Mere Perfect

The unerring might  

Some kind, some not quite

Yet  you look ,look deep

To find  known , to find

ease

For there always was ease

A conversation

Refusing to cease

But now perhaps

When you look again

The might was not quite right.

A Bridal Affair

I didn’t see her. She was hid, lost almost amidst an enormity of screaming voices, haste, disputes and just a splash of colour all over.

Her time had come. Just like others’, it was her big day, and the wedding was to be a big deal no matter what. Usually married off at the earliest age possible, eligible for a marital bond right after the attainment of puberty, this was a rare moment in the village which is at transition point as it approaches to be town-like. The bride was 30!

The rumours had begun quite some time ago that she’d die a spinster, there was not a single man who’d want her over a nymph; delicate and young but as fate would have it, and much to the delight of her family and embarrassment to those ‘talking’ women of the neighbourhood, her man was found. A village school master, simple and earning just enough to afford meals on the table.

There was excitement, an unbelievable sense of solidarity for this family not capable of pulling off a grand Indian wedding yet trying its best and a key role being played by the bride’s brother to gather finances. Thus the preparations began, materials brought in for her big day, and the jeweller given orders, gold being an important aspect of Indian weddings.

Nothing was to be left incomplete and I stood as a spectator, on the bride’s wedding day with a much discerning yet accepting eye and watched the women indulge in small talk to their best capability while I stared into nothingness and engaged in conversations with close and distant relatives trying to keep it as short as possible lest I shall make a blunder of not recalling names or miss silly details of kinship or simply commenting on things I find ‘ugly’ or appalling at the wedding.

Now by ‘ugly’, I’m not putting decorations and dressing into consideration but merely the absurdity of some of the traditions that we haven’t got rid of-one being the ritual of giving the bridegroom a bed, mattress, cupboard and a wardrobe and more or less everything needed to start a basic household. Now to me and anyone else, who should be considered a modern, rational, thinking man, will find it nothing but dowry veiled as something purposeful.

Leaving aside criticisms and perceptions and perhaps realizing that the greater bliss lies in celebrating the truth that I saw, I would like to revert back to the pristine tenet of the bride’s big day. It was a wedding indeed, an occasion of celebration, with loud shrills of ‘Sheila’ echoing and the spirit of the neighbourhood attaining a new high. Such calm on the bride’s brow was curiously beautiful and as the night grew highlighting the colourful bulbs with the garlands draped around walls  much to the appeal of the village community gathered, I began to feel rather different. Perhaps a realization as to how much of a misfit I was, being clad in a simple, cotton salwar suit unknown to most people there while my father was busy engaging guests and others in ‘khati cillati’ conversations about disappearing sense of community living in the cities and how the wedding expenditure is not the true identity of a wedding pure and beautiful.

It was nice to watch the village folk chattering away to their heart’s content , little children finding themselves at quite a pedestal for everywhere they’d go and be introduced to family and friends. They would be given a minimum of two minutes of added attention and on a rare introduction, perhaps even a bar of chocolate. Of course, certain observations were unusual but funny such as those comments during dining that women made on the mutton curry or a sudden enlightened moment as one of them claimed to have noticed that in nearby, bigger towns, the buffet system was followed which she believed was more hazardous and she hated having to stand in a queue and preferred screaming out at the serving men at this wedding and most others, to fetch items she wanted at an immediate call. What irony! For I almost died of excess on my plate and couldn’t manage the dal, fish curry, ‘muri ghonto’ all being poured into my plate with or without my assent.

Ceremonies were completed rightfully according to the Hindu rites and rituals and I watched the bride shyly hold the bridegroom’s hand taking each circle around the holy fire in anticipation of a new life, perhaps a new being. Now of course, this particular wedding was not over that  night, for, the following afternoon, what was left was ‘ bashi biya’ which translating into English would mean ‘stale wedding’. Hilarious though it may sound, it in my esteem in an absolute lengthy process and even more troublesome for the guests who can’t now wait to go home but instead are spectators to utter chaos, sluggish progress of work and a pound of make up taking up more than an hour to be done for both the bride and the ‘jamai’ (bridegroom) . The simple ceremony which was getting painful due to the scorching sun for everyone including the bride, who of course, was drenched with tears all over face and her makeup spreading made her a hideous proposition to look at.

And thus this not-so great, grand affair, after its tumultuous ending brought some relief over my brow although there were silent tears and unhappiness written on everyone else’s face as they saw another of ‘their girls’ find her path into establishing a new married life with a man little known if not a complete stranger. She must now fulfill personal, societal and all other needs that she is typically expected too. Her failure will bring shame to her home and the support of her new husband through encouragement of her efforts , will be a proud moment for me, for somehow that would not only mean an end to chauvinism but also , a transition from stern traditionalism to rationalism.