would have medical emergencies if kept hungry for that long.
‘We want something now,’ I said, ‘anything quick.’
‘What about tiffin?’ the chef said.
‘We don’t want tiffin. We’ll only come back for lunch later.’
‘Girl’s side wants tiffin. They came for breakfast at 6.30,’ the chef said.
Rajji mama came up to me. ‘Bribe him,’ he whispered.
I thought about the ethics of bribing at my own wedding to feed myself.
‘Wokay, I go now, I am busy,’ the chef said and mumbled to himself, ‘pundai maganey, thaayoli koodhi.’
‘Anna, wait,’ I said.
The chef looked at me in amazement. How can a person with a heavy Delhi accent toss in a Tamil word or two?
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I kept a hundred-rupee note in my hand and shook hands with him. Perplexed, he examined the currency.
‘We are giving you out of happiness,’ my uncle said.
‘I can make upma fast,’ the chef said.
‘What is upma?’ my uncle said.
‘Salty halwa. No, not upma. Can you make dosas?’ I said.
‘For dosa one by one making no staff now. Then lunch also delayed,’ the chef said mournfully.
We settled on idlis. There would be no sambhar. However, the chef had drum full of coconut chutney, enough to pave roads with.
My family sat in the dining hall as servers placed banana leaves in front of them.
‘We have to eat leaves?’ Shipra masi said, ‘ What are we? Cows?’
‘It’s the plate,’ I said, ‘and there is no cutlery.’
‘They have hardly any expense in weddings, how lucky,’ Kamla aunty said.
Forty of us consumed at least two hundred idlis.
Ananya’s father came when we had finished. ‘There wasn’t breakfast? I am sorry,’ he said.
‘It’s fine,’ I said, ‘We came late.’
‘Hello, Kavita-ji,’ Ananya’s father said with folded hands, as per Ananya’s instructions. He took the bucket of idli from the servers and served one to my mother.
‘Hello,’ my mother responded, a hint of pride in her voice as her sibilings saw her being served by the girl’s father. This is what grown-ups live for anyway, considering they have so little fun otherwise.
‘How’s Krish’s father feeling now?’ Ananya’s father said next.
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‘He’s better, he had soup last night and porridge in the morning. He is taking rest now. He sends his regards,’ my mother said.
Ananya’s father nodded in concern.
‘What are the ceremonies today, uncle?’ I asked for my relatives benefit.
‘First we have the Vrutham, the wedding invitation prayers. We also have Nischayathartham, the formal engagement ceremony where we set the auspicious time for the wedding and give gifts to close relatives,’ Ananya’s father said.
My aunts only paid attention to the last four words.
We came to the main hall, the center of action for the next two days. Every ceremony of my wedding took place in this room. In the middle of the hall, there was fire urn, not too different from Punjabi weddings. However, in our weddings people only came around the fire after eating their dinner and dessert. Here, everyone lived around the fire. I sat down on the floor. Four priests started the mantras. Close relatives sat on the floor while distant and arthritic ones sat on chairs in the back rows. The priests at the Vrutham chanted so loud, it scared some of my little cousins into crying and made it impossible to talk. My aunts behind me shifted their positions several times.
‘Should we do a city tour later?’ Kamla aunty said.
‘What is there to see in Chennai? If you want to see Madrasis, there are enough in this room,’ Shipra masi said.
I saw Ananya’s relatives. I recognized few aunts. The younger cousins had come down from abroad. They sat in traditional Tamil attire, clutching their mineral water bottles.
‘Ananya didi,’ Minti said as Ananya came inside. She wore a maroon Kanjeevaram sari with a mustard yellow-gold border. Her tightly braided hair made her look like a cute schoolgirl. Her face had make up, and Ananya looked prettier than any girl on any Tamil film poster every made. Her eyes looked deep, due to kaajal around it. For a few seconds I couldn’t recognize her as my Ananya.
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Was this the same girl I met in the mess line fighting for sambhar?
Our eyes met briefly. She gave me a little smile, enquiring on how she looked.
I nodded, yes she looked more beautiful than she ever had.
The prayers continued for another hour. Smoke filled the room. The priests kept adding twigs and spoonfuls of ghee to the fire. Ananya and I exchanged glances and smiled several times. Was it really happening? Was I finally getting married, with consent from everyone I shared my DNA with
?
The priest asked for my father. My mother told him he was unwell.
I thought of dad again. Why are adults so stuck up?
‘What’s your grandparents’ village?’ Ananya’s dad asked me. There priests required it for the Nischayathartham ceremony.
I had no idea. I turned to my mother. She turned to my aunts. My aunts debated what answer to give them.
‘Lahore,’ my mother said, after their discussion.
‘Lahore in Pakistan?’ Ananya’s father said.
He seemed worried; I was scared he’d change his mind again.
‘My grandparents had come to Delhi after the partition,’ I explained to him.
He nodded.
‘Uncle, when is the marriage done? Like it is irreversible and no one can object to it afterwards?’
‘What do you mean?’ he said.
‘Nothing,’ I said as the priest called me to make a donation.
I gave him a hundred-rupee note. He declined it with full fervor.
‘Don’t give him directly, put it in the thamboolam,’ Ananya’s father said, referring to the puja plates.
I placed the money in the plate. I decorated it with a banana, paan leaves and AskManiG.com
betel nut. I offered it again and the priest accepted it. He announced the wedding details - the non-abbreviated name of the venue, the lagnam, the star and tomorrow’s date.
‘Six-thirty muhurtam,’ the priest said.
‘In the morning?’ Rajji mama said, shocked.
Ananya’s relatives congratulated each other on the formal setting of the time.
My relatives were aghast.
‘This is a wedding or a torture? It’s like catching an early morning flight,’
Kamla aunty said.
Fortunately, Ananya’s mother calmed the ladies by bringing in ten bags full of gifts.
‘Mrs Kamla,’ she announced, reading out from the first bag. Each gift had the receiver’s name, relationship with me and a code word for what was inside.
‘Me,’ Kamla aunty said and raised her hand like a child marking attendance in class. There’s something about presents that turns everyone into kids.
‘We’ll open them in our hotel,’ Shipra masi said after the end of the prize distribution ceremony.
‘And now, we will have lunch,’ Ananya’s father said, inviting us all to the dining hall to a meal of rice, sambhar, rasam, vegetables, curd and payasam.
‘We’re trapped. No paneer here,’ Kamla aunty said as we moved to the paneer-less dining hall.
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‘So what’s the plan for tonight?’ Rajji mama said after we came back to the hotel.
‘There is dinner at the dining hall at eight,’ I said.
‘Please, I can’t have any more rice,’ Shipra masi said. The ladies had opened their Kanjeevaram sari gifts. I had told Ananya to leave the price tags on. My relatives praised Ananya a little more as they noticed each sari cost three thousand bucks.
‘What’s after dinner?’ Rajji mama said.
‘The muhurtam is six-thirty. Let’s sleep early.’
‘See Kavita, how your son has become a Madrasi,’ Kamla aunty said and everyone laughed like she had cracked the best joke in the world.
I made a face.
‘How can we sleep early? It is your wedding,’ Kamla aunty pulled my cheeks.
‘So, what do you want to do?’ I said.
‘We’ll organize a party. Minti’s daddy, come let’s go,’ Kamla aunty said and they went out.
‘And you go the beauty parlour to get a facial,’ my mother said.
‘Me?’
‘Yes, but be careful. The beauty parlours can make you black,’ Shipra masi said and my clan found another reason to guffaw like Punjabis can.
I can’t really call the party Rajji mama organized for me as a bachelor’s party, especially since all my aunts were present. However, the makeshift arrangements gave it a single-guy-bash feel. Rajji mama had come back with two bottles of whisky, one bottle of vodka and a crate of beer. Kamla aunty also brought chips and juice for the ladies.
‘Let the ladies also have a drink tonight,’ Rajji mama proclaimed as many AskManiG.com
aunties feigned horror. My cousins had already booked the vodka bottle.
‘Ice,’ Rajji mama told a waiter at the hotel and gave him hundred bucks. He returned with a bucketful.
‘You have a music system?’ Rajji mama asked the waiter. The waiter agreed to borrow one from his friend for another hundred bucks. The choice of music was a challenge though, and we had to limit ourselves to the soundtracks of the movies Roja and Gentleman. The lyrics were Tamil but at least the tunes were familiar.
‘After two drinks, you will be able to understand the Tamil words also,’ Rajji mama said.
The men took Room 301, my room. The women went to 302, while the teenage and young cousins were in 303. The under-thirteens stayed in 304, watching cartoon channels on cableTV. The under-fives and over seventy-fives were cooped up in 305, the latter babysitting the former.
Rajji mama kept shuttling from 301 to 302, to gossip with the ladies and discuss stocks and real estate with the men in 301.
‘It’s eleven,’ I reminded my relatives, ‘We should sleep,’
‘Oh, shut up,’ Rajji mama said and hugged me happily. ‘If we sleep now, we won’t wake up at all. Let’s keep going until morning.’
The party continued and rooms 301,302 and 303 turned into discos. The Indian soundtrack was played five times. I realized if my relatives didn’t sleep, we may never make it to the wedding. I went down to the lobby at half past midnight.
‘Call the cops,’ I told the front desk.
‘What?’ the manager said, ‘You are the groom.’
‘Yes, and I have a six-thirty muhurtham. I need to be there at five with all of them. There are in no mood to rest.’
The manager laughed. Rajji mama had bribed him well. ‘Don’t worry, sir, I will stop them in half an hour.’
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A car stopped outside the hotel just then and a person stepped out. Even in the darkness I could tell who it was. I immediately sprinted up the stairs, my heart beating fast. Rajji mama was close-dancing with Kamla aunty in 302 to a sad song from Roja.
‘My dad’s here,’ I announced.
In two minutes flat, our nightclubs shut down as if there was a police raid.
Everyone went into their rooms to sleep. The corridor was stark silent as my dad climbed up to the third floor.
‘Dad,’ I said.
We looked at each other for a few seconds. He had decided to come, after all. I couldn’t think beyond that fact. I didn’t push him for a reason either. He was like me; we Indian men don’t do emotions too well.
‘You haven’t slept? Aren’t you getting married in a few hours?’ he asked mildly.
I didn’t respond. He walked towards 301. I stopped him. The last thing I wanted him to see was the debauchery of my maternal uncles.
‘There are more rooms upstairs. This one needs repairs,’ I said and took him to the next floor. I left him there to change. My mother was in 301, trying to clean it as fast as possible.
‘It’s fine, he is upstairs,’ I said.
‘What’s he doing here?’ my mother said, ‘He’s come to create trouble?’
‘No,’ I said, ‘He’s fine. He came to attend my wedding.’
‘Now? He has come now?’
‘It’s OK, mom, you go to bed. I’ll tell him you are asleep,’ I said I kissed my mother on the cheek and went up.
My father had changed into a white kurta pajama.
‘Thank you, dad,’ I said.
‘Don’t be silly,’ he said. ‘Where’s your mother?’
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‘Everyone slept early. We have to wake up at four,’ I said.
‘Oh, I’m keeping you up. Are you sleeping here?’
I nodded and switched off the lights. I lay down next to only him, probably for the first time in twenty years.
‘I love you, son,’ he said, his eyes closed.
I choked up. The words meant as much as to me as when Ananya had said them the first time.
‘I love you too,’ I said, and wondered which love story I was really chasing anyway.
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I had to pour mugfuls of water over their face to wake up my relatives. Rajji mama had a severe hangover. I had slept only three hours and had a splitting headache.
We asked room service for triple strength coffee.
‘This is inhuman, how can they get married at this time?’ my mother said. She opened her suitcase to take out her new sari for the occasion.
Ananya’s father had sent a bus to our hotel for the two-hundred-metre journey.
I waited outside while every female in my clan blow-dried hair and applied lipstick. Panic calls started at five-fifteen.
‘The priests had lit the fire. Chants have begun,’ Ananya’s father said.
‘Two more old ladies, coming real soon,’ I said and hung up the phone.
We reached the mandapam at five-thirty. Ananya’s relatives had already taken the best seats. I waded through them to sit in front of the priests.
‘The mother sits here,’ the priest said,’ and if the father is not there then a senior male relative…’
‘My father is here,’ I said.
Ananya’s parents sprang up from their seats. ‘Welcome,’ Ananya’s father said,
‘How is your fever?’
‘What fever?’ my father said as he took his place.
The priests continued their fervent chants. Rajji mama passed on Saridon strips as everyone with a hangover took a pill. Ananya’s uncles passed copies of The Hindu to each other as they continued to gather knowledge through the wedding.
‘Come, Krish,’ Ananya’s father said after five minutes of prayers.
‘What?’
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‘You have to change. I am supposed to help you’ he said matter-of-factly.
I had worn a new rust-colored silk kurta pajama my mother had bought for me.
‘This doesn’t work?’ I said.
Ananya giggled. Ananya’s father shook his head and stood up. I followed him to the room next to the main hall. He ominously bolted the door. ‘Take off your clothes,’ he said.
‘What?’ I said as he fingered my kurta’s hem to help me take it off.
‘I will do it myself,’