Non Fiction
The Wedding
artwork by amina
The weather was getting hotter, the days steadily getting longer, yet there was still so much to do for the wedding. First, the invitations had to be written. Despite planning for a small wedding--fifteen or twenty people at the very most--hours and hours were spent mulling over the guest list. We had decided that we definitely had to invite Boro Mama-Mami, and cousins Jasmine and Nargis. They were pretty girls with silky long hair and charming smiles; no doubt it wouldn't be many years before they, too, would be getting married. At fourteen and sixteen respectively, they were excitable young things, and would appreciate all the painstaking preparations that we had made. Moreover they could both sing, so they could provide some entertainment for the evening of festivities. We needed every bit of help that we could get! Then there was Binu Khala; college-educated, and with her bob-cut hair tinged a slight reddish hue, she was our most glamorous relative. Binu Khala had a gentle way about her, and everything she ever said or did seemed fragranced with her charm; she had no airs and graces, and always had kind words to say to us. She definitely had to be invited, if only to add a touch of class to the proceedings. Our little white bungalow fell between that of Afrin Khala and Farhad Mama, so of course their families would be invited. Afrin Khala had three children--a baby boy and the twins, Maya and Monalisa, while Mama-Mami had six-year old Suraiya, who would love the celebrations. After much deliberation we agreed not to invite Sharmi Khala; while Layla was lovely and caring and would have enjoyed the evening, her young brother, Mintu, was a restless, boisterous child who never behaved well and was bound to upset the solemn proceedings in some way. We categorically decided that we weren't going to invite Nana and Nanu, and Juntu Mamu (who still lived with them) to the proceedings. We'd miss Mamu and Nanu of course, but Nana was an old-fashioned, orthodox man, and would thoroughly disapprove. Imagining the look of fury on his face if he found out about it, it was definitely best not to let him know that the wedding was going ahead! No other relatives were invited, although we did decide to invite the entire family from over the other side of the street; with four girls and two boys, they were poorer than us, but they were very friendly and the children always came to play in our garden. We thought we'd make handmade cards for the invites; there was no way that our limited funds would spread to cover the expense of having cards printed. So we had spent an entire evening cutting card, ribbon and beads to make our cards unique and worthy of some admiration. The following evening the cards were distributed to the guests (each hand-delivered, of course, as tradition dictates). The wedding decision had only been made a few days ago, and it had to be said that, despite our best endeavours, the rush had meant that some of the preparations were slightly more shambolic than we'd hoped. We'd managed to find a suitable sari only yesterday morning--by much luck. It wasn't a conventional red-and-gold sari, but this, we supposed, wasn't a conventional wedding. So the bride would be wearing a pink sari embroidered with tiny silver sequins. It flattered her figure- accentuating her curves and highlighting the beauty of her regal poise. With all the expense of the wedding--the sari, the fabrics, the ribbons, the cards and the flowers, we had been stretched to find money for the bridal jewellery. Fortunately, at rather a last minute, Binu Khala (bless her) had donated an elegant gold necklace, studded with red stones. Gold and red bangles dangled from each of the bride's hands, and a matching tickli and earrings would set her outfit off beautifully. The wedding party would be held in our front room. All the furniture had been rearranged to leave rows of chairs from which the guests could sit and watch the proceedings. Tinsel, colourful decorations and balloons hung from nails in the walls. Vases were filled with flowers. A cassette player played some background music. Afrin Khala and Nina Mami had volunteered to make the food themselves. The scent of lamb biryani cooked with ghee and cardamom pods hung in the air, tantalising us, our guests, and anyone who happened to pass by the path behind our houses. Plump, red gulab-jaams floated in bubbling syrup; orange jorda trimmed with flowers made of pineapple murobba sat beautifully arranged in large, blue and white dishes alongside bowls of creamy firni. So what of the blushing bride during these preparations? A few minutes before the arrival of the guests we had covered her face with a veil and had solemnly taken her to the stage, sitting her down between two large cushions embroidered with tiny golden flowers. Like all shy, coy brides, until then she had been hidden away in a back room. We had made her up beautifully. Her soft, creamy complexion had been enhanced with a touch of rouge (the colour of hibiscus) on her cheeks; a smudge of red lipstick had been added to her lips, and a line of pale blue eyeshadow had been applied to her eyelids. All the time she continued to look down demurely, exactly as a true, good bride should. The guests finally arrived, one family at a time, carrying envelopes of money or parcels of gifts (saris, furnishings, even haari-pathil). Full of expectation, they took their seats in front of the stage that we had decorated so enthusiastically, if rather hastily, with swathes of red, green and gold brocade sari fabric, and giant pewter vases full of flowers from the garden. Occasionally a guest, particularly the female guests, would get up to take a sneak peek at the bride beneath her veil and then, with smiles on their faces, sit down again. Everyone remarked to us how beautiful the bride looked, with her thick hair tied into a big black kopa and decorated with a single, pink flower from the garden. We had arranged for a harmonium to be bought in, and Jasmine-Nargis sung a few popular wedding songs from the movies; the mood was light and full of fun, and some of our guests, especially the youngsters, joined in with the sing-song. We decided that we were going to have the food before the celebrations proper began, so watched nervously while the guests lined up for their food. Luckily--and how could we have doubted it--the food was greeted with much praise. We were pleased to see that the guests ate heartily. They not only commended the food, they flattered us with kind comments about the room, the stage, the entertainment. Everything was going so well. Our elaborate plans had come to fruition, despite the lack of time to get things ready. The guests took their seats again for the main function. We had prepared a mirror, two garlands of red and pink flowers, a milky drink and some sweets to be exchanged between bride and groom. The voices in the room hushed slightly as we approached the stage. But, just as we were laying the ceremonial items carefully in front of the bride, a spine-chilling, horrific thought came to us. Our dread-filled eyes met. How on earth hadn't we foreseen the terrible situation we now found ourselves in? It must have been all the excitement of making the arrangements! For, as we looked at the bride, sitting so elegantly between her cushions, it suddenly occurred to us: There was no groom! Oh! The shame, the embarrassment! In front of so many people! What would they think? What would they say? Any moment now the guests would start commenting to each other! We were furious with ourselves. This is what becomes of hastily arranged wedding plans! We should have predicted this situation and never allowed it to arise. How, we asked ourselves, could there now be a wedding-- without the groom? How had we overlooked such an obvious matter? We looked at each other in dismay. But all was not lost. Luckily for us, Binu Khala saw our distress. Sensing something was seriously wrong, she rushed over to ask us what the matter was. So, our hearts pounding, and tears of broken pride and humiliation welling up in our eyes, in low voices we explained the situation. Immediately taking the crisis in hand, Binu Khala beckoned us to the room next door. She sat on the big bed and opened her handbag. Rummaging inside it for a moment, she stopped to pull out a clean, cream-coloured handkerchief (embroidered with her initial in blue on the corner). Then she pulled out a large black, fine-tipped pen, a reel of dark embroidery thread, and a needle. She asked us for a pair of scissors, and also made us hand over our own handkerchiefs. What on earth was she going to do? She looked up and smiled at us, told us not to worry, and shooed us back into the main room. Fifteen tense minutes passed whilst the guests, unaware of the calamity that had been about to befall the bride, happily chatted amongst themselves; the little girls played clapping-hands, the boys chased toy cars around the floor. From behind the curtain that draped the door I saw Binu Khala usher Jasmine to the adjacent room. And then, two minutes later, Jasmine started to sing a teasing song about the groom. And sure enough, there came the groom--accompanied by our saviour, Binu Khala. The guests turned to look at him. Sitting rather stiffly on a white cushion, his arms stretched-out somewhat awkwardly to his sides, he just looked straight ahead. His black hair, thick moustache, and heavy browed eyes were all as dark as ink. He wore a simple punjabi of cream cotton, and in his hands he held a small handkerchief. At last, after two frantic, anxious days, the time had come, the nuptials were to begin. The guests hushed. Khala sat the groom next to the bride, and we joined them all on the stage. We noted that the groom looked different from behind; his punjabi didn't quite fit him and had been stitched poorly and was rather crumpled; the edges of the handkerchief were unfinished. And, if we looked very carefully, only just visible on his back and embroidered in pale blue, was the solitary letter 'B'. But his looks, his clothes, his stiffness didn't put us off. For finally our plans had come together. And so it was, with the help of so many others (both family and friends) that Tina putul, with great ceremony, was wed to the rather handsome, if unbending, handkerchief groom with the cotton face and ink-drawn moustache. So what, we asked our young selves, if he was so much shorter, less elegant and shabbier than our doll--he was a groom wasn't he? After all, that was all that mattered today! If we were honest with ourselves, in our fickle heart-of-hearts we knew that the following day, although we would continue to carry on playing with Tina (our favourite doll) we would both have totally forgotten about pale-faced yet handsome, straight-backed little Mr Handkerchief Groom.
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