The Great Menon Wedding IV: Lights, Camera and a lot of Action

An Indian wedding is incomplete without its modest million megawatt worth of lighting.

The author comes from a tasteful stock. 'Tasteful' can be a problem,however, when it involves one fastidious father with big plans and a mother who was discovering her finicky side. Dismissing the offers of the multiple wedding event managers who had begun slinking around the place since the hall -booking, the Pater decided on a customised home-decoration program. In the year of 2011, when the house was officially warmed, we had incorporated the moulding and baking skills of the local potter and created three tiered terracota lamps in the style of the indigenous thooku vilakku. The aesthetic success of this innovation was only marred by the practical impossibility of actually lighting the lamps (oil-spillage, spilled-oil slippage, chances of fire,the occasional burnt hair-do). The Pater envisioned a rectification of that loss via the magic of wire and low-maintenance bulbs. The situation was furthered by the presence of two able henchmen: the Amazing Viju Chetan-Jenson Chetan duo. Originally drivers by trade, their repetoire of skills is diversified by their extensive network of contacts. You want something done, they know some one who can do it. Enter: the electrically talented Shailesh.

An acquisition of the intrepid Viju Chetan (whose exploits and efficiency require another post for proper examination), Shailesh is the kind of guy whose brain works in terms of circuits. Anything that can conduct electricity is his cup of tea. In fact it is his penchant for cups/glasses/tumblers of Teachers that brought him into contact with Viju Chetan who moonlighted as a beverage corporation employee. It is the possibility of an extra pint that lured Shailesh into the land of work. The problem was that his affinity towards circuitry ran alongside a very short fuse. A little pressure ( can be anything- the weather, Lalettan's new movie bombing, the shape of the parippu vada he had that morning, you get the idea) was enough to have him go off in a huff to nurse a comforting pint in the loving arms of the local beverage.co. And if it wasn't something that got his dander up, it would be simple commitment-phobia. Too much familiarity with a certain task makes our man feel antsy, resulting in the hero disappearing with nary a "it's not you, it's me." Viju Chetan, having seen our flighty bird through many a drunken ramble, was aware of these failings in an otherwise brilliant mind. Consequently, Shailesh's employment also saw the advent of the Relay Vigilance Commission. At no point of time was Shailesh left unsupervised and the supervisor usually sat in front of the exit braiding wires to further impede escape plans.Thus Shailesh was secured, grumpy or otherwise.

The unforeseen consequence of all this constant vigilance was that the invigilators tended to get too involved in their charge's charges. While Viju chetan was still able to keep his head in the face of such electric snares, and Achan was able to tear himself away occasionally, Jenson Chetan succumbed to it's charms like plastic near static-charged fabric. He would stay on long beyond his prescribed duties, way past his home curfew,  all for the excitement of seeing the lights come to life. His family was not pleased.

Neither was the Mater.
While she had given the project her blessings in the beginning, its never-ending nature, the constant tea-service and, most importantly, father dearest's growing obsession with the lighting story to the exclusion of all else, began to tarnish her view significantly. Furthermore, all the circuits and wires were not helping with turning 'humble home' into something suitably wedding-like. To give credit where it's due, the house by itself was lovely enough. But 'enough' is never enough. Also, the winds of  change had spawned disarray. The newly minted cupboards had unleashed a revolution of forgotten bric-a-brac, which now emerged from their camouflaged corners demanding space. The freshly delivered Dakshina mundus and mundum veshtis vied with the new saris for wardrobe space. The changed curtains left behind old shades which hung around and got in everybody's way. Thankfully the  books fit into the new bookshelf. Sort of.

To add to this chaos, the pater had also envisioned the recreation of a childhood curiosity to liven up the house. The courtyard to be more specific. In his multiple treks to Sabarimala, that beloved pilgrimage centre that inspires so many  faithful hearts and swamps so many railway charts, my father had seen devotees commence their journey by building miniature temples out of tender banana stems. These creations, he said, were bonsai versions of the actual sanctum sanctorum of the temple, mingling delicacy with detail and creating an ivory toned delight of perfect symmetry. Yes, he could be persuasive. The idea of a little shrine at the foot of the mango tree did carry a sweet rural appeal and the project was approved with mild smiles.
Apparently, as we discovered later, the Pater  was giving the truth a little makeover when he said 'little'. When the thing rose in the middle of the lawn... let's just say it was no midget. Plus the refuse from the  construction work flooded the yard removing any vestige of decor or decorum. It was a fraught moment when mother dearest came upon the scene. She had a knife in her hand, you see.

Caught up in suppressing these unruly uprisings and dragging father dearest back from circuits and plans for miniature temples, the mater had to admit that house and hall decoration will have to be outsourced. It is in this vulnerable interval that the parents make the acquaintance of  Pavanai and Co. from Atham  Wedding Planners. (Note: Don''t. Go.There.)
Well, the parenthetical aside kinda says it all.
Lulling us with glib talk of superlative flower arrangements, accurate replicas of the invite motif, and correcting us on the right kind of jasmine to be used for decking the bride(Coimbatore, if you are interested), the Atham sharks gave us every impression of efficiency-- an illusion if there ever was one, as events proved. We live and learn. As brides go, I was a rather easy going type and only had two requests from the duo. 1. A light and slender garland unlike the generic type. 2. A bouquet that did not look like a cauliflower. Pavanai and Partner were not impressed. Piece of cake! We'll even take up the Mehendi program just to show you how awesome we are. When the Mehendi lady turned up an hour late, and rushing to go, and not doing such a great job, it ought to have given us a clue. After all the swagger, on the wedding day I was presented with standard issue garland that any idiot bride could have carried and a bouquet that went out of its way to look like a cauliflower. As for jasmine, not only did we not get the 'right' variety, we got them so late that for a while we were facing the possibility of a deflowered bride. They did deliver on the motif replica, though. A perfect copy. Only it was bright, bubblegum pink. The final assessment was this.

While we may have miscalculated on certain aspects, we struck gold in the photographer category. And anyone who's ever been in a wedding knows what a coup that is. Ani from Vijaya Studios brought the best of clicking and courtesy to the wedding quickly turning into a crowd favourite. Besides his natural amiability, and admirable competency, he also carried the added charm of nostalgic sentiment since his father, the Vijayan of Vijaya studios, was the photographer for the parents' wedding.

Two days before the arrival of our first guests, the lights finally came to life, much to the relief of all parties. All said and done, they looked gorgeous! We didn't even notice Shailesh making a run for it. Following quickly in the heels of the lighting flash, the white temple grew on our front-yard, while Viju chetan, the Pater and I made detailed pick-up and drop schedules. The guests started coming in and the grooms-side became more tangible presence-- occasionally in rather inopportune moments like the unavoidable bridal photoshoot. This pre-event period saw certain exciting developments like the arrival of 100+ wedding favour fans which needed to be knotted (a task that was assigned to the girlfriends-- they were given fair warning.) and a particular set from the groomside walking off without waiting for, or informing, the hapless pick-up person who then began a set of desperate to calls to every available number imaging the worst that can happen to non-mallus in Kerala. They were located eventually, safe and unrepentant. $@*^! By the time the Mehendi day dawned, the entire 'team'-- that favourite collective noun of the Trichur natives-- was so pumped we could have run a marathon, and won. Combine the best of a roller-coaster ride and chocolate and you get the wedding high.
While I started out the wedding saga determined to be the one bride in the history of weddings to have fun at her own wedding, I realised that, if you are involved in your wedding there is no way you can not have fun at your wedding. Yes, no one is paying attention to the couple. And no, you don't get any rest. And yes, you will definitely face things you didn't plan for. And yes, you have fun anyway. There is so much positive energy, so many sincere good wishes, such sweet memories made, it makes everything worth it. Surrounded by family and friends who go out of their way to make your wedding spectacular, whether it's in the form of a spirited antakshari competition, or song and dance performances put together in the span of an evening, or skits created through online back and forths between overworked aunts and uncles, you are reminded that you are not alone in the effort and there is so much love in the universe that we are just trying to transmit to each other.  At some point of time, you forget to think of things in terms of what they are worth and instead in what they mean to you. And there is a difference between the two.

At the end of all the wedding prep, the author has come to the conclusion that, if there were more wedding themed parties, there would be fewer weddings ( And, consequently, fewer divorces, if you think about it.)  But a wedding is so much more than a party. The whole wedding shabang is structured to teach, in small doses, the skills necessary to handle what is essentially an unchartered journey with a virtual stranger. The clarity to know what you can  expect, the drive to see it through, the patience to sit out the difficult parts. And most importantly, it is to teach the two inadvertent parties to this madness-- the bride and the groom-- how to love. The enormous effort that goes into the making of such an event can only be pulled off if there is enough love to smooth the way. Love is a verb-- it needs action. The act of a wedding defines the parameters of the marriage it inaugurates. It sets the tone for the music you can make together -- it may not be what you were expecting, but it will be something extraordinary,  sharps, flats and all.

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The Great Menon Wedding III: Digging the trenches, Donning the Armor

There comes a time in every uncertain bride's career that she simply forgets to be uncertain.
And that usually happens during shopping.

Selecting the exact shade you are sure your aunt will look good in, or reassuring your mother that no, her mundum veshti was not 'goldy-gold', or sending your prospective thalam bearers¹ and cousins saris that you spent hours considering, reconsidering and reassigning lends a purpose and clarity formerly lacking in the bridal mental make up. But shopping for others-- even if it is just getting the buckets and bedding for the make shift quarters (so reminiscent of hostel)-- is always fun. It is shopping for self, usually such a simple task, that is the true test of the bride's mettle. The bride learns quickly that she had better find her opinion soon, or be bombarded by advice from everyone and their uncle. One valuable lesson learnt from the entire wedding saga is that whether or not you know what you want, you arrive speedily at what you don't want. This righteous firmness takes snaps into shape after the first... or fifteenth... time you are accosted by a shop assistant who is doing everything in her power to shove that garrish Grendel born of an evil copulation between gold and chimkis onto you. So the next time someone shows you something you are not sure of, you immediately discard the option regardless of whether it is the fastest moving thing on the market. Consequently, the bride becomes more collected and less of a whiner, as the Mater would attest, and miscellaneous trousseau items get dashed off the list in less time than it takes to get your hair done-- which, by the way, may not be as quick as you'd imagined.² (That said, buying your wedding sari is a whole other kettle of fish. It is not unusual for the bride to tarry Hamlet like over the yellow one or the pink one or the red one or the magenta one... Godammit!)

Newfound decisiveness helps negotiations because now there are none. Or so the theory goes. Your tailor might agree, your appointed beautician might agree. But your family and friends, unfortunately, have not been educated on this axiom. Consequently, no matter how much you protest against renovating your perfectly decent bathroom, you father will go ahead with it. But you do get some kind of twisted justice when the guy screws up and you are left with a faulty door after months of delay on the work itself. I have to admit I was not above some catty swipes at the disgruntled dad. Thankfully, the Father was not involved in the shopping proceedings and therefore we could avoid either one of us turning into the Holy Spirit.

But not all the refurbishing was unwelcome. The arrival of remains of hostel-life in the form of 4 huge cartons made erstwhile avoided cupboards imperative. A quick sweep of furniture marts brought home the rather ironic fact that the state with the highest literacy rate had no demand for bookshelves. Introducing the effervescent Aniyan. Literally bouncing with energy, this little man must share some DNA trait with the coffee bean (he even looks like one). Bursting with ideas for 'dros' (drawers) and 'grews' (grooves), his innovation also extended to furniture transportation. Brilliant as my father is, he did not plan for the contingency of having to transport large bed/cupboards to an upstairs bedroom. If  you are familiar with Ross Geller's 'Pivot' situation  you will know what I am talking about. Consequently, said item made its way to its destination through windows, over balconies, navigating pesky tree branches and dodging the occasional coconut. A little rope goes a long way. All this over the top furniture moving did throw a momentary spanner into another project underway around the casa. Which follows in the next post.

See you there. And yes, wedding preps can seem never ending.

**

1 For the uninitiated, or the non-mallu visiting my blog for the first time, the one semblance of ceremony that the Malayalee wedding indulges in is this rather quaint custom where the groom and the bride are escorted to the hall by the loving and lovely ladies of the bride's side (ostensibly to invite, but mostly to intimidate I think). Something like a desi bridesmaid, if you will. Of course in the normal wedding this retinue is comprised of any random female standing around, preferably young and unmarried so that the rest of the onlookers can indulge in the favorite pass time of wedding-attendees: match-making.^↩

2 Of course this hard won confidence is blown away like a shanty in a cyclone when you enter the grooms'side of events. You are constantly worried whether you'll do the wrong thing, or worse, say it. And you have absolutely no idea what they have in mind. Consequently you are walking in the mist on a potential minefield and absolutely unwilling to do anything to disturb the universe. You retreat into the path of least resistance and stay there. Until, of course, you get so dehydrated under the weight of heavy lehenga and the equally heavy make up and come very close to making the reception truly unforgettable by almost passing out on the dinner table. But we'll save that story for later. Or not.^↩

**

The Great Menon Wedding II:Roots and (Photo) Shoots aka How to Get into The Wedding Spirit.

The problem of stepping into a wedding that you were never planning to have, is that you aren't really prepared for the choices you will have to make.

     Following the tremulous 'yes', my parents had slid into a comfortable bonhomie reminiscent of the iceberg after it sunk the Titanic. However, I had been grossly blinded by the parents' appearance of chilled out equilibrium. While I was aware of my parents' burning urge for a marriage in the family, I began to realise that the heat of their matrimonial ambitions could sear rhinoceros hide! The Pater, who is given to exaggeration, blithely aired plans of a thousand strong wedding guest list and expeditions to unknown corners of Kerala and the Deccan Plateau to run the invitation gauntlet. But my amused smile shriveled into an incredulous 'huh?' when the mild Mater began to pull out bulging folders labelled 'invitation card options', 'wedding favors', 'decor', 'bridal hairstyles' (and I thought she had made her peace with my maenad hair) 'blouse patterns' (!). Ostensible research.Oh dear...

     Sensing peril, I began to observe their routines more closely. Where Achan would once shun the telephone like hostel chutney, he now spent valuable minutes on the line collecting phone numbers to dial in still more phones. Besides conferring with various cronies regarding infrastructural cornerstones like the catering and transport, housing and lighting, Achan was also willingly venturing outside and visiting acquaintances-- both highly allergenic tasks for the subject. Amma who used to spend her online time on progressive pursuits like this, now spent her days watching videos like this (nice song, though). Where we once had stimulating intellectual conversations on poetry, politics, books and family gossip, talk now inevitably veered towards sari colours, thalam arrangements flowers and inevitably the groom (the last item usually some advice prefixed with a "please don't"). And when we weren't talking about wedding planning, my economically conscientious mother would disappear into the bowels of Mysore Silk Emporium and return laden with booty with nary  a wince at the bill. It was when my father and I got into an argument regarding the hypothetical wedding jewelry that I knew for certain that as a responsible adult it was my duty to lead them back to their sane and sensible selves. Some one needed to step in and pick up those slackened reins!

     Which was exactly what I had planned to do... but...well... We have a way of getting swept away in the flow of things-- especially if it is less 'flow' and more 'tsunami waves'. Besides, if I was going to get married, I was damned well gonna have a say in the freaking thing. And I was never in a thousand years going let myself become this kind of a bride! (there were dangerous thoughts in this direction) Consequently, I got involved in my own wedding. A decision I was sure I would never make. Ah hell, I wasn't planning on getting married to begin with, it was about time I got with the program.

     Having become the unwilling protagonist of this wedding saga, I was now called upon to make several decisions for which I was ill prepared. For example: What colour wedding sari do you want? Er...
     Spare me your calumny you mocking mockers! It is apparently the most crucial piece of knowledge for a prospective bride. The wedding shade is the one colour to rule them all-- the jewelry, saris to be given as gifts, even the stage settings were subject to the Great Pigment. Seriously- it's a big deal! Yeah, I didn't know either; much to the frustration of all interested (which waseveryone I knew, irrespective of age or gender) Other subjects of infinite importance in the wedding scheme included possible blouse tailors, the best options for d-day beautician and what kind of shoes. Besides this, the bride has to make her peace with certain truths:
(a) She will have to put  off reading the complete works of Haruki Murakami or even one small little novel in favour of socialising.
(b)She will have to sit still and smiling for looooong stretches of time.
(c) She must be well dressed full time. (mostly because her mother is revisiting her daughter's pre-cognitive days where she got to try every look she fancied on unsuspecting, compliant baby)
(d) She will be called upon to pose for innumerable photos, in ridiculous poses*. And she must do so graciously. (The wedding phase also saw the return of the Mater's favorite phrase from my childhood: "Don't make a fuss")

     Needless to say I was much happier to take care of transport coordination, room list tallies and invitation printing and inviting. The last, only when permitted-- it is apparently bad form to invite people for your wedding yourself. Which makes some circuitous sense since your wedding is mostly your parents' project, whether or not you try to make it otherwise. The guest list is like the Humanities discipline, it is flexible and ever growing. In fact, as evidenced in a cousin's wedding,  it continues to  expand right up to the wedding day. While I can't generalise, most South Indian wedding guest lists do not work on the overly simplified notion of inviting only close family and friends. Oh no. Anyone on the family tree with a valid address was a candidate. I remember in my naive past my observations on weddings were marked by incredulity at the logic of inviting people one barely knew to  ones own wedding. The fact is. that's how you get to know them. I had the opportunity of meeting such lovely people while running the invitation gauntlet it made the wedding worth it. Of course, there were those I won't recognise ever again as well, but the fact remains the wedding was an affirmation of roots and the far off shoots sprung from these forgotten ties.You see, the rhetoric of parental duty has deep roots in a very simple urge-- communal bonding.

     Forget all the middle-class morality discourse about marriage being a social obligation. What it really is, is a chance for parents, family and friends old and new to get together, call everyone they can think of  and throw a really big party. It is a chance to open doors, renew bonds, make memories of every kind and generally have a whale of a time. And the easiest way to appreciate this, I discovered, was to stop thinking of the wedding as your wedding. Rather, think of it as the one opportunity to show them how it's done and do it right. The minute the perspective changes, you are suddenly free of the self consciousness and what we Mallus call chammal** and challupu***  of being the center of so much unwanted and unprecedented attention. Your attention shifts from their attention and you finally see things for what they are-- a chance for your family to cut loose. A time for you to hang out with your friends, giving them a venue to reanimate friendships. An opportunity to be happy and make happy.And I was determined to be the one bride in history to have fun at her own wedding. And this wedding would definitely go down in history.

Next up, the getting the wheels running for the Big Knot

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* The photographer we finally settled upon was that rare breed of clickers-- polite, efficient and likable. A large reason for this was because he smiled so apologetically every time he requested a certain pose, and that the final album was quite lovely. To his credit, viewing the shots later proved that the poor man had had to use all his skill to make the bride look passably nomal-- the subject had failed spectacularly at point (b).

** Roughly translated as embarrassment.

***Another form of extreme embarrassment and shame. Use the retroflex 'l'-- All you linguists out there, you know what to do.

The Great Menon Wedding: Introduction

Yes, there was no Christmas post last year .There was also no New Years playlist.
Easter bounced by in a flurry of fluffy omelets and dust -bunnies. Spring gaily sprang into Summer  (which, somehow, seems to be going on forever...) All passing without comment.
(By the way, A belated Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, Happy Easter and any other festive occasion I missed)

The World According to Me has been languishing in prolonged stasis- a state that I sincerely wish to remedy. However, the world around me was and is performing rigorous cartwheels, somersaults, high tragedy and comic farce . And we are not merely describing the political-social entertainment that has been the trend of 2014. 
In either case, I wish to remind myself and my faithful readers (most of whom have given up on me already) that this blog
a) exists
b) is still active. albeit irregularly.
 And while I may become as erratic in my updates as some of my more distinguished brethren seem to be, I assure you, The World According to Me is never forgotten. And just to make my sincerity clear...

Parents of a Marriageable Age.

     While my views on marriage have been widely publicised within the blogsphere and any circle that has come within a meters radius of self, my idealism did not take into consideration the presence of two very radical variables: my parents.The fact is, my parents were ready for marriage at least five years prior to the Great Event. And while sterling individuals in every count, they are not above some emotional strong-arming. To err is human. Long and rather unpleasant story short, I decided there wasn't all that much to lose. As a wise woman once put it, don't run, you'll just die tired. Once the difficult task of wrapping ones head around a previously inconceivable future is taken care of, things become surprisingly easy. It also helps if the man you decide to marry is not half-bad. (in case the man in question is reading this- understatement is the new black). But I am ahead of myself. 

     The prospect of  possible nuptials brought about some disconcerting knowledge. A cursory self-assessment revealed that I was not only a pathological friendzoner, I was also as dense as stale doughnut. A cousin of mine was narrating the meet-cute of a relative who met her spouse at an airport. There they were, two strangers at the baggage carousel, unaware of cupid's quivering arrow racing towards them. The guy accidentally picked up her bag and in the confusion and the exchange of sheepish grins their eyes met, a lot of sappy violins played and the rest is history. Now, If the same thing were to happen to yours truly, the hapless hero would be summarily yelled at, glared at, derisively laughed at and dismissed as nincompoop and/or thief. The sound you hear in the background is romance staking itself in the chest. Bottom-line : I wouldn't recognise a pass if it danced the hula in front of me wearing nothing but a neon sign.

    It was glaringly apparent that any true-mind marriage that dear Will espouses would happen only through parental liason. Having had twenty-six years of exposure to my particular brand of cluelessness, the parents were not surprised. In fact, they were chafing at the bit.(To those individuals unfamiliar with the concept of an arranged marriage, it's not the slave trade it's made out to be. Honest. In fact, for individuals like self, it is often a helpful modus operandi.) No sooner had the grudging 'yes' passed my pursed lips than the progentitors (and one sibling) jumped to the task of finding Mister More-or-Less Right with rabid enthusiasm. Apparently, my parents were waaaaay past marriageable age.

     A note to all children, if you think you know your parents-- you don't. They are like three year olds , one minute they are obsessed by a certain shiny object, the next they sprint off in the opposite direction. But again, I am ahead of myself.

     The man groom hunt was a rather entertaining exercise given that half the candidates that cropped up were hilariously unacceptable. (A notable specimen openly stated that his only qualification was his enormous wealth. Another said as baldly that he had nothing to declare but his optimism) The other half was further whittled into nothing by astrological mismatches. And the few that remained were comfortably shot down by my father and brother. Mother on the other hand tended to have a very liberal view of human fallibility and age appropriate hairlines. So, they plowed through multiple possibilities drawing blanks. Meanwhile, I let out a relieved sigh-- it didn't look like I'd be getting married anytime soon.

Right.
Less than a year later, I was handed a proposal worthy of consideration. My parents pulled the carpet from under my feet in more ways than one. Not only did they actually locate a possibility that had both mental acumen and enough hair on his head (a rare combination, as the hunting logs proved). They also blithely hummed consent to someone who was only half-Mallu and didn't even speak the language! This after years of demanding that the female offspring refrain from even looking in the general direction of a non-Mallu male. Is there no certainty in this world?! Apparently not.

Thankfully, I was saved the indignity of the long walk-of-chai service, popularised by so many movies. The acid test came in the form of a rambling conversation with the hapless he where the author made no attempts to tame her loquacity. At the end of which, the candidate did not keel over and die. Rather, not only was he still lucid, he was still pleasant! A real sign of endurance, if any. Apparently, my parents (and one sibling) did know what they were doing...
In either case, cute half-Mallu boy seemed worth the effort and he on his part seemed ok with throwing caution to the winds and his lot with mine. Consequently we got engaged. The family smiled in satisfaction. "We've got her half-way, now we just need to get her married"

And that is a story for the next episode of The Great Menon Wedding.

Statutory Warning: Posts that follow in this series will be longer than average. After all this is no average mallu wedding. Keep your glucose close at hand.

Tale as old as Tam (Brahm)

And finally- the much awaited Tam-Brahm Wedding report!
Disclaimer: The longest post of them all.

Forget Endhiran, the Great Wedding was the most happening event of the year. After all, even Rajinikant with his multiple superhuman talents, cannot compete with the spectacle of the Tam-Brahm wedding. And the wedding that this avid anthropologist had the good fortune of observing was a confluence of both the Iyengar and Iyer sects of the Brahm Fold. This fact holds enormous significance given that the popular Iyengar proverb decrees that "to Iyer is barely human; to Iyengar is divine" and that all Iyers believe the Iyengars descended from a particularly dim breed of primates that forgot to evolve half-way through the process. Given this general animosity, it is a moment of great communal harmony to see these two sects engaged in friendly nuptials rather than sanskritised slandering.The only tension that may have prevailed would be surface-tension of incredibly distended tummies following meal after gigantic meal of rich mouth watering food. I was a part of the bride's retinue- making me an honorary Iyengar (the small fact of my confirmed carnivorous tendencies will be overlooked for the period of this post)

The Tam-Brahm wedding defies language in the grandness of its scale. Rajshri Productions should seriously consider moving their scene southwards given the potent singing-dancing-dressing-marrying-matchmaking fodder that these celebrations provide.The TB wedding I attended was a small affair spanning only three days, including the mehendi, in a hall huge enough to house a medium sized district. Being a member of any marriage party involves intense well-dressedness. This is especially so if you are (a)Female (b)Representing the bride's side (c) have friends like Nose-ring Girl who'd probably skin you alive and send your hide to Prada for a customised creation if you were anything short of haute couture. Besides this, when one is invited by ones friend to a wedding, one is honor bound to uphold her comrades reputation. Especially when the friend in question is Gunther and furthermore is the sister of the bride. Consequently, the author was uncharacteristically well turned out for three whole days (of course she recuperated by being a complete slob for the next week and a half.) Though the Tams are blessedly less gold obsessed than their Mallu brethren (then again it is difficult to compete with the Mallus in this arena, as in any other :D) they do have a distressing penchant towards silk.Well-dressed in Tam-Brahm parlance usually involves several yards of silk. Kancheepuram, Mysore, China and every other Silk-country finds a foothold in the Tam-Bramh wedding hall. Once again it is the women-folk who have to bear the brunt of this unofficial ramp/madai walk. The sari-fetish is satisfied by the various rituals which ensures that one would have to change saris at least twice a day.And given that Chennai, where this drama is unfolding, is rarely anything less than sweltering this is not a good thing. It is difficult to admonish uncomfortable toddlers to not tug at their beautiful silk blouse when the admonisher herself is tempted to chuck the whole ensemble and walk around in a T-shirt three sizes too large for her and shorts of the same ilk. However the author, like the aforementioned toddlers, was quickly distracted by the brilliant pageant unfolding before her.

Wearing ones own sari is a feat in itself. And in a wedding situation of the TB kind, sari drapers are in the greatest demand. The really good ones help the bride and the small fries help everybody else. Both Nrg and moi were employed in this knotty task. This of course meant that we were the last ones to exit the dressing room, leading to misguided assumptions of an exacting sense of fashion. While this a is mildly plausible characteristic in the ever-in-vogue NRG,it is truly ridiculous in the case of the author. Be that as it may, our sari tying stint was a chance to see several aspects of human nature. For example, the amount of sleep the tie-er had is inversely proportional to the number of times the pleats fall off the tie-ee. And it only takes one cranky baby tugging at your sleeve to realise how precious a single undone pleat is. And of course one cannot forget the Murphy's Law of Sari draping which was mentioned earlier- Regardless of how many you saved and how many you pilfered, the pins will always be missing. Another version of this law manifests in the issue of flowers. No South Indian Wedding is complete without it's garden-share of flower garlands- and these are not including the ones draped around the bride and the grooms necks. The jasmine strings are crucial to the TB look.It does not help that the Murphy's Law of jasmine-pinning is that, regardless of how many hairpins you use the flowers will fall off. This is of course assuming that you actually managed to locate the hairpins. Much like safety pins, hairpins too have an amazing propensity for disappearance.

But moving on from these hairy issues, we go to the next item of the dressing process. The bride, in all her brideness, must constantly be accessorised to complementary perfection. Which means that everyone in the dressing room must have some rudimentary knowledge of where exactly her belongings are. The subtleties of bridal accessories are mind-boggling. The dark brown bangles are different from the deep maroon bangles and the blue bangles must be replaced with the aqua bangles so that they go with the nth sari she will wear for the n-nth ceremony. In the background the minor characters barter jewelery between each other and help insert thick stemmed ear-rings into narrow ear-holes. Inadvertent swearing by either party is inevitable and highly embarrassing given that almost half of the population consists of the older generation or the younger generation. The last thing you need is the precocious, previously undetected six year old to walk up to the very prominent sixty year old loudly asking "Paati what is "!@#$" ? Akka just said that *angelic smile* ". There goes all your good-will and your friend stares daggers at you. Oops.

So now that the ladies and gents are decked out in their silks and clinking jewelery they proceed to the mandappam in the wake of the bride. The first day is more or less uneventful. Meaning there is only the nishcayathaarthum or engagement and a homam or pooja and another set of rituals and the interminable volley of photographs. The couple's starry-eyed look can be attributed to not just love but also continuous camera-flashes. While the bride and groom smile maniacally at the ever-ready cameras the others saunter over to the dining hall and proceed to gorge. The TB wedding feast is a tribute to the versatility of vegetarianism. Course after course of delicacies pile up on your palate until your digestive system cries out for mercy. Three days of this and you start developing a serious food aversion (thankfully and obviously short-lived of course). Breakfast consists of pongal, upma, idli,dosa,masala-dosa and just to make your stomach burst vadas and several un-named delicious savories and sweets and lots of ghee. Lunch is enriched with a variety of saadams,plain rice, poriyals, rasams, vadaams, diabetes/cholesterol inducing sweets and of course more ghee. Let's not forget tiffin which offers more vadas, dosas, idlis, complementary chutneys, savories and ghee. Dinner involves still more saadams, rice, curries and inevitably more GHEE. Squeeze us out and you could start an Amul Butter Co.

Meanwhile the couple continue to be fried under the glaring rays of effulgent photo-lights, their faces baked to form a unflinching 1000 watt smile. We the spectators mill around the dais sending them sympathetic glances while blessing our stars we aren't in the same position. While they are not being showered with blessings and beacons of dehydrating light the couple also have to be subjected to the garlanding. This is a phenomenon unique to the TB wedding as far as the author can say. Both families bring out a continuous stream of garlands blessed by different temples. The bride and the groom are draped with these offerings and then of course are obliged to pose for a photo with the same. It is all well and good when the garlands are of a normal or at least a manageable size. It is a whole new story when the happy couple are faced with a particularly large flowery confection. The poor bride and groom had just ridden themselves of a larger than common appendage and were nursing the kinks in their vertebrae, when a new procession of priests entered the mandapam and commenced yelling several unintelligible sanksrit shlokas which presumably blessed the couple with long life and happiness. All of this the bride and groom accepted with smiling equanimity, but then say saw what came after-wards. Borne by three people on either side were two gargantuan garlands that probably weighed a ton each. The Groom's eyes bulged, the bride mouthed an involuntary 'Oh my God!'. Both buckled visibly as the garlands were hoisted onto their necks. The bride and groom were then forced to stand Atlas-like while the photographers clicked away lazily. Marriage is a weighty affair.

Day two was the more 'happening' day, To begin with, the day began when the night was still in its toddler state. Two 'o' clock saw the hall buzzing with activity and the bride already shackled under heavy headgear and multiple make-up artists. M.S' Suprabhatam dallied with the annoyed cries of unwillingly awakened babies and overgrown babies. The general chaos was furthered by the fact that there was only one bathroom for more than twenty people. The Sari drapers ran helter-skelter searching for pins and grabbing pleats while the dressing room congregation collectively cursed the grooms-representative who hurried and harried us through out. Finally the bride,physical exertion and minimal sleep notwithstanding, emerged glowing like the sun in the east and proceeded to the mandappan to take part in the delightful Kasi Yatra. The Kasi Yatra is a ritual derived from the shaivite myth revolving around Shiva and Parvati's marriage. Apparently the missus kept the groom waiting and a rudimentary knowledge of Hindu mythology will remind you that patience was not Shiva's strong point. Thankfully he was not inclined to burn everything to cinders and simply decided to huff away to Kasi. The bride's father noticed the absent groom, hurried after the stomping deity, mollified his ruffled sensibilities, got the groom back to the venue and all's well that ends well. The modern re-enactment involves the veshti-clad groom striding a few steps towards the direction of Kasi, a large umbrella/ walking-stick and fan in hand as props, and the bride's father or oldest uncle brings him back to the mandapam. There have been cases where the brides father actually fails to notice the groom walking away and the hapless groom is left wondering whether his in-laws were trying to get rid of him. In this case the situation was humorous simply because of the uncanny resemblance to the myth. The Bride was late to the mandapam and kept her ready-to-depart groom waiting impatiently, umberella-a-tapping. Several jokes and comments later the bride and groom are taken to the longish swing which is the venue for the quaint Oonjal ceremony which basically involved them swinging while being fed milk (why this lactose obsession???!!!) and family members sing for them. The author personally feels this harks back to the days of child-marriage where by this time both kids would be cranky, hungry and sleepy so a little milk and some humming would go a long way in assuring that the next item of the program runs hassle free. And this would be the madisar initiation.The future mother-in-law drapes the bride in 9 yards of torture whose method is shrouded in madness and mystique and which is guaranteed to be unflattering even if you have the figure of a model. It is a tribute to this particular bride's beauty that she could make even this monster sari look good.

In the time that it takes to roll the bride into the madisar, everybody else goes to have breakfast.Food is of course the venue for gossip and fashion tips. It was especially refreshing to be a part of this wedding because the author was not family, not brahmin and therefore NOT MATCH-MADE! Ah the happiness of it all. Besides this the author are also saved from being accosted by unknown uncles, aunts,uncles of aunts etc. demanding that she recognise them on the basis of a short-lived acquaintance during her gaga-googoo years. Meanwhile the Bride is saried and lead to the mandapam for the pinnacle of all the activities- the muhurtam. The author being short and the crowd being large could not record everything that happened. It suffices to say that the knot was finally tied and everyone shed a tear or a dozen for the overwhelming sentiness of it all. Ah love... sigh. Of course time had passed in the process and everyone goes for lunch and somebody remembers to offer the couple some water before they faint from exhaustion. Another homam and several photos and handshakes later, the bride changes her sari yet again, has lunch and goes for the funnest part of the wedding program-the Nalanggu.

The Nalanggu (another throw back to the days of child marriage) is a collection of games that guarantee loud comments lots of laughter and general bonhomie. The bride and groom are pitted against each other in mini-competitions of coconut rolling, pappadum smashing, garlanding (while being carried by the brothers of the respective parties) and more. And of course whoever wins apparently gets the upper hand in the marriage as well. The Nalanggu is also the perfect time for out-of-station friends to go and buy the wedding gift. Which is what the author was doing and hence ended up missing all the fun. Ah well... something's got to give. But on the flip side this also allowed for a rendezvous with the inimitable and evercharming Posh-Git The silver lining,ladies and gentlemen!

Post Nalanggu everybody gets to rest a little. Which really means there is time for the bride to dress and change into yet another sari for the evening function-but this time she is unhurried. The wedding reception is dedicated to photos.The bride and groom probably suffered from sunspots in their eyes for at least two weeks following this event. It is during this function that the author had the good fortune of meeting the surprisingly sane Crazybugga as well as enjoying the musical talents of Nithyshree who was sadly greatly ignored by the thronging crowd more interested in gossiping, getting photographed and heading for the dining hall. I guess some things are common regardless of what kind of wedding you are attending. At long last the wedding comes to a close and the bride- who changes into yet another, less grand(?) sari- heads off to the new home. And the friends, sister and mother gather together hit by the sudden realisation that she has actually gone. That she is now a wife and that things are suddenly so different.

But such is life, change comes on swift,harried chaotic wings.And it's beauty lies in its uncontrolled flurries that sweep us away in its bewildering turns. After all what is life without drama and excitement to colour it. And all's well that ends well.

Wedding Chronicles 2: Pre-Wedding and Post-Wedding Stress

Disclaimer: Long Post dead ahead

The Wedding is supposed to be one of the most important days of your life. Probably because it takes off several years out of your life in the process. The Wedding Day is the culmination of several mini-madnesses. While the locus of all the Wedding madness is the bride and groom, they are greatly exempted from the background drama. The minor characters have the responsibility of bringing together the various aspects of the giant chaos called The Wedding.

It begins with the Inviter-Invitee tussle, kicked off by the Invites. The design of the invite takes on as much importance as the blueprints for the newest space-shuttle. Prototypes are selected and rejected. Blood pressures ping pong off the walls and stress levels hit the roof. The family is driven to the brink of insanity, haunted by the memory of the nasty comments they had hurled at other invites and are spurred on to avoid a similar fate. Just when the design gets finalised, the extended family decides to give their 'constructive criticism', successfully destroying any previously established consensus. And when the invites are finally decided there comes the task of actual invitation. Armed with packets of murkus and laddoos (chips and jalebi is another favorite combination) the inviters trudge along to do their dreary duty. The Murphy's Law of Wedding invitations states that regardless of how hard you try to remember everyone, you will always end up forgetting someone. And that someone is most often the most cantankerous kin in the fold. The appeasement process is penance for all the sins you might have committed in your past life.(Come to think of it, the Wedding as a whole is like that.) Finally, when everyone has been more or less mollified, the process of clothes shopping is initiated.

The Shopping Saga is an epic tale in itself. And it is a painstaking process not just for the females. In fact it easier for us women because we have the advantage of choice. Men have it harder because there simply isn't enough variety. There are only so many decent borders for mundus or colours for kurtas. And one must remember that in the drama that is the Wedding, everything is a topic of gossip. Insignificant details like where the bride/groom's clothes were bought, how the sari bought for aunty A is the same colour as aunty B's, how cousin X's dress was not of the same quality as cousin Y's, uncle P's mundu has more kasavu that uncle Q's- become hot news and are discussed at length. In the course of the Wedding there is always going to be at least one member of the family bursting into tears for reasons that barely brush against reason. As you can see, drama is an integral part of The Great Indian Wedding. Another caucus race is the process of housing all the migrating family members. Unknown aunts, uncles, cousins, cousins of cousins, the friends of said cousins etc. congregate for the wedding relying on the family for domicile. And Dubai uncle and family cannot sleep without an AC, Madras Aunty must have dinner at 6:30 because she is diabetic, crusty Calicut uncle wants his dinner piping hot even if he comes late, Bangalore cousin has an army of brats that need to be baby-sat and Delhi grand-uncle wants fresh milk in the middle of the night. Suddenly the unpredictable bouts of crying make a lot of sense. But all this is worth it- After all, they are all here to celebrate the joining of two individuals in a hopefully life-long relationship.

Speaking of the two individuals, the wedding preps guarantee that the couple do not get an undisturbed moment together. If it's not aunts barging in to feed them sweets then it's uncles cracking dirty jokes with complementary whacks on the back or other parts of the anatomy. And then of course there are the annoying cousins who have a habit of walking in at exactly the wrong time with an unrepentant 'oops' and to drag either one of the parties in question for some interminable errand. It's enough to make the lucky couple want to elope to the nearest register office and get it over with. But then again I guess abstinence is good for the soul. Or perhaps they their eagle-eyed guardians detain them from making an escape. Either way, by the time the preparations end the couple are pretty much worn out and decide there is no point in resistance.

The wedding itself is, as previously discussed, madness. The lunacy of this program is underscored by the fact that the female members are necessarily dressed in saris/dressy salwar kameezes or churidars and most often are shod in high-heels. Between all the thalam carrying, the errand-running and engaging in the general obstacle race that is a wedding, your lower limbs begin to hate you, your feet decide that you are the devil and your toes will never be the same again. Besides this physical pain there is also mental trauma. One is constantly waylaid by unknown kin who demand that you recognise them. It does not matter that you only saw thrice when you were still in your diapers. It is a curious trait that the regular attendees of the weddings circuit always remember each other. This feat of memory is accomplished by keeping track of wardrobes. Observe the logic:"Oh yes she is XYZ, PQR's sister's husband's cousin's grand-aunt's neighbour. Remember? she was wearing the same red sari for LMN's wedding as well..."
The wedding arena is also the scene for the planning of prospective weddings as well.Single individuals within the age range of 19 to 30yrs are subjected to painful matchmaking. The popular "you're next" makes its rounds. The 'you're next'-at-funerals routine fails miserably because most of these spiritually inclined matrimony.moms (and dads too, mind you) will only smilingly reply, "And then we shall bless you from above" It is enough to drive one to distraction. Thankfully they are easily distracted by the story of a distant cousin who got divorced or another one who refuses to marry.

And of course, the great Sadhya discussions. Every minute detail ranging from the degree of green-ness of the banana leaf on which the food is served to the over sweetness of the perfect payasam comes under the microscope and God help you if there is a shortage. A Mallu wedding, as discussed earlier, revolves around the food. Considering this, one would think that eating wouldn't be too difficult a task to manage. But for the close members of the Family getting a taste of the Sadhya is a formidable goal. For one thing, there is the general edict that you get to eat only after the guests. But then again the human body is programmed to handle only so much hunger. The Murphy's Law of lunch eaters states that even if you spent the entire afternoon waiting around, it is only when you put the first morsel of food in your mouth that they call you for the family photo. The photo session itself is fraught with pitfalls. Someone is always left out, or someone else is convinced that the photographer deliberately clicked when they were in their least flattering avatars. And once the album comes out, an unending stream of shrieks and humphs follow in the wake of every leaf turned. The photos are always an entire skeleton of contention.Be that as it may, the one thing one must always remember about Indian weddings- and the South Indian Wedding in particular- is that everyone is too full to hold a grudge. "So what if I look like a zombie in that pic," muses aunty M "at least I look better than Aunty N! Orange?? What was she thinking?!" And aunty N thinks " Ah Orange was always my colour. But what is wrong with M? I think she forgot her medication..." And then their thoughts blend as they sigh in unison ".. let's get some betel leaf and head home." And this is where everyone heaves out a sigh of relief.This does not apply to immediate family of course. They are most likely scrambling to get the harassed bride into her nth sari and matching accessories while simultaneously organising the welcome ceremony back home. The mobile phone is a wonderful thing.

The sun finally sets on the Wedding day and the bride and groom are ushered into their private scented chamber- where they probably sleep like the dead considering how exhausted the wedding left them. And the other players in the drama exit stage wherever to get some of their own much needed rest. The rest, as they say, is history.

Next up- the Tam-Brahm wedding.

Wedding Chronicles1: The Mallu Wedding

Disclaimer: Much like it's subject, this post is going to be very long.

The inimitable and ever-aged Clint Eastwood once commented that "Marriages are made in heaven. But so are thunder and lightning." I myself completely affirm this view. However I am but a minuscule minority. This fact is confirmed by the fact that I had the opportunity to witness two weddings in the short span of the last two weeks and will be at another one in September. The Indian Wedding is a dazzling experience. Not just because of the blinding amounts of bling and flash photography, but also for the sheer spectacle of the whole program. Unlike the sedate and neatly packaged concept of popular weddings, the Indian Wedding-and more specifically the South Indian Wedding- is a riot of happy chaos which relies on anarchy for successful execution. Furthermore there is a marked sadistic trait within these functions that will prove curious to the budding anthropologist. The following accounts will substantiate the previous generalisation.

To follow chronology, we will start with the Malayalee Wedding. As a disclaimer I state that my presence at this spectacle was entirely my mothers fault. The Mallu wedding is perhaps the shortest variety, lasting all of ten minutes with the main attraction being the sadhya that follows. But one must keep in mind the Mallu propensity for extension (a passing glance at any Mallu serial will affirm this). After all,where's the drama in a quickie ceremony? And we Mallus love Drama. Our politics is proof enough. And so in a hasty bid to add some masala to the bland molakushyam we split this simple ceremony into three parts- the Thalikettu, the Kalyanam and the Sadhya+photo-session.The first part more or less adheres to the original scheme and consists mostly of praying in the temple of choice and tying the thali. But the fact that it is conducted in an ungodly hour on the lines of 4:30 am makes it the most painful part of the entire program. Just this small detail ensures anarchy. Imagine, if you will, the bawling of irritated woken up babies, the gurgle of reluctant taps followed by the badaboom of banged doors as time flies and delayed bathers become desperate. Added to this is the fact that females in attendance must necessarily be decked out in Saris or at the very least an incredibly itchy salwar-kameez/churidar. The donning of these are by themselves chaotic to say the least. Any sari draper will be acquainted with the Murphy's Law of Sari wearing. No matter how many there are and how many you saved, the pins are always missing. Furthermore, negotiating sari pleats when you'd much rather be dallying in dreamland only adds to the pain. And when one is as determinedly nocturnal as the author, the morning Muhurtham is nothing short of excruciating.The knowledge that all this pain is merely to catch a barely noted tying of a thali, which even an untimely sneeze would render unnoticed only makes it more frustrating. Thankfully, this time I merely had to attend the second half- the more showy Kalynanam.

This consists of four parts: 1.Escorting the Groom, 2.Escorting the Bride 3.Exchanging garlands 4.Lots of blinding photographs. All this escorting means a lot of escorters. Again it is the womenfolk who have to do all the work. Females within the age group 8-30yrs are rounded up and armed with thalams- plates carrying flowers, rice, a small lamp and other such items. The lasses are lassoed into two parallel queues flanking the escorted- probably to stop them from making a last minute bolt for freedom. All this seems very neat and orderly. Ah if only... These processions are notorious not just for the fact that it kills your feet, but also because your hair is constantly in danger of catching fire what with a plate with a lamp right behind you. It's true. It happened to me. And at the wedding that I went to it happened to my cousin. I prudently showed up only afterwards. The thalam girls carefully accompany the groom and later the bride to the dais where there is always a traffic jam. Inevitably something is knocked down and everyone is praying that it wont be a lamp.

The wedding that I attended featured a silk clad groom who looked cheerful and happy- probably because he was reminded of his reassuring comfort whenever he chanced to glance at his mate whose face one could barely make out from within the crown of jasmine and the shield of jewelery. It is my firm belief that if one were to shoot a Mallu bride in the chest her multitudinous gold chains would save her with nary a smudgy bruise to show for it. This particular bride was encased in a sheath of gold which swayed with her uncomfortable movements to reveal even more gold in the form of the zari on her Kancheepuram Sari. The poor lady literally creaked as she walked(a feat of great strength and endurance), what with all the metal she had on. But it truly is a tribute to the marriage impulse that despite such obvious difficulties she still looked very happy.

Somewhere in the time that it takes the bride to lumber up the stage and lumber down to sitting position, most of the audience rush to the dining hall.This is the scene for several almost-riots. Mallus love their Sadhya. And anyone who comes in the way is at risk of being trampled. Several jaws and joints have borne the brunt of particularly zealous eaters kept away from their mouth-watering goal. And once there, they make it a point to vocalise their demands as well as loudly declaim/proclaim the quality of the food/servers/the serving/anything remotely food related. So while the crowd mills around the dining hall the bride and groom are abandoned to exchanging their garlands in the face of an indifferent trickle of individuals who decided to wait for lunch or carry on conversations. Following the exchange of garlands the couple are subjected to a stream of relatives who feed them bananas and milk.It is a custom guaranteed to render anyone lactose intolerant. After several gulps of milk interspersed with banana morsels (... is there a metaphor here?...) the bride and groom raise themselves to stand in the glare of several camera flashes as the guests, burping and satisfied after their hard-fought lunches,make their way towards the duo to give them gifts and grin for the cameras.The groom has it better- at least he is not weighed down by his apparel. But the bride gives meaning to the phrase 'grin and bear it'. Several hours of photography later the bride and groom finally get a bite to eat. This too is monitored by the cameramen who vie with the paparazzis on the intrusion scale. So instead of eating ravenously, as they most likely would be by then, the bride and groom are forced to take delicate, pretty bites. Ah poor souls.

At long last they are released from their wedding. Breathing a sigh of relief they make a break for freedom only to be waylaid by relatives who say a million good byes over and over again without actually leaving. The last I saw as I left the venue was the tableau of the groom and bride with frozen smiles bidding the fiftieth farewell to the same aunty who had circled them two minutes ago. Ah marriage is a difficult prospect- but the wedding is the actual killer.

More on weddings at a later date.