CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The Hindi word for red is lal.
Prayers, celebrating, eating, rituals and the gathering of relatives from other countries, Indian weddings can last many days, perhaps a week or more.
A bright January sun was shining as I rose on my wedding day, although the air was crisp and cool. My wedding day! As with any wedding the most important task was to get the bride looking stunning for her big day…in this case the bride is me, me!
For our breakfast Mummyji reheated, from the night before, spinach and paneer paranthas (paneer being homemade cheese and paranthas, a flaky pastry type of roti). Mummyji insisted Ranjani, Saras and I eat heartily as we had a very busy day ahead. Our excitement made us ravenous as we gulped down tea and ate with great gusto. After breakfast, our first task of the day was to head off to the beautician who was to attend to my hair, nails and make-up.
We arrived at Paavai’s Beauty Salon. As I settled into the beautician’s chair Paavai herself ran her fingers through my hair, exclaiming she had never seen or felt anything like it before. It’s not as if all Indian women have long straight hair, some do have curls, it was just not overly common and as for my red colouring, that was different.
Perms were all the rage and it wasn’t unusual for girls to sleep at night with hair rollers looped around sections of her hair, most commonly one just above each of her ears. The next morning after removing the rollers a loose bouncy curl would dangle from each side of her face, this at the time, was deemed most attractive.
Paavai was intrigued to hear all about the wedding preparations while she styled my difficult but not impossible curls. Performing her magic, she brushed my shoulder length hair, pinning it into a neat bun while leaving a few loose curls dangling to frame my face. The next task was my make-up. She spent some time choosing just the right foundation for my skin tone and freckles. She then applied artfully to my eyelids a bottle-green eye shadow and used a tiny brush to paint a red colour to my lips. While this was happening I was observing Mummyji and another beautician in an intense discussion as they surveyed the rows of bottles of nail polish. The colours were an array of mostly reds and pinks, capturing the many different shades of the sunrise and sunset. They finally decided on a particular shade of cherry red, which Mummyji proclaimed was the exact match to my bridal sari and would also go nicely with my hair, lipstick and henna.
Bathed in the warm glow of having my make-over, I couldn’t help but smile. Visualizing the finished product of my red hair, freckles, cherry red nail polish, lipstick, henna and a red and gold bridal sari, I dubiously pondered if I was going to end up looking like a Christmas tree decoration!
How I missed Kishore!. Our goodbyes last night now seemed so long ago. How was he feeling at this moment? Did he have knots in his stomach like I did? Were the same niggling thoughts going through his mind about whether we were doing the right thing? And just what was this surprise he mentioned? I wished I could speak to him but of course I wouldn’t see him now until we were about to be married.
With hair, nails and make-up completed, Paavai and her staff waved us goodbye and wished us good luck as we headed back to the family home. I was careful not to let the wind affect the transformation the beauticians had miraculously performed.
It was time for me to get dressed, Mrs Singh, Mrs Roberts and the other neighbourhood women had arrived ready to assist and wait on me as if I were royalty. They made sure my hair and make-up stayed in place while constantly asking whether there was anything else I needed. With my lady helpers attending to my every need I beamed from ear to ear - I felt like a princess, I was so privileged and fortunate.
Two other ladies kept the crew going by making copious amounts of tea and offering snacks. Others talked excitedly as they pointed out of the window to the garden below where the final preparations for the wedding were taking place. The local men were erecting tables, arranging chairs and putting up decorations. I was glad I had eaten a heavy breakfast, I was by now so tense I couldn’t stop shaking, let alone chew and swallow food.
Mummyji had carefully ironed the beautiful silk sari the night before and now she took it from where it lay. As she brought it over for everyone to see, there were cries of ‘isn’t it exquisite,’ and ‘it is magnificent,' the women couldn’t wait to see me in it.
I gazed in awe at the intricate gold beading of my wedding gown. Firstly, the small bodice blouse was put on and as Mummyji predicted, it fitted me perfectly. I then stepped into the underskirt, similar to a petticoat, made of a simple white cloth, which knotted at the waist. The most significant item was next, of course this was the sari itself. Six metres in length of cloth and unless you know what you’re doing, it’s extremely hard to put on.
I watched with intensity as Kishore’s Mum, making sure the pattern was facing the right way, held one end of the material. She then wrapped the sari once around my waist, so the silk hung like a long skirt. Taking the leftover cloth in one hand, she used her other hand to make folds turning the material over and over to form ten pleats. She tucked the pleats near my belly button into the first wrapping of the skirt. She fussed with the sari making sure all the pleats were the same size and were aligned. They fell neatly with the flow of the shiny material, like a cascading waterfall. The leftover length of the sari was taken around my back and pulled up and over the front of my shoulder. This was long enough to put over my head, which I would need to do at times throughout the ceremony.
While all of this was happening, I noticed one of the ladies, Mrs Reddy, another neighbour, looking at my bare feet. She caught my eye, smiled at me and quickly looked elsewhere. Ranjini with the corners of her mouth twitching also witnessed Mrs Reddy’s reaction. “What?...tell me,” I asked Ranjini. She informed me it was an Indian custom that when you look at a person’s toes, if the toe next to the big toe is longer, that person will be the dominant one in the marriage. Scrunching up my face, I bent my head to look down at my toes, the toe next to my big toe was longer. What were Kishore’s toes like? I was pretty sure they were the same as mine. I pondered what this meant. Was I going to be a bossy wife? He a domineering husband? I made a mental note to ask him about it once all of this was over.
Saras come close and told me she had been put in charge of making sure my head was covered during the ceremony. This shows respect and as I was not accustomed to this type of tradition, Saras would lift the sari over my head at the appropriate times.
Mummyji had been standing back scrutinising my wedding outfit with a finger on her lips and her head tilted to one side like a spectator at an art gallery pondering a painting. When she was finally satisfied it was sitting correctly in place, I slipped my feet into the shoes I had bought for the occasion, a pair of elegant golden slip-on chappals.
I lifted the skirt of my sari, just enough to see my shoes, admiring my choice of style. There were pretty, yet classy, intricately beaded with glittering silver and gold diamantes. I had deliberately found a pair with no heel because Kishore was only a fraction taller than me. I didn’t want to tower over him in the photographs.
With henna, make-up, hair, nails and bridal sari all done my make-over was almost complete. Next to go on was the delicate gold jewellery.
As this tradition was not my custom, I didn’t feel comfortable wearing it. I barely knew my new family and did not like the thought of wearing and receiving so much gold. A bride can receive a lot and I mean a lot, of gold from her in-laws. Extravagant twenty-four carat jewellery is passed down to the eldest sons wife on her wedding day, generation after generation. From the stories I had been told it’s a wonder the poor girl could even walk with the weight she carried on her neck, ears, head, nose, wrists and feet. I knew this was an important part of the bridal tradition so not wanting to step on any toes, I kind of suggested to Kishore that I would only like to be given one simple gold necklace. He managed to convince his Mum and Dad, telling them we would relook at the tradition of handing down the gold to me, or possibly Sunil’s wife or Ranjini and Saras, the next time we came to India.
The other gold jewellery I was to wear had been hired.
The giving of rings is just as important in Indian weddings as they are in English weddings but we had decided to leave this ritual until we returned to New Zealand. This was one tradition I wanted to keep for my second wedding in front of my family and friends.
Exquisite hired gold earrings and bracelets were placed on me, almost with reverence. A gold nose ring was attached to my left nostril and a chain that linked to it clipped into my hair. The last piece of jewellery was the one gold necklace Kishore’s parents had given to me.
Mrs Singh produced a little sticker sachet from her purse, for a moment I wondered what on earth she was doing with stickers, then I realised they were bhindis, the little dots that Indian women wear on their forehead. Worn like a brooch or hair clip, women choose the colour or style they feel like wearing to suit their outfit. Seeing the first little sachet being produced, the other women rushed to their purses to show their packets. Each sachet contained about ten bhindis of different colours and styles: tear drops, the figure ‘s’ and circles of different shapes and sizes. Saras pronounced she was in charge of this decision and inspected all of the bhindis. She finally made her selection and placed on my forehead between my eyes, an emerald green, tear dropped shaped bhindi.
I was now ready for the final touch to complete my wedding outfit. A gajara was pulled from a little box, a decorative flower clip that is attached to the back of the head. The gorgeous jasmine flowers were real, smelt divine and clipped onto my bun. Tumbling down the back of my head the flowers reminded me of an English wedding veil. Sometimes in traditional arranged marriages the groom also wears a type of gajara, which covers his face so his identity is not revealed until he is married.
I was now all set. The ladies inspected me, grinned and made ‘oohing’ and aahing’ noises. “Wow Julie, you look amazing,” Ranjini exclaimed as she rushed to get a portrait sized mirror, the only one in the house, “Come on, have a look,” she encouraged, holding it up. I had not seen myself since we were at the beauticians. I closed my eyes while Ranjini stood well back so I could see a full length image. Taking a deep breath I opened my eyes, my mouth dropped open. I could not believe the girl looking back at me, was me. The magnificent sari, the bhindi, the jewellery and the way the flowers from the gajara fell around the curls framing my face – I was beautiful. A plain Jane from New Zealand, a ‘carrot top,’ a ‘freckle face,' looking like an Indian movie star, a princess, I was beaming.
Saras, with a twinkle in her eye came close, she murmured in my ear, “Kishore bhaiya will be pleased Julie, you look just like a Bollywood movie star, you could even pass as Padmini Kolhapure…he did tell you she is his favourite movie star, didn’t he?”
I rolled my eyes and replied a little sarcastically “Yes Saras, he did tell me that once or twice.”
My sarcasm was quickly forgotten as it hit me, I mean, boy did it hit me. I was getting married. Out of nowhere, tears began rolling down my cheeks. I missed my Mum, a girl should have her Mother at her wedding. It wasn’t right, I needed a hug and seeing my face crumble Mummyji came near and hugged me tightly. The other ladies followed suit, enclosing me in their arms, we were soon all crying. My tears quickly changed into giggles, we all laughed and cried together.