CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The Hindi word for festival is teohar.
It was now early evening, an electric excitement was in the air as a procession of women with shining cheeks, dressed in glittering colourful saris promenaded out of the flat, bustled down the stairs and buzzed across the road to the ceremonial garden. I was in the middle of those women, a rose surrounded by butterflies, giddy with delight, feeling like I was floating on a cloud.
Kishore had not yet arrived so I stood on one side, partially hidden amongst the trees to wait for him. I didn’t want to reveal myself until just the right moment. From my spot, as I observed the scene, I saw many people had gathered and countless decorations had been arranged. The garden looked glorious. Set aside in one area I noticed a raised platform, like a small stage, with two decorated chairs placed in the centre. This was for the bride and groom, where we would sit and be the stars, the main attraction.
While I was busy taking in my surroundings, I realised I was unexpectedly all alone. The women had gone to attend to their various chores or to greet guests. My excitement soon changed to trepidation which inched up my spine as I watched the people around me, the people gathered here for my wedding. I realised I didn’t know any of them. If I recognised some of the faces it was only because I had met them in the last few weeks. I felt abandoned and a little bit anxious and well out of my comfort zone. Again my self-confidence was shaken, what on earth was I doing? Did I, in reality, want to do this? Saris, bhindis, henna… how did I wind up like this?
A feeling of dread took over – why didn’t I just run away, escape? No one was looking. No one would notice at least for a few minutes that I was missing. I had been to the embassy well, at least to the driveway, I could get there again and find my own way home to New Zealand. Home! That word sounded so consoling to me. I yearned to be in my own familiar surroundings, my safe little world. A world where I could talk openly and everyone around me understood what I was saying. A world where I felt comfortable, womb-like, surrounded by my family and friends.
My sad thoughts were momentarily interrupted as someone approached. It was Mrs Roberts, the Christian lady from downstairs. She must have seen the distress in my eyes as she immediately put her arm around me, giving me a hug.
“Julie," she said, continuing in broken English, “Julie, I am Indian woman, I had Christian wedding, I married in white wedding dress.”
I swallowed and slightly nodded my head. Mrs Roberts laughed, “You English girl, having Indian wedding, getting married in Indian dress.”
I saw the funny side and despite my despondency laughed a little too. Mrs Roberts took my hand, opened it and gently placed something in my palm. As I glanced down, there, lying in my hand was a beautiful silver necklace with a cross attached to it. I lifted the chain and looked closer at the cross that elegantly dangled, it was exquisite. I was astonished - I hardly knew Mrs Roberts and her kindness was overwhelming. I opened my mouth to thank her but she had already gone. Searching for her in the crowd, I noticed the back of her head as she ambled away. I squeezed the cross tightly in my hand.
Although I was not religious, this act of kindness gave me great comfort, giving me the strength I required to go on. It touched me deeply and somehow encouraged me to go forward into my new life.
Saras appeared, “Julie bhabhi, are you okay?”
Five minutes earlier on the verge of tears, I would have said no. Now, as I gently squeezed the cross, I boldly took a deep breath and said, “Yes, Saras I am fine."
She adjusted my sari so it was covering my head. I asked for her help to put on the necklace. When she had done this, I put up my hand and felt the gold and silver necklaces together around my neck. It was ironic – I shook my head in wonder, these two necklaces representing the two cultures in my life. That little silver cross had transformed my gloomy thoughts into elation. It gave the small piece of home I had been longing for. Mrs Roberts kind-heartedness reassured me and gave renewed courage. My love in my heart for Kishore was enough to put my feelings of homesickness to rest - everything would be alright. I knew I had made the right decision.
Saras clutched my hand tightly. We sensed the building excitement.
We concealed ourselves behind the trees, making sure I was completely hidden I quickly pulled Saras in front of me. Soon, we heard music, hollering and cheering. The crowd gathered near the road side. Kishore had arrived.
My heart pounded. I peeked through the hanging branches and saw a group coming towards the decorated garden. I couldn’t believe my eyes, was I seeing a mirage? Kishore was sitting on a horse, a horse! I knew an elephant or horse was the customary way for an Indian groom to arrive at his wedding but I knew nothing about this, I realised this must be the surprise he mentioned! A band, which included two men banging on hand-held drums were on either side of the horse which was decorated with red and gold tassels and was being led with a rope by a smiling man. Kishore’s Father, Sunil and other family and friends were walking next to the horse, they were clapping and loudly whooping. I strained my neck but from my tiny viewing window I couldn’t see Kishore's face properly.
The crowd parted as he dismounted and I gasped, he was so handsome. As the horse was led away, the guests shook Kishore’s hand and slapped him on the back as he made his way through the garden and stepped onto the stage. They laughed and encouraged him as he almost skipped to the groom’s chair. He sat and faced the crowd. I could just make out his sparkling eyes as they darted around the scene playing out in front of him. I knew he was looking for me.
I wanted to make a jaw-dropping brides entrance. I wanted to look directly into his eyes as I walked towards him in my bridal sari. As I squinted through the branches of the trees I managed to see he was wearing a creamy beige wedding coat with a short collared neck. The coat had long arms and draped down past his knees, I could just make out a gold-flecked pattern. He wore around his neck a deep burgundy pashmina shawl and his trousers were also made in the same creamy beige colour as his coat but did not have the gold flecked design.
Now Kishore was comfortable it was time for me to make my grand entrance.
Ranjini joined Saras, the sisters stood on either side of me and as they clasped my hands I knew I was ready to begin walking towards my soon-to-be husband. Some of the other ladies who had helped me to get dressed earlier gathered around, they would accompany us. This is similar to a bride walking up the aisle with her Father.
Before we began those magical steps towards the stage Ranjini squeezed my hand and put her head close to mine, “Julie Bhabhi, you know an Indian bride should have her head down and act bashful as she approaches her groom.” I nodded, so with my eyes downcast I put one foot in front of the other and focused on the tips of my chappals as they poked out from underneath my bridal sari. My stomach was filled with butterflies but I blocked out everything around me and hummed softly to myself…'da, da, dada…da, da. dada…here comes the bride.’
I couldn’t contain myself any longer, lifting my head I shyly looked at Kishore, his mouth was wide open in surprise, as were his bulging eyes. I smiled at him and once he had recovered from the shock, he flashed his gorgeous cheeky grin. He then winked at me, which made me smile even more. Ranjini’s advice to act shy and demure was forgotten, feeling elated, I could not stop beaming.
Letting go of the girls hands I stepped up onto the stage and took my bridal seat next to my groom. His eyes met mine, he leant towards me and whispered how beautiful I was. We knew our love for each other was so strong and I began to cry. The tears rolled down my cheeks but this time they were tears of happiness. A swirl of emotions swam through my body: the immense love I had for this man who was to be my husband and the sadness of missing my family and wishing they were with me. Not wanting to mess up my make-up, I dabbed at my tears with the back of my hand, Kishore quickly fished into his pocket and handed me a neatly pressed handkerchief.
I scrutinized the scene in front of me and was filled with awe at the people chatting, drinking, laughing and looking towards the about-to-be-married couple and I felt truly humbled. They were all here for my wedding. Some of them had gone to a lot of trouble to arrange the decorations, food, lighting, tables, chairs and music. I was truly blessed.
Kishore, on strict instructions from his Father-in-law had given his camera to Ravi, an old university friend and persuaded him to be the official wedding photographer. He asked Ravi to take ‘heaps’ of photos. I remembered my Fathers words, that when all of this was over, photos would be all we would have as memories.
Dusk was falling and darkness was slowly creeping over us as we sat on our wedding chairs. One by one the guests approached, stepped up onto the stage, congratulated us and posed for a photograph. The traditional gift for an Indian wedding is money, which is generally given in an envelope to the bride or groom, some gave us notes that were linked together in a garland which they placed around Kishore’s or my neck. As was the custom the money received as a gift would afterwards be given to the grooms parents to help cover the expense of the wedding.
My cheeks were soon tired from all the smiling and thank-you’s but I continued to do so as every single guest wanted to pose with the happy couple. As they approached, Kishore whispered the name of each person in my ear - relatives, neighbours, school or university friends, so many well wishers! There was no way I was going to remember everyone, it was too much to take in. Every man and woman conveyed his or her compliments and blessings. I wondered how in such a short time all of these people had come to hear of our marriage. Word certainly got around fast in this country!
Night fell but before it was completely dark, someone flicked a power switch. Bright twinkling decorative lights, linked to every wall, tree and table blinked on. They reminded me of Christmas lights but were so bright the guests were able to see each other’s faces. With the gift giving and congratulations over it was time for food. Ravi continued to click the camera as dishes of aromatic, mouth-watering delicacies were placed onto four long tables.
I was once again astounded by the generosity of the people who were strangers to me that had prepared this wonderful feast. Large bowls of steaming hot rice, huge pots of dahl, samosas made with delicate pastry filled with spicy potatoes, fried onion bhajias, platters piled high with garlic-butter naan-bread and kheer - a sweet rice pudding laced with white almonds. The neighbourhood women had spent hours cooking these amazing dishes. I watched the guests licking their lips as they loaded their plates. Daddyji and Mummyji made sure the guests of honour did not go hungry, Saras and Ranjini carried plates of finger food and a bowl of kheer for Kishore and myself. Having not eaten since breakfast, I realised I was famished and ate with great enthusiasm. Saras at this time also decided to carefully remove the garlands of notes from around our necks and collect the envelopes from our laps, she stored these safely, then readjusted my sari so it covered my head.
Once everyone had eaten, it was time for the dancing to begin. Contemporary and classic Indian songs mixed with a few English hits bellowed seemingly from nowhere. Somebody, somehow had hooked up speakers that had been hidden amongst the trees bringing forth the type of beat that makes your heart pound, the guests were drawn to dance like moths to a flame. With Kishore’s encouragement he pulled me off the stage to join in the fun. I thought Indian people were reserved, composed and shy. I was so wrong, talk about party! I heard when dancing to Indian music you pretend with one hand to screw in a light bulb, while with the other you pat a dog. This is what I did and I found it worked pretty well, although I wasn’t quite a Bollywood dancer, yet.
After all the excitement some of the guests, the very young and the very old, began to trickle away. Those who wished to see the actual ceremony stayed.
We were led to an area on the other side of the stage tucked behind a tree, where a little tent had been erected decked out with mats arranged on the ground. As Kishore and I made ourselves comfortable on the colourful silk cushions placed on the mats, I took in my surroundings. In front of me sat a large metal square tray with raised sides. A stack of sandalwood had been prepared in the tray ready to be lit. I observed a basket piled high with flowers - bright orange marigolds. On my right sat the pundit he wore a white men’s kurta (similar to a salwar kameez) and a yellow prayer scarf printed with red Hindi script was draped around his neck. The pundit was preparing his equipment. Next to him was a small bowl of uncooked rice, a whole coconut, a steel jug containing water, his prayer book and doop.
I had never seen an Indian priest up close before and was apprehensive and more than a little surprised that he looked so young. I had always thought of priests as old but I supposed that priests of any age, anywhere in the world are highly respected.
Kishore’s parents sat next to their son, once comfortable on the silk cushions they both stretched across to grasp my hands.
“You okay Julie?” Mummyji asked her eyes glittering.
I warmly smiled, “Yes Mummyji, I am just fine.”
Their role in this part of the ceremony was to give blessings for their eldest sons marriage, the words, ‘Who gives this woman to be married to this man?’ came to my mind. Kishore’s Dad and Mum then placed my hand in their sons. Still ensuring my head was covered they tied a length of my sari to his shawl. This represented the binding of the marriage or maybe in the English sense ‘tying the knot’ with this done, their part in the wedding ceremony was complete. They rose and took a seat in front of the tent with the other guests so they could witness the rest of the proceedings.
Finally it was time for the actual ceremony to begin. To my utter surprise the pundit turned to me and spoke in English with a British accent. I was to find out later Kishore’s parents had kindly chosen him for this exact reason.
“Hello Julie” he said, “My name is Ashok.”
“Hello, Namaste,” I shyly replied as I held my palms together in front of my heart.
“It’s okay,” Pundit Ashok assured me, “Don’t be nervous Julie, I will explain to you in English each part of the marriage process as we go along.”
I smiled and nodded.
Pundit Ashokji explained to me that he had been born in India but when he was a young boy his family moved to England. After his education he found his calling in life was to become a priest and returned to India to study Hindu religion. After this explanation I felt at ease. He did not seem such a daunting person after all.
I took a deep breath, so much had happened so far on this day, so many emotions, so much celebrating, eating and dancing, finally the actual ceremony was about to begin.
The commencement of the proceedings began with Pundit Ashokji placing the coconut in position over a sturdy bowl. With a great thrust of a large knife he cracked the coconut open letting the milk spill into the bowl. He lit the fire and began reciting mantras in Hindi from his prayer book. Once the fire was well alight he poured the milk from the coconut around the edges of the flames. He lit doop and continued saying mantras and uttering the vows that are part of an Indian marriage ceremony. After each recital he threw a small handful of rice into the fire. Sometimes he motioned for Kishore or I to do the same, or we were to sprinkle a few drops of water from the jug. The pundit faced me every now and again and said “Julie, you must repeat after me.” Finally it was time for us to stand and take our walks around the fire.
We stood very carefully as we were still bound together. Cautiously holding my sari away from the flames, we walked in a circle around the fire. I walked in front a total of four times and then Kishore and I swapped places and he walked in front once.
Sitting back on the silk cushions again mantras were recited, more rice thrown and more drops of water from the jug.
In due course Pundit Ashokji softly patted my shoulder, turned to me and smiled warmly. He gave a little laugh as he said in an overly dramatic English accent, “I now pronounce you husband and wife,” my eyes opened wide.
“Really? Are we married? Is it over?” The pundit nodded. I spun my head to see Kishores reaction and saw he was grinning from ear to ear. We were now married, husband and wife, Mr and Mrs Patel.
Although Pundit Ashokji had used the English term of pronouncing us husband and wife, there was no further announcement of, ‘you may now kiss the bride.’ I had no veil for my groom to romantically lift and he would not be tenderly kissing me on the lips as his newly pronounced wife as I had always imagined would happen on my wedding day. I didn’t mind, as I knew this part of my dream would come true later when we were married again in New Zealand.
As newlyweds we now stood as husband and wife, an enchanting glow radiated from his soul to mine as we left the little ceremonial tent area. Kishore’s Dad, Mum and family were there first to give their congratulations. The other waiting guests hugged and kissed us, wishing us a long and happy life together.