The Indian Wedding Season 2: Two Weddings and a Funeral.

1. I Now Pronounce You Sikh and Hindu.

The first ceremony of the day will be a Sikh one (I'm still trying to determine if it's closer to “sick” or “seek,” as in, “Dang, you look Sikh in that turban”). The groom is from a Sikh family, the bride from a Hindu one, so today is going to be Weddingpalooza, with a ceremony at four and then another one at night. Apparently, this is only the tip of the iceberg, as these weddings usually have events that last up to a week. It's to be expected, of course, because it's the Wedding Season here, that time of year when you can see the marriage fireworks on any given night (mystery solved).

After asking directions from various rickshaw drivers and pedestrians, we finally make it to a short distance away from the Gurudwara (Sikh Temple). The Colonel pulls over the car and waits.

A little bit more Indian time later, and the rest of the groom's family is on their way, creating a caravan of cars which successfully announces the glory of this young husband-to-be.

erikajake.blogspot.com

We arrive at a simple but pleasant Gurudwara and leave our shoes at the check counter. While we wait in the courtyard, the bride, in an extraordinarily heavy and ornate get-up, delicately makes her way into the temple. I get a bit worried that we're missing the ceremony, and then remember Indian time. When we eventually take our seats, heads covered, nothing has been missed.

The Ceremony itself is quick and a bit of a blur. We're sitting cross-legged on the left side of the floor with the rest of the women and all around are members of the video and photo team with incredibly bright lights. So, needless to say, for a lot of the ceremony those lights were directed right at us; it was something akin to the experience I expect people have after they die. Don't go into the light...

erikajake.blogspot.com

Under the many layers of cloth at the front center of the room, in a shrine I often described as similar to a small covered casket, the holy man took out pages from the holy book and began reading. Singing, chanting, a little light music, and the couples circle the shrine slowly, the bride being lead by a semi-transparent cloth pinned to her groom.

It's all terribly nice, terribly reverent, and terribly quick. All in all, a good wedding. Walking back out into the courtyard for the reception, I ponder where I can wipe the oil on my hand from the prasad (a gooey food offering that I'm growing accustomed to).

The reception is casual and simple; paneer sandwiches, coffee, juice, small talk. The people around me are dressed somewhat simply and it's all very relaxed.

Little did I know what was awaiting me.

2. The Hindu Extravaganza! (I mean, Wedding).

erikajake.blogspot.com

Hindu weddings, I'm told, are organized temporally by an astrologer, who(it seems) almost always predicts that the couple should be married in the middle of the night. After saying goodbye to the Colonel and wife, we're in Leon's safe hands. We find a hotel; relax for a while. It's going to be a long night.

We finally arrive just outside the wedding around 10pm, where the groom's family and friends are again amassing in preparation for a glorious entrance. The Groom is playing the role of debonair Indian Prince atop a blind-folded and decorated white steed as the rest of us gather around. He smiles a bit forcedly (although his eyes reveal he's actually quite pleased) and points to the sky, giving the photographers their opportunity. A brass band makes up the center of the crowd, and servants carry lanterns along the side. We're coming together in the middle of the road, so cars irritatedly drive by. Marking our destination, circular fireworks light every so often in the distance. 

In time, we start to march toward the reception; march isn't the right word, but it's the first one that comes to mind (please don't sue me, Chuck Palanuik). It's more of a dance, trot, stop type of movement. Every so often, whether in a ritualized behavior or out of the sheer pleasure of it, the center of the crowd stops just before the prince and begins to dance. Good natured, he throws up his arms and joins in from time to time.

We arrive at the site of the wedding, only to find that our entrance is being blocked by the family of the bride. The groom steps forward, offering money for admittance, being ceaselessly teased by the family with plates of food. He must have done something right, because eventually the teasing stops and we move forward.

We're all slowly traveling through what feels like a tunnel of flowers and dangling lights. We emerge to find ourselves in a wide-open space filled with all the accessories that make a good party: disco-light dance floor and tons and tons of food.

Near the front, patriarchs and other important guests are posing for pictures, wishing away bad spirits by circling each others heads with money and tossing it into the air. Lucky servants bend to pick up the discards. 

It doesn't take long (maybe 10 yards) before the feeding starts. Platters of finger foods and little tooth-picks start surrounding us, and it's all quite yummy. After a minute or two, the number of servers begins to quickly out-pace the number of munching guests; at first I thought they were chasing Alan, a volunteer from Patiala, who despite his trimness has a voracious appetite visible from a mile away. After a while, I realized just how many servers there were; there were easily one for each guest. “Ma'am?” they ask me, holding a tray. One or two look disappointed if you turn them away; some insistently try to top the nibblet with sauce for you.

We back away from the food only to find another entire row behind us. Dinner, I think. Filling up my plate with favorites like daal and papri chaat (a dish I will never turn down), I stand and munch with the others, who aren't the least bit eager to sit down at one of the tables. A bit confused, I finish my food, satisfied.

I follow the others indoors, only to find that this is where "the real" dinner will be served. Unable to handle any more, I sit down with the other women and have a cup of coffee while Leon, Alan, and various other men mysteriously disappear. It turns out that although Hindus don't drink at Weddings, Sikhs drink at Hindu weddings. It's only a short time before they're “in the spirit,” and enjoying themselves out on the dance floor.

It's probably important for me to mention that this is not a wedding reception. This is the wedding. The couple will be having a reception tomorrow in Delhi. We're all just waiting for the ceremony to start (or so I thought).

As I glance around the crowd, I'm exceptionally glad that Auntie rejected my first suit. Everywhere I look is bling (a word I picked up locally); it's sewn onto their clothes, worn on their bodies, hanging from their scarves. Everyone looks terribly rich and elegant. I've also managed to find where the overweight people in India have been hiding. Must be all the weddings.

I head outside to watch the dancing for a while, declining when Leon pulls me to the dance floor (“two drink minimum,” I tell him). Indian people have this wonderful jovial way of dancing, which frequently involves putting the hands up and the feet making little steps, almost like an Indian hokey-pokey.

erikajake.blogspot.com

Leon grabs the microphone from the DJ and begins to call guests to the dance floor. This is the first time I've met him, and I find him a bit disarming. He's terribly genuine, open, cheerful, and obviously quite concerned that everyone have a wonderful time. He's also quite tall, so his salmon-colored turban and jolly face peer out over the crowd as he says a little rhyme before calling each person out onto the floor.

All danced out, everyone moves inside for the sit-down dinner; the bride and groom look content, if a bit exhausted, at the table next to ours.

erikajake.blogspot.com

By this time, it's quarter to one, and we all start filing out. The bride and groom greet us by the door, and behind us very few guests remain. I'm told that the next three hours will be formal ceremony, something which only those most dedicated family and friends will see tonight.

Back at the Dreamz Hotel, in a room which we barganed down $3 in about twenty minutes, I dream about flowers and dangling lights. 

Oh, and I was lying about the funeral. Made you read!  

Thanks to Erika for the beautiful pictures on this post! See more at: http://erikajake.blogspot.com/