Straight from Papa's Mouth - A Comical Wedding

‘It is a quaint wooden chest with rusty hinges and thick metal clasps to fasten and secure the precious booty inside. Its heavy lid, when yanked, gives way with a mighty groan and reveals with a flourish what hides within. Along with wisps of golden light and sparkly stars, out spills a flurry of parchment paper stained blue by neatly stenciled tales which flutter unrestrained like butterflies in a field’ - this is how I imagine Papa’s coffer of stories. What I attempt to narrate today is one of my favourites, picked with great difficulty from this treasure trove of stories that I have grown up listening to.

10 year old R was bored stiff. The wedding preparations had trudged along for several weeks now and it felt as if no one had any time for the one activity he adored the most- frivolous mischief and games. The house resembled a frenetic bee hive with people buzzing around; feverishly preparing the edifice for Chachaji’s much awaited wedding ceremony. Strings of bright orange marigold ran endlessly along the exposed edges, red and yellow boxes of mouthwatering mithai piled high in the store room and an incessant stream of instructions poured out of Papaji’s mouth as he oversaw the activities like a weathered planner.

Had R been permitted to ransack the boxes of mithai, he would have been contentedly occupied. Gorging on syrupy sweet, butter soft, crumby laddoos from the famous Bahadura Sweets would have kept him engrossed for hours. Alas, this was not to be as he and his three impish brothers were advised in rather ominous tones against pillaging the sweet meats which were meant to be served during the wedding reception. Dragging his feet in a display of exaggerated despondence he made for the playground cooking up elaborate schemes to kill time.

As the sky turned a deep shade of violet, the shehnai waalas arrived dressed in their blue and gold band uniform. The evening air stirred as the first shrill notes of the customary wedding tunes sliced through. Everything seemed to be in order. The mandap was set on the terrace under a canopy of pretty rose buds and giant banana leaves. Panditji had been busily arranging haldi, kumkum, ghee, rice, sandalwood, copper pots and earthen lamps in a semicircle around him. Pink cheeked children (including R and his brothers), freshly scrubbed and dressed in fine clothes of velvet, silk and muslin sat cross legged on the maroon rugs encircling the mandap. They ached to run around and play noisily although under the strict watchful eyes of their parents they had no other choice but to behave themselves.

Soon enough the bride and the groom took their places on the low wooden pedestals set next to the mandap. The bride was a petite girl who looked uncomfortable under the weight of the heavy ornaments adorning her. Wrapped in a rich red and silver Banarsi saree with the edge covering her tiny head, she looked radiant albeit exhausted. Perhaps the strain of the past few days of ceaseless ceremonies had taken its toll on her. Her slight frame made the groom look all the more strong and masculine. He too was eager to get this last obligation done with, for weddings maybe tons of fun for everyone else but for the two people caught in the eye of the storm – the bride and the groom – they can get quite onerous.

Plastic cups of sweet milky chai were handed out as Panditji began the ceremony by reciting chants from the Vedas. This was going to be a long night and the guests were fortifying themselves with deep fried delicacies and chai. R squirmed restlessly from time to time craning his neck to catch a glimpse of what his older brother; S was up to a few rows ahead. ‘Maybe I could annoy S by tickling him with a stray leaf lying on the floor’, he thought gleefully. And thus R began spoiling for a fight. Having devoured a slice of juicy red water melon he proceeded to spurt the seeds on S who at first was amused but then as R persisted, started to get angry. R pulled faces at S instigating him to retaliate despite Papaji’s admonishments. What started out as flippant playfulness was slowly turning into a menace. Just when he thought he had run out of ideas, R’s eyes fell on a copper pot sitting solitarily at arm’s reach. As a final grand gesture against S and Panditji’s soporific soliloquy, R grabbed the copper pot and flung it at S.

Now, what ensued is stuff that great anecdotes are made of. It is stories like these which are narrated over and over again with each version being more colourful and vivid than the previous. Almost as if in slow motion, Papaji, Ammaji and other bewildered guests saw the copper pot flip a few times on its fateful trajectory, miss S (who had ducked) by a whisker and land with a sick thud on the frail bride’s head. The poor girl opened her mouth in a silent gasp and promptly fainted in a heap on the floor. At this point utter chaos had engulfed the arena. The women crouched next to the slumped bride, trying to revive her by sprinkling water on her face while the men including a furious Papaji tried to catch hold of the rabble-rouser who anticipating his doom had bolted like lightening.

One can imagine what was in store for R when he was ambushed and outnumbered. I am told he fought valiantly before giving himself up, trying to thrash and claw his way out. He even threatened to repeat his folly by throwing the copper pot on the people chasing him. Needless to say, Papaji returned to the wedding venue with a sheepish black and blue R in tow. Thankfully, the bride had risen from her blackout and even though she had turned a shade paler, her eyes danced and a shadow of a smile played at the corners of her mouth as she forgave R for his errant deed. It is hard for me to believe that this devilish miscreant whom everyone talks of in every family gathering is now one of the most quiet and docile people I have ever met – he is none other than my father’s older brother Raju Tauji!!! 

Colours

‘Continue 88 miles on I10 N to Houston’ - instructs a tinny female voice emanating from the tiny black GPS on the dashboard. As if on cue, I recline my backrest, stretch my legs and relax. The view from my window is a fine treat for my ever hungry imagination and soon enough on a puffy cloud of day dreams I drift away to a land of my own.

It is a palette of brilliant hues that I am exposed to. Miles and miles of burgeoning farms stretch along the road causing a plethora of shades to bleed into one another. The leafy green of bushes in spring melts into the moss green of fresh carpets of grass. Pools of royal blue, rich pink, pristine white, sunny yellow and deep red - contributed by seasonal wildflowers - shimmer iridescently on the green canvas of nature. The sky hangs low like a blue and white canopy sheltering this exquisite work of art while trees heaving under the weight of flame-like orange blooms add to the cacophony of colours. Estates that remind me of ‘Tara’-the beautiful albeit ill-fated manor from ‘Gone with the Wind’ – circumscribed by white picket fences enticingly roll by. Some boast of beautiful muscular horses galloping like the wind across their vast expanse while others own herds of healthy cattle languidly grazing on stacks of brown hay. If I strain my eyes, I can almost see a young Scarlett O’Hara in a ridiculously extravagant hat riding into the horizon without a care in the world.

To the inherent Indian in me, the 163 mile drive from Austin to Houston looks like an aftermath of Holi – the Indian festival of colours. It is as if the world around me is trying hard to make up for all the years that I haven’t been able to smear yellow, green, blue and red gulaal across its face. I gladly accept the vibrant offering, all the while agreeing wholeheartedly with Mr. Louis Armstrong as his song ‘What a Wonderful World’ fills each crevice in my car and each pore on my skin.