Beyond the Wedding Hall
Kumar’s wedding was spectacular for many reasons. Several of them had to do with the excitement and incredible sense of adventure that accompanies anyone’s first time in India, others were due to the unique reason of this being Kumar’s and Shobana’s family.
Making our way to Coimbatore in Tamil Nadu, from Bangalore, is not a common route for tourists. But it has been done by many Indian locals for generations – and the train journey’s well-worn feel proves it. (see previous post). Coimbatore was typical of many up and coming Indian towns, but was most notable for a very famous Classical Indian music school. It is world-renowned among music scholars, particularly for Kumar’s father, Dr. S. Subramaniam, who is a leading professor of the school.
I was prepared for a cultured wedding. After all, this is India. Culture, rituals, chants and costumes that date back to ancient myths or for reasons that no one remembers any longer, they were all to be expected.
What I did not was expect was the human element that reached out and squeezed all our hearts – made us laugh, cry, sigh, fret, uncomfortable, do a double-take.
While every ritual has an ancient mythical reason, when I saw them in front of me, they became more real – that it wasn’t a mythical god giving away his virgin bride, it was Shobana’s father giving away his only daughter. It wasn’t a godly warrior accepting the bride, it was Kumar that was promising eternal care and love to Shobana’s father. I am about as far removed from the bride and groom as I could possibly be, yet even my eyes teared and my heart squeezed when I saw the bride’s parents reverently wash the feet of the groom, or the bride sitting on her father’s lap, his hand grasping hers in a final goodbye.
When the Brahmins recited the orally recorded chants and prayers passed down for millennia, the droning sing-song tones carried over everyone’s head. Some of the guests looked bored, others were trying to make out the words, but most were a bit in awe. I was somewhat uncomfortable – these were chants that were not heard of in years, and they were said to specially bless the bride and groom. But there was somehow a strange disquiet in the way those repeating tones wormed their way into my head through the loudspeakers, nasal sounds strung together that made no sense but made me want fight going into a trance – hypnotic, alien, resonating in a very private part of my consciousness that I never wanted anything or anyone to penetrate.
Which is a strange contrast to the fun and giggly riceball ritual that was held in the morning. It was a very female event – flowers and riceballs and giggling not withstanding, many women made it a point to remark about how I wore my sari and provide well-meaning advice. We all crowded around the bride and groom, who were decked with flowers, made to hold hands and sit on a swing. When the riceballs were flung by the female relatives to the four directions to ward off evil spirits, it was done with a wink and a nod, to judiciously hit several people in the watching crowd. People laughed and stepped away half-heartedly, while Kumar and Shobana smiled at each other. A woman sang softly in a nasal humming voice that seemed to add a slight giddiness to everyone’s mood. Under the morning sun, happiness seemed to float tangibly in the air, like a little fairy dancing on the bars of the ancient song, touching everyone’s brow that morning, making them smile, laugh, and sing along or clap in rhythm.
The incredible hospitality and generosity extended by all of the bride’s and groom’s families, ranging from old grandmothers, to cousins three-times removed, to their busy and weary siblings that still wore smiles on their faces. Kumar’s parents, who were so warm in their welcome embrace and remembered to buy me a sari and Johann a kurtha despite their incredibly busy schedule preparing for the wedding. Indian hospitality I have heard of, but to feel it first-hand just makes me feel so humbled and a bit distraught as I am prone to wonder what I can do in return. But most of all, to feel so well-cared for and not so much a stranger in a strange place. Thank you, Dr. and Mrs Subramaniam.
Shobana’s three cousins, whose names defy English spelling – three girls ranging from ten to twelve years old. The older sensible one, who warned the other two to behave themselves. Caught somewhere between a girl and a woman, wanting to act like one but compelled to behave like the other. Every now and then, childish giggles would escape her lips then she would remember she was to set an example and her face would rearrange itself back into a dignified half-smile.
The middle hyperactive one, running all over the place with her trendy jeans and spunky headband, her sharp bright eyes taking in the scene, asking intelligent questions and demonstrating remarkable eye with the Canon EOS 350D that we loaned her to play with. She took to it like a duck to water – her stance, the shots she framed, and her willingness to step out in awkward positions to take interesting angles, all display a natural affinity for the camera – we never did find her parents to suggest that they get her a camera. But we have her shots, and they are telling.
The youngest shyest one, who turned out to be very attached to me. She tried to teach me to sing in Tamil (I failed miserably), but her shyness at singing, to be encouraged by her parents’ obvious pride in her abilities, was touching. Over time she opened up and sang with some courage, the untrained voice of a 10 year old, but with all the yearning to give that song what it deserves. Trying to keep up with the more active cousins, but realizing after a while that she can’t take good pictures, or be as grown up, so she starts talking about her school, her life, what Indian women wear everyday, and whether I like my sari. And she became the most open among all of them that night.
The performers, who are also instructors at Dr. Subramaniam’s school. Their singing, their heavenly voices that defied the not-so-good acoustics to carry to the farthest reaches, alternatively made my heart race faster, my fingers clench, my eyes water and my throat close. The tabla drums that echoed the rhythm of phantom dancing feet, thumping in anguish, or drumming in joy. The delicate fingers of the singing women, keeping time by gently slapping on their crossed legs, or lightly drawing patterns in the air, like they are playing their soundwaves as their own instruments. The lamenting prayers, the song of lost love, or the one between the fisherman and the fishes in the sea – lingered in my memory long after the last echoes faded from the wedding hall.
All this effort, goodwill, love, caring, wellwishes, good mood and ancient prayers, all in an effort to provide the bride and groom with the best fortune in their life together. All the positive energies and forces in this world seemed to congregate together that day, whether mundanely human, or mythically ancient. They all weave together to buoy the couple, and everyone, on a magic carpet ride, beyond the wedding hall, to a great future ahead of them.
Now this is what a wedding is all about.
Making our way to Coimbatore in Tamil Nadu, from Bangalore, is not a common route for tourists. But it has been done by many Indian locals for generations – and the train journey’s well-worn feel proves it. (see previous post). Coimbatore was typical of many up and coming Indian towns, but was most notable for a very famous Classical Indian music school. It is world-renowned among music scholars, particularly for Kumar’s father, Dr. S. Subramaniam, who is a leading professor of the school.
I was prepared for a cultured wedding. After all, this is India. Culture, rituals, chants and costumes that date back to ancient myths or for reasons that no one remembers any longer, they were all to be expected.
What I did not was expect was the human element that reached out and squeezed all our hearts – made us laugh, cry, sigh, fret, uncomfortable, do a double-take.
While every ritual has an ancient mythical reason, when I saw them in front of me, they became more real – that it wasn’t a mythical god giving away his virgin bride, it was Shobana’s father giving away his only daughter. It wasn’t a godly warrior accepting the bride, it was Kumar that was promising eternal care and love to Shobana’s father. I am about as far removed from the bride and groom as I could possibly be, yet even my eyes teared and my heart squeezed when I saw the bride’s parents reverently wash the feet of the groom, or the bride sitting on her father’s lap, his hand grasping hers in a final goodbye.
When the Brahmins recited the orally recorded chants and prayers passed down for millennia, the droning sing-song tones carried over everyone’s head. Some of the guests looked bored, others were trying to make out the words, but most were a bit in awe. I was somewhat uncomfortable – these were chants that were not heard of in years, and they were said to specially bless the bride and groom. But there was somehow a strange disquiet in the way those repeating tones wormed their way into my head through the loudspeakers, nasal sounds strung together that made no sense but made me want fight going into a trance – hypnotic, alien, resonating in a very private part of my consciousness that I never wanted anything or anyone to penetrate.
Which is a strange contrast to the fun and giggly riceball ritual that was held in the morning. It was a very female event – flowers and riceballs and giggling not withstanding, many women made it a point to remark about how I wore my sari and provide well-meaning advice. We all crowded around the bride and groom, who were decked with flowers, made to hold hands and sit on a swing. When the riceballs were flung by the female relatives to the four directions to ward off evil spirits, it was done with a wink and a nod, to judiciously hit several people in the watching crowd. People laughed and stepped away half-heartedly, while Kumar and Shobana smiled at each other. A woman sang softly in a nasal humming voice that seemed to add a slight giddiness to everyone’s mood. Under the morning sun, happiness seemed to float tangibly in the air, like a little fairy dancing on the bars of the ancient song, touching everyone’s brow that morning, making them smile, laugh, and sing along or clap in rhythm.
The incredible hospitality and generosity extended by all of the bride’s and groom’s families, ranging from old grandmothers, to cousins three-times removed, to their busy and weary siblings that still wore smiles on their faces. Kumar’s parents, who were so warm in their welcome embrace and remembered to buy me a sari and Johann a kurtha despite their incredibly busy schedule preparing for the wedding. Indian hospitality I have heard of, but to feel it first-hand just makes me feel so humbled and a bit distraught as I am prone to wonder what I can do in return. But most of all, to feel so well-cared for and not so much a stranger in a strange place. Thank you, Dr. and Mrs Subramaniam.
Shobana’s three cousins, whose names defy English spelling – three girls ranging from ten to twelve years old. The older sensible one, who warned the other two to behave themselves. Caught somewhere between a girl and a woman, wanting to act like one but compelled to behave like the other. Every now and then, childish giggles would escape her lips then she would remember she was to set an example and her face would rearrange itself back into a dignified half-smile.
The middle hyperactive one, running all over the place with her trendy jeans and spunky headband, her sharp bright eyes taking in the scene, asking intelligent questions and demonstrating remarkable eye with the Canon EOS 350D that we loaned her to play with. She took to it like a duck to water – her stance, the shots she framed, and her willingness to step out in awkward positions to take interesting angles, all display a natural affinity for the camera – we never did find her parents to suggest that they get her a camera. But we have her shots, and they are telling.
The youngest shyest one, who turned out to be very attached to me. She tried to teach me to sing in Tamil (I failed miserably), but her shyness at singing, to be encouraged by her parents’ obvious pride in her abilities, was touching. Over time she opened up and sang with some courage, the untrained voice of a 10 year old, but with all the yearning to give that song what it deserves. Trying to keep up with the more active cousins, but realizing after a while that she can’t take good pictures, or be as grown up, so she starts talking about her school, her life, what Indian women wear everyday, and whether I like my sari. And she became the most open among all of them that night.
The performers, who are also instructors at Dr. Subramaniam’s school. Their singing, their heavenly voices that defied the not-so-good acoustics to carry to the farthest reaches, alternatively made my heart race faster, my fingers clench, my eyes water and my throat close. The tabla drums that echoed the rhythm of phantom dancing feet, thumping in anguish, or drumming in joy. The delicate fingers of the singing women, keeping time by gently slapping on their crossed legs, or lightly drawing patterns in the air, like they are playing their soundwaves as their own instruments. The lamenting prayers, the song of lost love, or the one between the fisherman and the fishes in the sea – lingered in my memory long after the last echoes faded from the wedding hall.
All this effort, goodwill, love, caring, wellwishes, good mood and ancient prayers, all in an effort to provide the bride and groom with the best fortune in their life together. All the positive energies and forces in this world seemed to congregate together that day, whether mundanely human, or mythically ancient. They all weave together to buoy the couple, and everyone, on a magic carpet ride, beyond the wedding hall, to a great future ahead of them.
Now this is what a wedding is all about.
posted by tygertyger at 11:07 AM
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