“When we go to India, are you gonna wear a sari and get your
hands henna’ed?”
“Probably not. It’s not like we’re going to be attending an
Indian wedding.”
It’s conversations like this that make the universe silently chuckle about all the things you don't know.
Mid-way through gallivanting around India, we found
ourselves sitting in a café with a group of perfect strangers. They swept in, sat
down, invited us to a wedding three days hence, and promptly left.
Leaving me eating my words.
So, Win got a haircut and a Rajasthani-style mustache. My hands were henna’ed. A sari was purchased (to later be twisted, stuffed, folded,
and pinned by the family of the bride). And off we went to an Indian wedding.
We had been invited to the fifth and final night of said wedding,
a ceremony that turned out to be a triple-decker party of sorts. Two sisters
were having arranged marriages; a brother-in-law was having a (less prestigious)
love marriage.
The pomp and ceremony, makeup and costume changes, set
design and pyrotechnics were enough to put a full Broadway production to shame.
Grooms with feathers fluffed and turbans twirled rode in atop bedazzled horses.
Brides shuffled slowly to center stage, at times carried by brothers, beneath
the weight of beautiful, elaborate, bejeweled marriage saris.
Time between ceremonies, of which there was much, consisted
primarily of eating. And being photographed. And being asked if we had eaten.
And being asked if we would take just one picture.
It was exhausting, but it certainly wasn’t dull. Plus, the
universe gave me good reason to wear a sari in India.
