I’d heard a lot about Indian weddings. Multi-day events, they are filled with color, food, and people. Generally this referred to Hindu weddings, but when Saleha invited me to join the festivities of her brother’s wedding, I couldn’t resist seeing the Muslim interpretation of an Indian wedding ceremony for myself. So, when I flew back from Sri Lanka I made my way back to her home in time for the first day of events. When I arrived, a one-handed laborer was in the process of erecting a huge tent from bamboo poles outside the front door of their urban home. I was just as awed by the skill of the man, who used his teeth to pull together the knots he was tying, as I was with the size of the tent, which took over the communal terrace in the front of a group of houses and apartments. Saleha was bustling around in the kitchen, beginning to organize the food supply that would be doled out to over two hundred hungry family members, neighbors, and friends who were invited for the first ceremony the following afternoon. Her mother was seated with a group of friends and family members sorting out the gifts that would be presented to the bride, part of the first day of traditions. Silks for salwaar suits and imitation gold jewelry, ready-made dresses and beauty products, all wrapped in plastic and decorated with bows, baubles and glitter. Totally tickety-tack in my personal opinion but who am I to judge? The women visited make satisfactory grunts as they survey the small pile of treasures. Saleha’s father is directing traffic outside, organizing the chef to set up his outdoor kitchen behind the house, and I see a row of enormous cooking pots being rolled down towards the back alley where he will begin cooking chicken biriyani first thing in the morning. I drop my bags, exhausted just watching (and, admittedly having had rough night with two flights and an hours sleep slumped over an airport chair). Later in the evening, Saleha brings me to her room (which will shortly become her brother and wife’s wing of the house). There, I get to rummage through her wardrobe to pick out outfits for the various wedding ceremonies. I have to admit I’m kinda stoked at the prospect of wearing something other than the same four outfits I’ve lived in for five months. Especially when they all have sequins.
The next afternoon the ceremonies begin. I slide into my first outfit, a long black silk dress and matching pants with beautiful gold and bronze embroidered flowers, line my eyes with kohl, force tiny sparkly bangles onto my wrists and poke glittering earrings in my ears, overly enthused at the prospect of dressed up for the first time in months. All this just to walk five hundred meters down the street to the bride’s family home. In this first wedding tradition, the women of the groom’s household offer gifts to the bride’s family, who will duly deliver them to the bride, who has been hidden away in preparation for the big day. Though she is not present, her family accepts them and provides drinks for the guests (think 7-Up and Fanta rather than champagne or cocktails). A mixed group of burkhas, salwaars and saris, we decorate the room in color, crowding around to sit in an attempt to find a comfortable spot on the floor to sit. I find myself next to a crinkly but lovely old grandmother and smile at her in an unspoken “hello.” I watch as they gossip for a while, finishing their drinks before standing up in then we all make our way to our feet as an implicit sign of departure.
This is followed by the first of several epic feasts that have been prepared at the house. Served on enormous platters as communal plates, huge piles of rice and chicken, bowls of curd and are doled out to approximately two hundred fifty hungry guests. Seated in circles around their food, guests share the platter and eat using their fingers to create small balls of biriyani. Despite my best efforts I can’t seem to help dropping rice onto my beautiful dress with every bite and embarrassingly, everyone seems to notice.
I found that throughout the wedding I was just as much a topic of conversation as the groom, as wide-eyed gazes come from all directions and I am introduced to many a curious neighbor, uncle, and friend. I learn that someone’s distant cousin lives somewhere in Chicago, and another’s son is currently studying in London, and still another’s uncle works in New Zealand. As a foreigner I am anyone and anything different – an opportunity to show off any grasp on the English language, to explain their connection to the world outside of India, or merely a chance to sit quietly with someone with blonde hair and blue eyes for the first time in their lives, and maybe even have their photo taken. I admit I felt a little bit special. I hoped I wasn’t taking away the moment from the groom, but he seemed to revel in the hubbub that we created together. That evening another small ceremony takes place, during which the groom’s face is painted by the women of his home with halva, or turmeric powder mixed with water, which is a distinct yellow color. This is considered a symbol of good luck for the wedding (and is said to be good for the skin as well!). Though I am doing my best to capture the moment on camera, Shabbaz urges me to come over and paint his face as well. I slather the mixture across his face and arms while cameras roll and capture our laughter. After the ceremony takes place, the remaining mixture is turned on the captive audience and before I have time to realize what’s happening, I find myself completely covered. Laughter fills the tent as we all turn a shade of yellow. And while this is going on, the bride’s family arrives with part of her dowry – furniture, crockery, kitchen utensils, cushions, and other necessities for creating a home. As with Muslim tradition, when the bride is married she moves into the home of her husband’s family, and the evening is spent arranging furniture on the first (or second, depending on what country you’re in) floor of the home.
The following day is one of rest, as preparations continue for the main ceremony the following evening. I wake up to find three strangers in the kitchen and quickly learn that they are henna artists. The day is spent eating and making sure that our henna is dry and dark enough. The skill of the artists is clear as they quickly design intricate patterns, each one unique and beautiful, on at least ten women’s hands(and feet) each in the course of the day. We spend the evening arranging the room for the bride and groom and the next day we are ready for the real event, which takes place in the evening. On the groom’s side, it begins with a ceremonial reading of the Koran. With the help of a local Imam, Shabbaz is seated surrounded by his family as he nervously recites from the holy book. This is followed by his mother, sister, and other close relatives, singing verses in blessing. He wears an intricate turban and a Muslim religious dress, prepared to go to the mosque to say his vows, and suddenly he disappears. He and the men have gone to the mosque for prayer followed by the actual ceremony, while we women must wait dutifully for his return as a newly wedded husband.
Knowing there is some time, girls take this opportunity to put on yet another outfit. For women, it seems, a wedding is simply an opportunity to show off as many articles of clothing, accessories and make-up skills as possible. I am dressed in another beautiful borrowed garment, and we make our way to the bride’s home to await the newly wedded couple. Unlike our weddings, where there is the “groom’s side” and “bride’s side,” here there is a women’s and men’s section and little to no interaction takes place between these two groups. When Shabbaz arrives from the mosque, he is among a gaggle of laughing men, and not his wife. Surely a newly wedded husband should come with his spouse? I think to myself. I quickly learn that there is one more ceremony to take place. It is for the women, and as such, it takes place in the home rather than at the mosque. I walk into the bride’s family home for the second time and crowd around a shrouded, veiled, bejeweled bride. Her face is covered with an intricate maroon red duputta, intricately stitched with thousands of sparkling sequins, beads and baubles. The only skin visible is her beautifully hennaed hands and arms, covered with golden bangles. She sits across from her husband and together they recite from the Koran. There is no touching. There is no eye contact. They speak at one another but not to one another.And at the end of the reading, they are well and truly married. She shares heart-wrenching goodbyes with her family members as it is the last time she will be sleeping in her family home. Then she is bedecked with a floral veil and walked down the steps and into the bridal coach (the family Honda, similarly veiled with flowers) and taken to her new home.
When I see her again later that evening, she sits in the living room of Saleha’s house fidgeting with the embroidery on her beautiful bridal veil. She looks terrified and I wonder what it must be like for this young girl. I’m sure she has never slept next to any man besides her father in her life. In a conservative household I’m sure the topic of sex has never been breached and I wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t really understand how the pieces fit. She must learn to be part of an entire new household as well as behave as a good Muslim wife. As a new member of this family she will have time to acclimatize, but soon she will be expected to share in the women’s duties – cooking, cleaning, washing clothes, serving the men, making tea ten times a day for visitors, and the list goes on and on... Furthermore, I learn that Shabbaz has “requested” that she wear the burkha after their marriage. A “request” in this context is merely a polite way of saying “demand.” I am fairly accepting of the rituals and traditions of other cultures but this one just makes me cringe. To force a young girl to cover herself entirely in public strikes me as ludicrous. I used to think, what is exposing a face, an arm, a foot, really going to do in the grand scheme of things? Many of the women here wear the burkha, and I’ve seen covered women throughout my travels, from Istanbul to Cairo to Colombo, but to finally see what it’s like from the inside I begin to understand that the burkha does exactly what it sets out to do – it makes women nameless, faceless, characterless drones in the world of men. Underneath their veils, these women come in all shapes and sizes, some are serious, others funny, some kind and open, others unfriendly and severe. Being exposed to these women in their "natural habitiat" - the home, I was finally able to see what is hidden. And I could only conclude that these were not the drones I had imagined - in fact what you see when you remove the veil is somehow more full of life and personality than your average, uncovered women. I speculate that they accumulate persona while they’re hidden under the veil and only have an opportunity to expose their true character when the veil comes off in the company of women. You can also see there is a fear in these women. It took me a while to tune into this, but soon it became obvious that the women are accutely aware of the men. Whenever a man enters the room, even a brother or son-in-law, there is a sudden shift in the atmosphere, the women cover their heads with their dupattas (shawls), and the laughter dies out in respect. I must seem like a crass, immoral young woman for lacking the respect to cover myself when a man approaches, but I think to some degree they can understand the cultural difference.
We go to bed late that night. The following day there were two receptions, hosted by both sides of the family (an opportunity to wear two new outfits! I think excitedly). Approximately 2,500 guests join each event and both are held at a local hall. The bride and groom will be seated separately (what a surprise!) and will receive blessing (and cash!) from the guests. Or at least those who don’t show up just for food. It’s a constant stream of people and food, and Wardah looks exhausted sitting on a red throne in her wedding attire, forcing a smile at each strange passing guest. Her husband, across the room, sits among his posse of young male friends, laughing proudly. I wonder how this girl will handle the new role of wife she’s been handed.
When I see Wardah the following morning, she is dressed in new and shimmering green satin salwar kameez. She has the customary jingling anklets on her feet, signifying her married status, and wears some of the jewelry she was gifted. Gold earrings, necklaces, toe rings and green bangles to match her dress. She has a new sense of pride and security in her position as a married woman, and she takes my hand when I come down for breakfast, welcoming me to her new home and asking me how I slept. I see that for many young girls, marriage is the ultimate transition into adulthood. Until she is married, a girl can never be a woman. I look back on the day when I first met her and barely remember the young girl I was introduced to; Wardah’s overnight transformation was magnificent. A ca