An Overture to an Indian Wedding Read online

  An Overture to an Indian Wedding.

  "Marriages are not made in Heaven. Pujaris fake them in marriage halls with all the stupid rites." Suraj had stated on the long distance call to his Mamma. Sumathi aunty wanted the best wedding for her foreign returned first son. Suraj had left as a boy to America and would be returning a man, with a doctorate from an Ivy League college, a green buck paying handsome job and a green card to boot that made him the most eligible bachelor in the family. A fine chauvinistic wave on which Sumathi aunty rode to greater heights of glory. The wedding of her son, soon to give reign to her undulated yearning for showcasing prestige and her maternal grandeur. Her son would be returning from America with many other baggage which none yet knew. He had refused marriage emphatically and had given his approval only when Sumathi aunty had threatened to take sanyas. A grudging approval.

  The late Shankara Chettiar had constructed the convention hall whose architecture resembled the famed Rajput palaces, complete with marbles and chandeliers. How a Tamilian had built a function hall in the northern Rajasthani style was a mystery that nobody discerned, and like many things, Indian would hold its secret forever. Being the first air conditioned marriage hall in the city, it had cemented its place as the herald for bourgeois ceremonies, and an invite with its address invariably raised the status of the host family by a couple of notches. Sumathi Aunty had got it booked by the bride's family, months in advance and had visited thrice for overseeing things. She made complaints around every corner of her inspection tour, sourly testing the manager's professional calm. Perhaps the manager would have taken a kinder view if he had known that the visiting lady's son had consented for marriage reluctantly.

  Indrani Atte a distant cousin of Sumathi aunty was the first one to arrive at least a week before the wedding. She had remained a spinster; thanks to her elder brother's impossible wish list as regards the qualities of his would be brother in law that had kept prospective alliances at bay. Now both brother and sister white haired lived together in a two bedroom flat. With the brother being a widower and his two sons settled abroad a strange bond had grown between the elderly siblings commensurate with approaching old age. However, the brother obstinately refused to attend any invites leaving his sister (to her devices) with a melodramatic shrug. Though nobody insinuated, everyone knew that certain acreage of plantation land on which Indrani atte got title claims, courtesy of a benevolent uncle's will had elicited the overindulgence on the part of her brother in finding a suitor, till all proposals had led to dead ends. The land itself untended owing to high labor wages, poor yields and with both her nephews settled in far away shores had made the whole affair seem worthless in the end.

  Sumathi aunty greeted her like a long lost cousin complete with an embrace and a caressing of both cheeks, with drumming fingers and led her to the kitchen, the hub of all Hindu ceremonies. With her penciled eyebrows, bob cut dyed hair, kajal laced wide oval eyes, powder seasoned urbane face and carefully applied lipstick she tried her utmost to appear suave in deference to having traveled abroad with her husband and the social status attained. On this occasion, however, she wished to be a traditional mother of whom managing the kitchen throughout the wedding was an important worldly expectation that Sumathi Aunty wanted to fulfill with panache. Thus Indrani's arrival was of no small consequence.

  " Indrani I have been getting everything organized and cleaned. My backache has doubled from the efforts." She said, exhibiting her favorite symptom.

  "Akka you should have waited for me or called me earlier instead of struggling alone. I would have come sooner." Indrani Atte said.

  Sumathi aunty actually wanted to get Indrani atte at least a month back. Her husband Anantha Rao had objected, and when arguments arose, he had irritably ended it saying that he did not want a bony unmarried woman gawking around day in and day out, a month before the wedding. Somehow it made logic. However, with a week to the wedding, she had been invited. Since the past ten years, she had attended every family function be it a wedding, housewarming, child naming, shanthi homas, pujas, and funerals. Every time she arrived a week or two earlier and left a few days after the function. She was invited because a satisfying hegemony could be established over her and many personal matters shared with her assured of her meekness and implicit loyalty. Additionally, she was an untiring worker and a seasoned cook in the great traditions of the Coastal cuisine, trained in the grand kitchens of the Brahminical landlords. The early invite to the functions, some show of affection albeit creased with motives, the small perfunctory honors accorded; like being the first to light the holy kitchen fire, welcoming the groom with an arathi, blessings sought by the young couple singling her out among the invitees and a few hundred rupees thrust into her mildly protesting hands during her departure had become the raisin de atre of Indrani Atte's miserable life.

  The house of Sumathi aunty 'Sannidhi' (The place of treasured values) was in a posh locality in the heart of the city architected with the latest sloping roof tiled for symmetry and aesthetics. A mali maintained lawn bordered with Jacaranda trees, flower pots, predominantly roses, and cozily placed white painted wicker chairs, remnants of the British era, greeted the visitor who came thru the fabricated iron gates. Almost a foot higher than any passer bye's height, same as the brick red compound wall and further enmeshed with floral designs aimed at privacy, the gates when pushed on its rollers screeched, drawing attention to its activities, every swing accompanied by an arrival or departure. It had its ardent barking, squealing accompanist in the form of a robust Canine, a German shepherd, a pedigree mascot of the well to do in the city. Far more stately furred and behaved than the scavenger dogs that littered the roads, Max was a favorite of Sumathi Aunty, especially now when her children had settled overseas in California. Once past the gates, past the stone pathway and circumventing the dog (preferably when held by the owner on its leash) one found oneself standing at the portico. The entrance to the house was usually barred by a solid teak door with a rising sun carved at the center, surrounded by a cluster of deities offering salutations to the cloud piercing rays, all etched within a linear border. The sculpting was not of a notable quality, but the polish gave it charm, a toned hue of golden brown that appeared ravishing when the sulfuric canopy lights were switched on emitting a reflected glow.

  The majestic teak door led to a small verandah sparsely furnished with a couple of caned chairs, straight and taught rather than the comfortable reclined ones. There was a shoe cabinet behind sliding teak panels. Here plumbers, electricians, newspaperman, and other sundry visitors were dealt with and insignificant callers summarily dismissed. Only once it had seen some adventure when Sumathi aunty had unwittingly opened the door, and a scantily clad beggar had faltered in, unmindful of his bearings. Dropping the pooja plate with all its paraphernalia and covering her diamond earrings with the palm of her hands, she had given a shrill call to her husband. Anantha Rao deserting the pooja room had capitulated into the verandah trembling agitatedly and seeing only a beggar had mustered his halting voice to shoo him away angrily. The beggar a bit confused had turned around and sauntered away. Sumathi aunty in her casual conversations often recounted this tale each time buttressing her husband's boldness. Whenever Anantha Rao overheard his wife telling the story, no matter whether he was reading the newspaper or tying his shoelace, a leonine magnificence would set itself on his face. A tiny puppy was brought home from a reputed dog kennel about the same time and christened Max after a Hollywood character.

  The archway of the verandah serenely draped with beaded curtains led to a spacious drawing room. A large image of Shri Guru Raghavendra etched in balsa wood adored the east-facing wall. This spiritual Guru, who had under
gone live burial in an enlightened state, vowing to bless his devotees for the next seven hundred years was the patron saint of the family. The other wall contained a large showcase made of rosewood, the contours and sculpting of which was perhaps the first sign of material grandeur that a visitor encountered in this upper middle class home. Its modernity accounted for the television shelf that housed a black and white TV set from BEL, a public sector unit, one of the Ratna's established by Nehru of which Anantha Rao had retired as the Director. Whenever the current Prime Minister Shri Rajiv Gandhi son of Madam Indira Gandhi made an appearance on TV, Mr. Rao momentarily forgetting his chores would watch intently and suitably as all chatter would fall silent in the hall; till the handsome smiling face had graciously exited the idiot box. It was one of the family legends that Mr. Rao's candidacy was personally hand picked by Madam, with laudable recommendations and was sent to US on his first assignment as Director. At times Mr. Rao nodded understandingly at some comment made by the incumbent Prime Minister, as if some remnants of the former bureaucratic umbilical cord had conveyed to him a deeper meaning that served to further instill deep respect and benign silence, among the visitors occupying the hall at that moment. The head of a Sambar with large antlers and great black eyes hanging on the other wall above the plush leather sofa provided a jarring taxidermic effect. It was a parting gift, actually left over belonging of a former tenant who was a Major General and had resided for five years before Mr. Rao had made permanent residence after his retirement.

  The house nearly laid claim to being a mansion because of its four large stately bedrooms. The master bedroom was the nightly resting place of Mr. And Mrs. Rao. It was well endowed with wall to wall teak cupboards, finely chiseled dressing mirror, a queen size twin bed, all owing to the diligent interest of Sumathi aunty during its furnishing two decades ago. But for many years now it had remained the same with no alterations. The room had aged with the couple and lost a bit of its lustre while the comfortable twin bed had not seen any conjugal action since quite some time.

  The bedroom of Shruthi on the first floor evocated all signs of having been the dwelling place of a bubbly girl, whom the house had guarded against the harsher realities of the world, till her marriage and subsequent emigration to America. Her bed and pillow covers were a riot of colors. The lower shelf of the cupboards stuffed with dolls enough to kick-start a small doll factory were the indulgences of her dear Papa. Various branded handbags, slippers and hats that lay strewn across the room and many discarded under the bed showed signs of pampering that Shruthi had savored in her home. The bookshelf still contained the college books; some still in mint condition suggesting that she had passed her graduation with mild enthusiasm. As for secrets, the botany second year textbook contained the first and only love letter Shruthi had written but had not found the courage to pass it on to the friendly neighboring boy. Vikas had gone on to IIT and when his family shifted was never heard off again. The colored letters of the heart had jaded along with the black and white boring letters of the botany text; both long forgotten.

  The corner bedroom on the first floor near the terrace steps had been Suraj's. Since the day he had been forced to sleep separately owing to his coming of age and lessening innocence to being a gangly bespectacled teenager, the room had been his cocoon. Posters of Bruce Springsteen along with tennis star Boris Becker and a few unknown bodybuilders were pasted on the walls. The fairly good condition of the cricket bat, gloves, badminton shuttle, hockey stick reminded one that Suraj was not a consistent pursuer of sporting excellence. However, the worn dogged ears of the books suggested that he had been good at studies. The room bore no telltale signs of the countless hours of brooding that had been Suraj's favorite past time ending at times in the comfort of masturbation. Once Sumathi Aunty had found Debonair, Playboy magazines hidden under the bed and too ashamed to accuse her pimply teenage son of immoral conduct had quietly disposed them along with garbage. Suraj was distraught when these magazines vanished, afraid of having been discovered and had developed a queasiness in his stomach. When nobody had confronted him for a week, his uptight stomach had relaxed, and the juices flowed back to his young loins.

  Now with both Suraj and Shruthi having left the nest, these rooms along with the fourth smaller bedroom on the ground floor acted as guest rooms on special occasions which were too few, to begin with apart from the annual gana homa performed on Mr. Anantha Rao's birthday for his general well being. Thus Sumathi Auntie's pining for a grand wedding for her son. The house with its fine dining hall, well stocked modern kitchen, marble tiled pooja room, was tailored to ensure all the shenanigans of a traditional wedding, one of the millions that the middle class India had perpetuated through centuries, a ritual as old and common as birth and death itself.

  The first family to arrive without much fanfare alighting from an autorickshaw in the twilight hours of early morning, was Sumathi auntie's elder brother, Sudhir Bhat along with his wife Vasudha and teenage daughter Rekha. Embarking their luggage at the front porch, they had rung the doorbell twice, to announce their presence. When Mr. Sudhir Bhat was about to ring the bell a third time, goaded by the sullen faces of his women with red rimmed eyes and disheveled hair being telltale signs of an uncomfortable overnight bus journey, the teak door moved ajar to reveal the welcoming profile of his sister. Whenever confronted by his sibling, he first felt an unease looking at her intelligent eyes, which could see through him knowingly.

  "Come in....come in ....and thanks for coming, such a pleasure to have you all." Sumathi aunty chirped with genuine happiness. The tall reassuring presence of her brother with his slightly protruding stomach, drooping but helpful shoulders and his arrival two days before the wedding, along with his folks, showed his involvement. Besides the maternal uncle was very important in the wedding rituals.

  " The pleasure is ours. It's our Suraj's wedding na.... and his Mamu should be there to manage it na... Sudhir Bhat stated as he entered the house fully aware of his ceremonial standing in the whole affair.

  "Of course, of course, who else but his dear Mamu." Sumathi aunty rejoined enthusiastically that brought a big smile on her brother's slightly angled face. She now turned her attention to her sister in law and niece who were picking up their bags " Please do not bother ...... I shall have it sent to your room ...... I'll call the servants...you both come in now ...... don't stand outside.... its cold...come in now." Her voice had a commanding tone fortified by the knowledge that there were no servants in her brother's house, mainly a one bedroom affair in a small town. Sheepishly letting go of their bags, the mother and daughter duo stepped into rousing welcoming comments from their host. With her customary flourish, she ushered them into the smaller bedroom on the ground floor coaxing them to rest.

  It was at breakfast that Anantha Rao met his brother in law since he had not awoken on their arrival and once up at his usual time, had proceeded with his daily routine till it was time to come down to the dining hall for his morning fill. He felt nothing amiss since he had a status in life much higher than his co brother. He greeted Sudhir Bhat with a condescending smile and with an affected English accent wished good morning, a reminder of his US sojourn. Sudhir Bhat had never been abroad. He returned the greetings almost getting up from the breakfast table obsequiously and flustered a bit. Many years ago when Mr. Sudhir Bhat had decided to start a business, he had been obliged to take a loan from his brother in law that he had returned albeit without interest. This had set the tone of their unequal relationship. Having come onto his own and having made a life for himself, Mr. Sudhir Bhat always thought that he should behave on an equal footing with his brother in law. But he was unable to assuage it when he met the sophistication of Mr. Anantha Rao and the knowledge of having been in his obligation reduced him to a fawning ruffled self that forced him to behave appealingly in the presence of his brother in law.

  Rekha who was seated next to her father had stopped her spoon laced with idli sambar at midway and was staring at her Uncle
with girlish interest. His neatly cropped greyish hair parted at the left with a sideways-combed tuft of hair above the forehead, a cultivated intelligent stare through the black rimmed spectacles and the clean shaven face with consciously jutting cheeks were impressive to the teenager. Mr. Anantha Rao greeted her with a warmth that is reserved for young people who do not yet count in the pecking order of life. Rekha relishing the attention given to her was prim and gracious in her return greetings. Sudhir Bhat started up a discussion on his ideas for the success of the wedding, basically a sort of soliloquy since all he could get in response were nods and grunts from his co-brother. It acquired steam when his sister Sumathi came from the kitchen and joined him with enthusiasm, and the myriad splendor of the upcoming celebrations engulfed them in an animated discussion each egging the other on to delightful observations and comments. Sumathi aunty drew solace from her brother. She was haunted by a dreadful premonition that her son may not come. Suraj had after weeks of hurtful arguments that had shredded his mother's soul consented to arrive the night before marriage and would be leaving the wedding night itself to Delhi for his return to America. Sumathi aunty had mildly agreed, blaming his hectic job for this short sojourn by the bridegroom. The premonition lingered.

  Waves of loud laughter, indulgent guffaws aroused Rekha from her quiet after breakfast siesta. Having hastily made herself presentable, she tiptoed, wide eyed to the drawing hall and found it brimming with guests. She immediately recognized her Uncle's elder sisters, both of them married to uniformed men now retired Colonel's, whose straight bob cut hair and rigid but pompously powdered aging faces reminded one of the army traditions and their slightly snobbish but charming social life. Their better halves would be resting since the sisters too had to make an overnight journey to attend the wedding. When one of them gave Rekha a highbrow glance, she quickly turned away to avoid attention and surreptitiously engaged in studying the other guests. Sharmila Aunty with her thick jowled face and stern eyes sat on the single sofa facing the square arch to the dining hall; her gold embroidered brocade, thickset gold bangles, necklace and earrings lending credibility to her attempts to appear aristocratic. She was the only daughter of a rich coffee planter and Sumathi Auntie's first cousin. Rekha knew that her paternal aunt was known for her bourgeois aloofness and an acid tongue. Her husband Mr. Murthy a doctor by profession, subservient by nature, a quality imbibed due to cohabiting with Sharmila Aunty for more than thirty years was seated on a plastic chair diagonally opposite and generally appeared to take cue from his wife. There were other guests in the drawing hall and Rekha hardly knew any of them. Introductions would be made later, and as usual, Rekha would forget all of them till the next family function. A potbellied man with gold-framed spectacles, upturned greying whiskers, and a bald head was seated on the twin sofa along with his fat wife draped in Kanchivaram Saree. They were staring straight at her with deadpan expressions. Realizing it to be a congregation of the elite, Rekha slipped into the dining hall where all the ladies had gathered. The famed Brinda sisters trio were holding fort at the head of the table surrounded by female relatives; aunts, cousins, and in-laws. It was a feminine gathering of mirth and raucous talk perhaps a bit vain. The familiar gossip of her species ensnared Rekha till her eyes fell on Ranjan an adolescent boy of sixteen reclined against the wall next to the cutlery shelf with his hands folded and one leg bent and placed on the wall for support. He seemed lost and had the defiance of a hurt puppy. Rekha remembered that he had failed his matriculation exams. This in a family where every other person was a doctorate or at least a postgraduate had brought him ridicule. Being a distant cousin, Rekha remembered that both his parents were teachers in Government schools whose salaries were a pittance and lived in a small, nondescript town. Slightly bored and feeling put off Rekha decided to join her mother who had settled down with Indrani atte in the kitchen when an uproar near the verandah arch stopped her in the tracks.