A Bengali/Punjab (Sikh) Wedding
Trip Start
Oct 09, 2007
1
29
45
Trip End
Mar 10, 2008
Kolkata (Calcutta),
West Bengal,
India
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Mitra's granddaughter, Nasim, got married over the weekend. Last week, Mitra received a number of frantic calls from her daughter, Rupa, Nasim's mother. She was naturally overwhelmed and stressed out with all of the details to be attended to. I could only imagine, with my own daughter, Julie's , wedding, having been in July. But here in Bengal, there are 4 functions to plan for, not just one. Added to that, the family must make personal visits delivering all the local invitations to the wedding, and make all the accommodation arrangements for out of town guests! This includes having many guests in your home for up to 10 days prior to the wedding, all while you are trying to pull together the last minute details. It is unimaginable pressure.
The festivities include a Mehendi (henna hand dying) party, including lunch, an informal dinner with the close relatives and closest friends, out of town guests at the Bride's parent's home, the wedding itself, including lunch; and a formal reception (Nasim and Shivi's reception was at the Tollygunge Club, the most prestigious, Colonial era private club in Kolkata).
Saturday morning, was the festive and informal Mehendi party at the oldest golf club/course in the world outside of Scotland. The setting was magnificent, complete with a grand old colonial building featuring a huge formal, dark wood staircases leading from the foyer to large rooms and huge decks overlooking the treed greens. It sits right in the heart of downtown Kolkata.
Mehendi is the traditional art of henna painting of the arms and hands of the bride and of any female guests (hands only) who wish to have it done. Originally this event was only attended by the women, but now men are included, since so many wedding guests travel from afar for the festivities, they don't want to be left out. The energy was high and celebratory, both hosts and guests were warm and welcoming. It was all very personal and filled with good sprit. Usually there is drumming and dancing, but the golf club doesn't allow drumming or music because it might destroy the concentration of the golfers.
The bride's Mehendi is much more elaborate than the rest of the guests, going all the way up to her elbows. The pattern she chose was exquisite...on her inner arms, it looked like the Taj Mahal.
Two women work on you at a time...one on each arm. The greenish brown paste is wrapped in plastic wrapped that is shaped to a tiny, snipped thin tip, like a pastry tube. They work with lightening speed, laying their loops and lines, dots and swirls. It is wonderfully cool going on, which I especially appreciated. You cannot use your hands for 2 to 2 ½ hours, while paste dries and the dye works its magic. (It is essential to use the bathroom prior to having it done.) The paste turns dark brown, almost black as it dries to a prickly, light stinging sensation. I left mine on 2 ½ hours before beginning to flake it off. The die becomes darker by the next morning, and will last about 4 weeks, fading to a pathetic yellow before disappearing. I enjoyed the process immensely and the 2 ½ hours went very quickly in good company. Then we shared a lovely lunch outside on the terrace.
This is a lovely family. Rupa, Mitra's eldest daughter, is married to Harki Sidhu, a Sikh from Punjab, who operates organic tea farms and convinces educates other farmers about the advantages of going organic. Harki is literally one of the most likeable men I have ever met. He is open hearted, brilliant and high minded, fully present as a human being and easy to talk to, with a generous sense of humor. All of his brothers share those qualities and are delightful, delightful human beings. Rupa is equally generous, and deep, always there for others. This family knows pain, since their youngest daughter, Cookie, was critically injured in an avalanche when she was 11. She had remained in danger s and saved another girl's life rather than fleeing to safety herself as the avalanche approached. She paraplegic as a result and lives in London with her husband, Kit, whom she met while attending Cambridge. After hearing so many wonderful things about Cookie, it was great to finally meet her.
The oldest daughter, Nasim (means early morning breeze), looks just like her grandmother did when she was young...very beautiful. Her groom, Shivi, is extraordinarily handsome as well. Baba says they are both very deep souls.
The wedding was Sunday morning at the Sikh Temple. We all gathered downstairs to wait while a funeral service was held for someone who died. Each man that entered had his head wrapped in a bright organge ceremonial scarf and joined the waiting crowd. The crowd assembled outside to the sound of drums to welcome the groom, and then the bride. Harki told the priest not to rush the funeral for the sake of the wedding , that we would simply wait, so we all got good visits in ahead of time.
We removed our shoes, and the women all covered our heads with shawls, as we went upstairs, into a huge, open, marble room with a high ceiling. Columns framed an approach to the altar which holds the Sikh holy book. Everyone took their turn bowing at the altar and taking their seat on the carpeted floor, with men on one side of the room and women on the other.
The bride and groom pranamed devoutly at the altar, and then sat cross legged in front of it, with their doing the same families immediately behind them. Nasim was alternately smiling, casually speaking to the groom, or her mother behind her, somber and devout. The lushness of the her bridal sari was breathtakingly elegant in its layers of draped detail, red, dripping with mirrors and other sparklies, and shimmering silk threaded border. She was bedecked in the family jewels (as were all women attending the wedding). I have never seen so much gold, set with so many flashing diamonds and rubies: on earrings, multi-stranded necklaces, with bangels, bangels, bangels of them on each wrist. Seeing all of these women, arrayed in stunning silk saris of green and gold (real gold thread, many of them), brilliant purple and green and pink, orange and silver, I noted that we westerners do not have a clue about what elegance or luxury is.
The ceremony began with a hauntingly resonant, rich and mellow male tenor chanting an obviously devotional song. The longing, the calling to God, was palpable even though I could not understand the language. The priest spoke for a while. Harki got up and placed a cloth on the groom's shoulder. The priest read from the holy book. I could see Hemi (Harki's brother) mouthing the passages devoutly across the way. Then the priest's assistant placed another cloth on the groom's shoulder, and placed one end of a long red cloth in the groom's right hand, and placed the other in bride's right hand.
The priest then asked the family to join the rest of the guests (except for one female who could attend to the bride during the ceremony). The family leaves the couple at the altar alone to symbolically represent that the couple comes to marriage with the love and support of their family and friends, but they are adults now, ready to live their own lives, to stand together, relying primarily on each other before God and society in their new life together.
The priest's assistant would get up and give the couple instructions from time to time, when to bow, when to stand, when to walk around the altar (which they did four times, I am assuming as a symbolic enactment of the life journey they are undertaking and keeping the altar sacred, and central to that journey .) It was quite cute. They obviously didn't know what to do, and didn't always understand the instructions the first, or even the second, or the third time. Eventually they understood, and did as instructed. And they seemed to enjoy the walk around the altar.
The ceremony lasted about 45 minutes, with prayers being said throughout. Then we went down and had a delicious vegetarian feast in the downstairs hall.
I had a great time at the reception visiting with a man named Robin who went to school with Harki and Hemi. He was an outstanding student, hugely successful in everything he did, but after graduation, he bought a farm in a small village about an hour and half outside of Delhi, and is a farmer. "Everyone calls me crazy," he said, "But I love my life. If anyone asked me if I would live my life over again exactly as I have in this one, I would say, 'Yes. Yes. Yes." (How many of us could say that?!!?)
Robin had the kindest, gentlest light in his eyes. Everything about him had a subtle luminosity, really. "Indians cannot understand me. 'What are doing out there on that farm?' they ask me. " This is highly unusual for a well educated man. It may be incomprehensible to Indians, but I understood him completely. He is rich beyond our imaginings in the love he has for his land, his animals, and the beauty of his life in the heart of nature, and the simplicity of the life he lives.
"I have two snakes that live in my house. Two cobras. A black one and a red one. They come and go and are quite happy. I am happy to have them share my home. They don't bother me and I don't bother them. They come and go comfortably, because my door is always open, for them, for the rabbits, for the cats, for the birds. The villagers don't understand, though. They start screaming, terrified, trying to warn me when I pass closely to one of the snakes. That startles the snakes, but I simply call them by name, quietly step away and they calm down again."
It is meeting people like Robin, so open and available as human beings, willing to share their lives, that are the jewels that string together on a trip through India.
