CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The Hindi word for party is jashan.
I had no idea Indian weddings were so elaborate and regardless of the family budget the preparations just grew and grew, the more extravagant the better. There was a great deal to organise, the food, the guests, the decorations! With Kishore being the eldest child in his family and the first to be married, a precedent was to be set, it had to be a big affair. We’d be husband and wife – in less than three weeks! It would be a new year - a new year and new beginnings. Kishore’s family would be there to support me but no one from my family would come to witness our special event. I apprehensively called my family back home to tell them the news.
“Can I please make a person to person call to Auckland, New Zealand,” I asked the operator. As the call went through I imagined Mums kitchen and the phone ringing as it sat on the countertop.
Mum finally answered and after a few minutes of small talk she could obviously tell from the tone of my voice that something was on my mind, “You sound a bit strange Julie, what is it, is everything okay?”
I could imagine Mum pacing, she always paced when she talked on the phone, I took a deep breath, “Mum I have something exciting to tell you.” I eagerly blurted, “Kishore and I have decided to get married while we are here.”
“What?” she exclaimed, “Julie, are you sure that is what you want?” I explained our plans, she was a little stunned and I could tell she was a bit emotional but thankfully she supported me. She insisted I promise to have another wedding with our family when we came home. I heard Dad’s voice in the background, then a rustle as Mum handed the phone to him.
“Hello Julie, what’s all this about a wedding then?” he was putting on his grizzly bear voice but I knew he was a softie at heart. His advice was to take many photos because, when it was all over, photos would be all we would have to remind not only ourselves but my entire family of our special day.
I had always dreamt, of course, which girl doesn’t of a traditional white wedding. To walk up the aisle with my Dad at my side, my arm linked through his. I wanted my family and my Kiwi friends, especially Linda, to witness our marriage because without her persistence we probably would never have got together. Besides, we would have to marry in New Zealand to obtain a New Zealand marriage certificate.
Let the whirlwind preparations commence!
The suburb where Kishore’s family lived was named Sundar (beautiful) Garden after the large park-like area just across the road from their block of flats. This was used by the neighbouring children as a playground and the elderly liked to sit on chairs in the shade and chat. The black crows that inhabited the trees teasingly cawed at the cheeky squirrels as they scurried amongst the branches. This was the site chosen to have the wedding. Tables and chairs were to be set up along with hundreds of lights and decorations. There was music to be organised and a pundit (priest) who would perform the ceremony had to be booked. Kishore was to wear a men’s Indian wedding suit but not have his face covered as in a traditional arranged marriage.
Kishore’s excited Mother soon whisked me away to the markets. I was still getting my head around calling my Mother-in-law-to-be, Mummyji. It was hard to call another person Mother especially having known her for such a short time. We travelled by bicycle rickshaw. This was another new experience for me, a three-wheeled pedal bicycle that pulls a trailer with a roof, where the customers sit on a bench. With apparent ease the rider pedals off fast pulling his passengers along the busy streets.
To my extreme surprise and complete embarrassment the bicycle rickshaw driver we hired didn’t even have a bicycle! His appearance showed he was a small thin man, dressed simply in a white singlet and billowing white drawstring pants. While Mummyji and I sat in the little trailer, he pulled it with his hands, with the strength of an ox he ran flat out amongst the traffic. My Mother-in-law didn’t bat an eyelid but I was mortified, poor man. I consoled myself understanding it was his livelihood, in fact it was considered a small business and the few rupees he earned from our fare, were after all, his wages.
It wasn’t long before we arrived at an entire street lined with shops dedicated to merchandise associated with material and clothing. Some of the shops sold ready-made saris or salwar kameez (the pants and top suit most Indian women wear day to day) but Mummyji and I had come today specifically to look for a bridal sari.
We began our search at one end of the street and went in and out of the shops. My Mother-in-law was now in full shopping mode and would not accept anything less than what she deemed to be the perfect wedding sari for her eldest son’s bride. As we entered each shop the salesman tried to direct his attention to me the tourist but Mummyji did not listen to any of his banter. She was in sole control of the situation and a force to be reckoned with.
Brides in Indian culture traditionally wear red, which symbolises fresh starts or new beginnings. The wedding sari is extravagantly decorated with gold embroidery. While English brides wear white, for Indian people white is worn by holy men, at funerals or by grieving widows or widowers.
The shops we entered had no door and were completely open to the street. Each store had three walls lined with shelves from floor to ceiling, each shelf contained dozens of types of cloth, the range of colours and types of fabric astounded me. I never imagined there could be so many shades, designs and styles – flowers, embroidery, lace and beading. A person could spend hours choosing the perfect material they desired.
Using a tailor in India is a popular way of having a garment made. After choosing and buying fabric, the customer takes it to their regular tailor to have the garment stitched. He will know from experience, his customers measurements and adds embroidery or trimming as requested. Tailors are extremely precise and will do an impeccable job.
Because of the time constraints my Mother-in-law decided to choose a ready made silk bridal sari. As we entered each shop with Mummyji’s requests of requirements, each salesman eagerly took sari after sari out of its packet. Opening each one, he laid it delicately on the bench, fussing and preening over it as if it were a diamond and ruby crown. Laying the fabric on my shoulder he made flattering remarks about how exquisite it would look on. With each man hoping he would make a sale they were disappointed when Mummyji was not satisfied. She shook her head as we left each shop and walked away.
After spending exhausting hours looking she finally decided on what she deemed to be the perfect one, the sari that met all of her requirements. When it came to the cost, she knew how to barter. My seemingly sweet Mother-in-law had no trouble talking the salesman into the best price, even if an English woman was present.
I completely trusted Mummyji’s judgement, there was no need to try the sari on because saris are, after all, just one especially long length of cloth. The only part that is fitted is the bodice (choli), which to me seemed like a small blouse. Kishore’s Mother assured me there was no need to even try that on. She knew just by looking at me what size I was.