Got happily drunk on beer yesterday and in the midst of many irrelevant statements on life, the universe and everything realised a few things. One, Beer is God's way of telling us that we still hold a special place in his heart. Two, it's always a good thing to drink without having anything to do the next day. No work, nothing to read, no deadlines breathing down your neck - good thing. And three, beer is God's way of telling us...
Had an enlightening chat about a north Indian wedding with a friend. Which brings us in record time and space to the subject matter in dispute here. After Vadakancheri and this really cool Arya Samaj wedding I attended the discussion brought back memories of a Punjabi wedding that I was subjected to a while back. So here we are with a standard-issue compare and contrast.
Vadakancheri was you typical Palaghat Iyer affair, replete with the Kashi Yatra (where the groom, disgusted with the whole concept of marriage pulls this mock show of taking off to Kashi or some such place of spiritual interest to renounce this world of materialism. Methinks it's performance anxiety that made the first groom think of such a thing but can't say that out loud. The in laws-to-be then coax the poor sod back into the fold and proceed to get him married before he can think of escaping again.), the old women in heavily gold-embroidered silk sarees discussing everything from family gossip to potential suitors of every unmarried girl in a ten km vicinity, kids vying for a place next to the couple to inhale the fumes of the pyre. No, fumes of the fire. And the usual old men talking about how good the Railways was in 1932 and how the pension check isn't coming in on time, and how today's generation is simply too disgusting to be left alive and in charge.
The Arya Samaj wedding is a simple, highly interesting affair. Lasts for about an hour, maybe ninety minutes if the man in charge is a little on the slow side. Only the incantations specific to two people being united in holy matrimony and a quick spin around the pyre. Damn, fire. Classmates of the groom resorting the the usual hooliganism in the back chairs. The priest, usually one who's not playing with a full deck - I think he's got just the jokers - translates every line in Sanskrit to Hindi, Kannada and English (I'm sure the languages change with place but one never knows). And before you're done laughing at groom turning red at mention of his (potential) children or his rather frequent bored expression, it's over. May we all adjourn for lunch, never to return.
In stark contrast to all this is the shindig that happens to the north of the Vindhyas and, nowadays due to the exodus, all over the world. So much so that movies and even discovery travel and living, which the world seems to think the world of, does a documentary on the more expensive of these. After HAHK (which sounds like a cat with a fur ball problem) it seemed rather surreal that the many events depicted in that torturous film would actually happen in real life. And then I ended up at this wedding. Landed close to dinner time to a quiet open area with little activity outside of waiters and the buffet. The barat apparently was having trouble with traffic. This I decided needed investigation. So off we went following some distant cacophony to locate the problem.
A mass of humanity herded along on either side with similar humanity carrying tube lights was the first thing that was observed. Then the sound of a portable generator (to power the tube lights) and the sound of an live orchestra. Incidentally on the same truck as the generator vying to out sound the diesel motor with minimal success. Then the horse. With the groom on top and horse-byproducts behind. A million drunk revellers (which I can empathize with) and a brass band. A full brass band. Playing souped up jazzy renditions from the aforementioned HAHK and the more nauseating DDLJ. So this bunch after being temporarily hindered by an ambulance, a cow and the police, proceeded to arrive at the open buffet space.
Then someone wanted to steal shoes. That's when I realised that there sometimes is little difference between reality and celluloid. Stealing shoes apparently is a huge money making racket that persists despite all logic. And more money can be made with the aid of neem leaves and black mail.
And at around 3 am when the vampires have decided that it's time to head coffin-wards, the bride and groom decide to do the old fire spin egged on by close relatives, considering the rest of the invitees have either passed out or decided to go spend that dubiously earned shoe money.
In the midst of all this is me going why can't we just sign the papers and get on with it. But ours is rarely to reason why. And why should we? It's not my funeral. Yet.
Addendum : Condom sales from vending machines in Gujrat during navratri where the whole dancing thing happens for many a night in a row show an astronomical increase from the average for the rest of the year.
Had an enlightening chat about a north Indian wedding with a friend. Which brings us in record time and space to the subject matter in dispute here. After Vadakancheri and this really cool Arya Samaj wedding I attended the discussion brought back memories of a Punjabi wedding that I was subjected to a while back. So here we are with a standard-issue compare and contrast.
Vadakancheri was you typical Palaghat Iyer affair, replete with the Kashi Yatra (where the groom, disgusted with the whole concept of marriage pulls this mock show of taking off to Kashi or some such place of spiritual interest to renounce this world of materialism. Methinks it's performance anxiety that made the first groom think of such a thing but can't say that out loud. The in laws-to-be then coax the poor sod back into the fold and proceed to get him married before he can think of escaping again.), the old women in heavily gold-embroidered silk sarees discussing everything from family gossip to potential suitors of every unmarried girl in a ten km vicinity, kids vying for a place next to the couple to inhale the fumes of the pyre. No, fumes of the fire. And the usual old men talking about how good the Railways was in 1932 and how the pension check isn't coming in on time, and how today's generation is simply too disgusting to be left alive and in charge.
The Arya Samaj wedding is a simple, highly interesting affair. Lasts for about an hour, maybe ninety minutes if the man in charge is a little on the slow side. Only the incantations specific to two people being united in holy matrimony and a quick spin around the pyre. Damn, fire. Classmates of the groom resorting the the usual hooliganism in the back chairs. The priest, usually one who's not playing with a full deck - I think he's got just the jokers - translates every line in Sanskrit to Hindi, Kannada and English (I'm sure the languages change with place but one never knows). And before you're done laughing at groom turning red at mention of his (potential) children or his rather frequent bored expression, it's over. May we all adjourn for lunch, never to return.
In stark contrast to all this is the shindig that happens to the north of the Vindhyas and, nowadays due to the exodus, all over the world. So much so that movies and even discovery travel and living, which the world seems to think the world of, does a documentary on the more expensive of these. After HAHK (which sounds like a cat with a fur ball problem) it seemed rather surreal that the many events depicted in that torturous film would actually happen in real life. And then I ended up at this wedding. Landed close to dinner time to a quiet open area with little activity outside of waiters and the buffet. The barat apparently was having trouble with traffic. This I decided needed investigation. So off we went following some distant cacophony to locate the problem.
A mass of humanity herded along on either side with similar humanity carrying tube lights was the first thing that was observed. Then the sound of a portable generator (to power the tube lights) and the sound of an live orchestra. Incidentally on the same truck as the generator vying to out sound the diesel motor with minimal success. Then the horse. With the groom on top and horse-byproducts behind. A million drunk revellers (which I can empathize with) and a brass band. A full brass band. Playing souped up jazzy renditions from the aforementioned HAHK and the more nauseating DDLJ. So this bunch after being temporarily hindered by an ambulance, a cow and the police, proceeded to arrive at the open buffet space.
Then someone wanted to steal shoes. That's when I realised that there sometimes is little difference between reality and celluloid. Stealing shoes apparently is a huge money making racket that persists despite all logic. And more money can be made with the aid of neem leaves and black mail.
And at around 3 am when the vampires have decided that it's time to head coffin-wards, the bride and groom decide to do the old fire spin egged on by close relatives, considering the rest of the invitees have either passed out or decided to go spend that dubiously earned shoe money.
In the midst of all this is me going why can't we just sign the papers and get on with it. But ours is rarely to reason why. And why should we? It's not my funeral. Yet.
Addendum : Condom sales from vending machines in Gujrat during navratri where the whole dancing thing happens for many a night in a row show an astronomical increase from the average for the rest of the year.
