Wedding Vignettes: Excusez-moi?

Not yet ready. Not today. Kalé ao. Worker has gone for tea. Worker has gone to his gaon. Come in afternoon. Come in evening. My man not yet come. Wait khali five minutes. Wait half an hour. Wait one hour. Bandh tomorrow. Autos on strike. Yes, we are open, but no one there. Credit card machine broken. ATM does not work - no electricity. Sorry, no change. No hot drinks, only cold drinks. No cold drinks, only hot drinks. (I swear all this happened to us).

Not here, there. Not there, in the city. Not in city, in Satellite. Not in Satellite, in Law Garden. Not Law Garden, try Navrangpura. Not Navrangpura, NARANGPURA. Not Narangpura, try Shivranjani Char Rasta. Shyamal Char Rasta. Swastik Char Rasta. Bodakdev Char Rasta.

Everything is Char Rasta. Char Rasta ni agal. Ni pachal. Ni dabi baju. Ni jamni baju. Everything is behind, in front of, across from, next to or on top of. We ran from char rasta to char rasta. From place to place. From shop to shop. When I took out my proudly-printed-from-Google map, they laughed and advised me to put it away and take heed of the in-front-of, behind-and-next to directions, they would serve me better.

It didn’t help that Bachubhai, our aging family driver of thirty years, could not remember how to get to the same shop we had visited every day for the past three days. My fingernails grew by the time he reversed. We could get in and out of the car whiIe he was still pulling into a parking spot. I can walk faster on one leg, said my daughter. Once when we were short of time, I suggested that we make a quick dash to the tailor. She laughed. It’s a whole kilometer away, Mom. Let’s do it when we have a couple of hours to spare. Amazing how the sarcasm gene, so light and subtle in the mother’s body, once inherited by the progeny, can generate barbs sharper than a two-edged sword.

Wedding Vignettes: The India Trip

Part and parcel of preparing for a wedding is going to India to wedding-shop. Not necessary if you have sons and you can just order a sherwani on-line (lucky swines). But mandatory if you have a bridezilla ... er, I mean daughter, who has to go there personally to ensure that every sequin is in the right place on her lengha. One blog - although I have enough material to write a book - will be devoted to buying the panetar.

So off we went to India. 

We stopped in Turkey first, where we ate enough eggplant to not touch bharta for the rest of our lives. Istanbul a beautiful city and we fell in love with the friendly people. The friendly men fell in love with my beautiful daughter and I was offered a hundred camels for her. Had they offered a hundred Lindt ... just kidding. (Although by the end of the trip, I would’ve sold her for a bowl of khitchdee).

Second stop Bombay, where the astronomical prices sent us screaming in terror, wallet clutched to our chests, to Ahmedabad. Unlike Istanbul this is not a beautiful city, but again we fell in love with the people. I may have been born and brought up in Bombay, but each time I come to this city, I have the feeling of coming home.

Every experience we had, every shop we went to, every person we met is etched indelibly in our minds and hearts. When we wear our sarees, when we slip on our bangles, when we use the rubber stamps, when the priest burns the camphor, and when we hang up the toran, we will remember them not only for their friendly service, but also for their smiles.

Wedding Vignettes

My daughter is getting married.

While my husband wallows in depression, I roll up my sleeves and crank-start the brain. Venue. Guest list. Invitations. Hotels. Caterer. Pandit. Panetar. Jewelry. Gifts. Tastings. Florist. Photographer ... Now I need the Prozac. And give me a Xanax while you are at it, because I am starting to panic as well.

At least she found her own soulmate. She spared us the agony of ‘Kai chokro-bokro che ke?’ and blessed us with the ecstacy of the best damaad we couldn’t have even conjured up in our imagination.

So for the next six months I will blog the excitement (as well the trials and tribulations) of getting this production on the road. And a production it is and will be, if it is anything like your typical, over-the-top Indian wedding. The mehndi. The pithi. The pooja. The garba. The sangeet. The wedding. The reception.

Aaarghhh! How about “the elopement”?