Julie & Kishore (21 page)

CHAPTER
THIRTY-THREE

The
Hindi word for blessing is ashirwad.

The
day of the wedding was fast approaching. All the arrangements had
been
made and over a hundred guests had been invited. There was no need to send out
invitations as the word of mouth network was sufficient enough to do its duty.

All
of Kishore’s family, friends and the local neighbours were coming and those who
hadn’t been invited would turn up anyway. This wedding was not formal and as it
was to take place in the communal garden, anyone could watch and join in the
festivities. Kishore said he wouldn’t be surprised if two
or even three
hundred people arrived on the day.

At
any wedding the bride is the main attraction. In this case the bride is of
course me. Me! I was still coming to grips
with the
fact
 
that
it
was
me, who would very soon marry my
soul mate. I had to pinch myself to admit I was actually getting married in
India - it was hard to take in. The reality of what I was doing, having a
wedding without any of my family or friends present was piercing me straight in
the heart – like an arrow hitting a bull’s eye.

With
no one I could easily talk
to
, those little
doubts still managed to creep into my mind
and my self-confidence hit an all time low. Nevertheless, I
held my chin
high and tried to keep myself busy by helping out with the preparations but
I found
it was no use
. As I
observed,
everyone
was
buzzing
around like bees, each having their own chore to attend to. I offered my help,
“Julie," I was informed, “Help?
you
are the
bride, the guest of honour, you shouldn’t help, go and rest, you will need your
strength for your big day.”

 
Reluctantly
,
I decided I
did
need some alone time so I headed up to the balcony.
As I reached the top of the stairs I felt the warmth of the winter sun on my
face. I headed over to the railing and took a few deep breaths. I closed my
eyes and tried to relax. I thought about getting married, a real marriage -
there would be no turning back.
C
ould I
actually
do this? I loved Kishore there was no
doubt about that and I had a different kind of love for his family. They were
sweet and had accepted me so readily considering I had known them for
such a short time
. I was going to become Mrs Julie Patel
or Mrs Kishore Patel…mmmmm…could I live the rest of my life with that name? I
smiled to myself, I supposed it could have been worse
,
I could be marrying a David Pork or George Ramsbottom.

Better
a Patel than a Ramsbottom!

The
day before the wedding loomed and anticipation in Kishore’s house was at fever
pitch. Kishore, his Father and Sunil had packed a bag
each
because
they were going to stay
the night
at an Uncle’s
house.
 
Any family
friend is called an Uncle or Aunty and I was not actually sure if this Uncle
was a relative or not.
         
I was a bit emotional as I said
goodbye to Kishore but as I thought of how I would look when I saw him next
dressed in my wedding outfit and knowing that he had never seen me in
any
sort of Indian
clothes before, I said, “You are going to be so surprised when you see me
tomorrow.”

With a wag of his finger, his mysterious reply as he
headed out the door was, “Wait and see Julie, I may just have a surprise in
store for you.”

What did he mean by that?

This
evening was to be the equivalent of a hens or bachelors night. As the men
headed off for their own celebration
, I soon
cheered up as us
girls
prepared for our own fun.

A
jingling sound could be heard coming up the stairwell, which was in unison with
each step taken. Japoni entered the room and I saw she wore anklets with
teeny-tiny bells linked to each chain, a town crier couldn’t have done a better
job of announcing her presence.

Japoni
was an expert in Mendhi or as it’s also known, Henna. She was a young girl in
her early twenties with a vibrant personality. Kishore’s Mother, Ranjini, Saras
and the other local neighbourhood women who had come for the evening were
entranced by her as she made a grand entrance into the sitting room, they were
all drawn by her effervesce. She didn’t wear a traditional salwar kameez,
instead
she
had on
a muslin aqua shirt and a colourful
,
long flowing
hippy skirt. Around her neck was a
string of
beads
and thick bangles clunked on her wrists. Her hair was long and wavy and her
glittering eyes captivated me. If I looked up the word gypsy in a dictionary I
am sure Japoni's name would be the definition. With her personality being as
bright and sparkling as her clothes, I to
o
was soon caught in her trance.

She
found an appropriate place to set up her equipment and did so with the
dedication of a true artist. As I sat in eager anticipation Japoni mixed the
deep red henna paste. Using a little paint brush, she
began to
intricately
decorate my hands and feet
and
while I watched
spellbound
,
the creation came to life on my body. It took three
long hours to apply but the time went by quickly as Japoni kept me amused with
funny stories - she was so full of life! Drinking bottomless cups of tea,
Mummyji, Ranjini, Saras and the other ladies listened, watched and gossiped.

When
Japoni was finally satisfied she leant back to admire her work. I inspected my
hands and feet,
they were painted in
an exquisite
henna
design -
amazing!
 
The intricate artwork
was so delicate it
reminded me of lace, I was astonished by its
beauty.

If
time was not a problem, henna needed to be applied a week before a wedding to
allow it to dry properly and for the true colour to emerge. Japoni explained
the darker the colour of henna, the greater the love will be the groom and his
family will give to the bride. The designs would last for about two weeks,
depending on how many times I washed them.

CHAPTER
THIRTY-FOUR

The
Hindi word for red is lal.

Prayers,
celebrating, eating, rituals and the gathering of relatives from other
countries
,
Indian weddings can last many days, perhaps a week
or more.

A
bright January sun was shining as I rose on my wedding day, although the air
was crisp and cool. My wedding day! As with any wedding the most important task
was to get the bride looking stunning for her big day…in this case the bride is
me, me!
 

For
our breakfast Mummyji reheated, from the night before, spinach and paneer
paranthas (paneer being homemade cheese and paranthas, a flaky pastry type of
roti).
 
Mummyji insisted Ranjani, Saras
and I eat heartily as we had a
very
busy day ahead.
Our excitement made us ravenous as we gulped down tea and ate with great gusto.
After breakfast, our first task of the day was to head off to the beautician
who was to attend to my hair, nails and make-up.

We
arrived at Paavai’s Beauty Salon. As I settled into the beautician’s chair
Paavai herself ran her fingers through my hair, exclaiming she had never seen
or felt anything like it before. It’s not as if all Indian women have long
straight hair, some do have curls, it was just not overly common and as for my
red colouring, that
was
different.

Perms
were all the rage and it wasn’t unusual for girls to sleep at night with hair
roller
s
looped around section
s
of her hair, most commonly
one
just
above each of her ears
. The next morning after removing
the roller
s
a loose bouncy curl would dangle from each side of
her face, this at the time, was deemed most attractive.

 
Paavai was intrigued to hear all about the
wedding preparations while she styled my difficult but not impossible curls.
Performing her magic, she brushed my shoulder length hair, pinning it in
to
a neat bun while leaving a few loose curls dangling
to frame my face. The next task was my make-up. She spent some time choosing
just the right foundation for my skin tone and freckles. She then applied
artfully to my eyelids a bottle-green eye shadow and used a
tiny
brush to paint a red colour to my lips. While this
was happening I was observing Mummyji and another beautician in an intense
discussion as they surveyed the rows of bottles of nail polish. The colours
were an array of mostly reds and pinks, capturing the many different shades of
the sunrise and sunset. They finally decided on a particular shade of cherry
red, which Mummyji proclaimed was the exact match to my bridal sari and would
also go nicely with my hair, lipstick and henna.

Bathed
in the warm glow of having my make-over, I couldn’t help but smile. Visualizing
the finished product of
my red hair, freckles, cherry red
nail polish, lipstick, henna and a red and gold bridal sari, I dubiously
pondered if I was going to end up looking like a Christmas tree decoration!

How
I missed Kishore
!.
Our goodbyes last night now seemed so long ago.
How was he
feeling at this moment? Did he have knots in his stomach like I did? Were
t
he same niggling thoughts going through his mind
about whether we were doing the right thing?
And just what was this surprise he mentioned?
I wished I could
speak to him but of course I wouldn’t see him now until we were about to be
married.

With
hair, nails and make-up completed, Paavai and her staff waved us goodbye and
wished us good luck as we headed back to the family home. I was careful not to
let the wind affect the transformation the beauticians had miraculously
performed.

It
was time for me to get dressed, Mrs Singh, Mrs Roberts and the other
neighbourhood women had arrived ready to assist and wait on me as if I were
royalty. They made sure my hair and make-up stayed in place while constantly
asking whether there was anything else I needed. With my lady helpers attending
to my every need I beamed
from ear to ear
- I felt like a
princess, I was so privileged and fortunate.

Two
other ladies kept the crew going by making copious amounts of tea and offering
snacks. Others talked excitedly as they pointed out of the window to the garden
below where the final preparations for the wedding were taking place. The local
men were erecting tables, arranging chairs and putting up decorations. I was
glad I had
eaten
a heavy breakfast, I was by now so tense I couldn’t
stop shaking, let alone
chew and swallow
food
.

Mummyji
had carefully ironed the beautiful silk sari the night before and now she took
it from where it lay. As she brought it over for everyone to see, there were
cries of ‘isn’t it exquisite,’ and ‘
it is
magnificent,'
the women couldn’t wait to see me in it.

I
gazed in awe at the intricate gold beading of my wedding gown. Firstly, the
small bodice blouse was put on and as Mummyji predicted, it fitted me
perfectly. I then stepped into the underskirt, similar to a petticoat, made of
a simple white cloth, which knotted at the waist. The most significant item was
next, of course this was the sari itself. Six metres in length of cloth and
unless you know what you’re doing, it’
s
extremely hard
to put on.

I
watched with intensity as Kishore’s Mum, making sure the pattern was facing the
right way, held one end of the material. She then wrapped the sari once around
my waist, so the silk hung like a long skirt. Taking the leftover cloth in one
hand, she used her other hand to make folds turning the material over and over
to form ten pleats. She tucked the pleats near my belly button into the first
wrapping of the skirt. She fussed with the sari making sure all the pleats were
the same size and
were
aligned. They
fell neatly with the flow of the shiny material, like a cascading waterfall.
The leftover length of the sari was taken around my back and pulled up and over
the front of my shoulder. This was long enough to put over my head, which I
would need to do at times throughout the ceremony.

While
all of this was happening, I noticed one of the ladies, Mrs Reddy,
another
neighbour,
looking
at my bare feet. She caught my eye, smiled at me and quickly looked
elsewhere
. Ranjini with the corners of her mouth
twitching also witnessed Mrs Reddy’s reaction. “What
?...
tell
me,” I asked Ranjini. She informed me it was an Indian custom that when you
look at a person’s toes, if the toe next to the big toe is longer, that person
will be the dominant one in the marriage. Scrunching up my face, I bent my head
to look down at my toes, the toe next to my big toe was longer. What were
Kishore’s toes like? I was pretty sure they were the same as mine. I pondered
what this meant. Was I going to be a bossy wife? He a domineering husband? I
made a mental note to ask him about it once all of this was over.

Saras
come close and told me she had been put in charge of making sure my head was
covered during the ceremony. This shows respect and as I was not accustomed to
this type of tradition, Saras would lift the
sari
over my head at the appropriate times.

Mummyji
had been standing back scrutinising my wedding outfit with a finger on her lips
and her head tilted to one side like a spectator at an art gallery pondering a
painting. When she was finally satisfied it was sitting correctly in place, I
slipped my feet into the shoes I had bought for the occasion, a pair of elegant
golden slip-on chappals.
 

I
lifted the skirt of my sari, just enough to see my shoes, admiring my choice of
style. There were pretty, yet classy, intricate
ly
beaded with glittering silver and gold diamantes. I had deliberately found a
pair with no heel because Kishore was only a fraction taller than me. I didn’t
want to tower over him in the photographs.

With
henna, make-up, hair, nails and bridal sari all done my make-over was almost
complete. Next to go on was the delicate gold jewellery.

As
this tradition was not my custom, I didn’t feel comfortable wearing it. I
barely knew my new family and did not like the thought of wearing and receiving
so much gold. A bride can receive a lot and I mean a lot, of gold from her
in-laws. Extravagant twenty-four carat jewellery is passed down to the eldest
sons
wife
on her wedding
day,
generation
after generation. From the stories I had been told it’s a wonder the poor girl
could even walk with the weight she carried on her neck, ears, head, nose,
wrists and feet. I knew this was an important part of the bridal tradition so
not wanting to step on any toes, I kind of suggested to Kishore that I would
only like to be given one simple gold necklace. He managed to convince his Mum
and Dad, telling them we would relook at the tradition of handing down
the
gold to me, or possibly Sunil’s wife or Ranjini
and
Saras, the next time we came to India.

The
other gold jewellery I was to wear had been hired.

The
giving of rings is
just
as important
in
Indian weddings as they are in English weddings but we had decided to leave
this ritual until we returned to New Zealand. This was one tradition I wanted
to keep for my second wedding in front of my family and friends.

Exquisite
hired gold earrings and bracelets were placed on me, almost with reverence. A
gold nose ring was attached to my left nostril and a chain that linked to it
clipped into my hair. The last piece of jewellery was the one gold necklace
Kishore’s parents had given to me.

Mrs
Singh produced a little sticker sachet from her purse, for a moment I wondered
what on earth she was doing with stickers, then I realised they were bhindis,
the little dots that Indian women wear on their forehead. Worn like a brooch or
hair clip, women choose the colour or style they feel like wearing to suit
their outfit. Seeing the first little sachet being produced, the other women
rushed to their purses to show their packets. Each sachet contained about ten
bhindis of different colours and styles: tear drops, the
figure
‘s’
and circles of different shapes and sizes. Saras pronounced she was
in charge of this decision
and
inspected all
of the bhindis. She finally made her selection and placed on my forehead
between my eyes, an emerald green, tear dropped shaped bhindi.

I
was now ready for the final touch to complete my wedding outfit. A gajara was
pulled from a little box, a decorative flower clip that is attached to the back
of the head. Th
e
gorgeous
jasmine flowers were real, smelt divine and clipped onto my bun. Tumbling down
the back of my head the flowers reminded me of an English wedding veil.
Sometimes in traditional arranged marriages the groom also wears a type of
gajara, which covers his face so his identity is not revealed until he is
married.

I
was now all set. The ladies inspected
me,
grinned and made
‘oohing’
and aahing’
noises.
“Wow Julie, you look amazing,” Ranjini
exclaimed as she rushed to get a portrait sized mirror, the only one in the
house, “Come on, have a look,” she encouraged
,
holding it up. I had not seen myself since we were at the beauticians. I closed
my eyes while Ranjini stood well back
so I
could see
a full length image. Taking a deep breath I opened my eyes, my mouth dropped
open. I could not believe the girl looking back at me, was me. The magnificent
sari, the bhindi, the jewellery and the way the flowers from the gajara fell
around the curls framing my face – I was beautiful. A plain Jane from New
Zealand, a ‘carrot top
,
’ a ‘freckle
face,' looking like an Indian movie star, a princess, I was beaming.