A MARRIAGE IN MANGALORE

Grey every which way, the sky, the waters and even the mood. It is like a gauzy grey veil has enveloped everything visible and, those not visible, those in the mind too. I feel more melancholia and less the supposed magic said to be there during the monsoon when you are on the beach. Could be because the beaches itself -Panambur and Someshwara look abandoned, as if at the slightest sign of darkening skies, everyone packed up and left, except a handful of goda wallahs literally trailing you, pleading you to take a ride. I rather die than add to the misery of the horses.

Can beaches look like deserted waifs? Fine,I concede that its stretching it a bit too far.The maudlin mood could be a combination of several factors- the seemingly endless travel from Delhi, first a somewhat turbulent flight to Bangalore (always the tongue trips trying to say Bengaluru); then the short but bouncy flight to Mangalore, sorry Mangaluru. Almost got claustrophobia because the furious looking black clouds were pressing their noses against the windows which, for some reason made me feel as if the air supply was being cut off! Pesky drizzle all the way to the hotel. Looking out of the car on the way, again for some reason, my eyes seemed to just zoom in on huge, ugly, probably torrential rain induced moss like patches on several houses. Made me want to  take a giant scraper and remove them all.

Come to think of it, the blame lies with Goa! I love the Goa beaches during the rains, its like off with the meddlesome throng of tourists and just you, the lashing rains, the dancing waves and some similar minded souls around. The Mangalore beaches are beautiful, one was told, you don't get the Goa kind of tourists, one was told. So the first thing one did was to head for the beaches - yes they are beautiful, you can't take that away, both Panambur and Someshwara, especially the first one had a tad rugged, natural beauty. But, and it is a big but, why did they look like as if they were not properly cared, not properly looked after. It's the rainy season, nobody goes to the beaches then, everyone even the shopkeepers pack up and move away. Sure, accepted, but the explanation did not help reduce the feel of desolateness.  So maybe it was all in the mind and maybe one needs to come back again after the rains have departed.

 

 

Why go in the first place, to just crib? No please. There are some precious moments in life when you can go anywhere to celebrate. And when that celebration is the wedding of a friend you have known forever, someone you consider a sister from another mother then it is unbridled happiness. Maybe the reason why I didn't get that sense of elation on the beaches was because I wanted the whole world to be bright, blazing sunny, bright blue skies and everything bursting with happiness.The initial disappointment soon washed away and it was laughter all the way.  Happiness does that.

That weddings in India is not just between two persons cannot be overstated. It was to be a low key wedding, just immediate family and friends. And it was to some extent. I say to some extent because you cannot, NOT have song and dance at Indian weddings. An intimate gathering all right and it began on a beautiful note with a dinner, the night before, at a quaint restaurant called The Village. There were toasts and tributes, tears and laughter and delicious Mangalorean cuisine with its fiery spices. There was that sense of complete contentment and bliss that my friend had not only found a loving partner but a wonderful, welcoming family. 

It was next morning, when we drove to her new family's farmhouse, nearly an hours drive away, for the wedding ceremony that the uniqueness of the occasion struck us all.  At every Indian wedding, the groom and his family, friends etc, the baraat as we call it, come to the girl's house.  Here it was reverse, the dulhan's convoy drove up to the groom's farmhouse. (I do have to confess that for a traditional Assamese ceremony the groom's party had already travelled all the way from Mangalore to Guwahati sometime back. So it wasn't exactly upsetting the apple cart of tradition). But the fact remains that we gave the dulha some moments of trepidation with our much later than scheduled arrival! On the way we drove by some of lush green forests and fields and the cloudy skies notwithstanding we felt covered in sunshine and romance.   

 

 

 

 

 

The elders in the family used to say, often with mock exasperation, Uff! we Indians, twelve months in a year and thirteen festivities. I guess if someone takes the pain to go through the festival calendar in India, the communities, tribes, religious denominations and what have you, there is more than a few festivals being celebrated everyday in several corners of the country. The cultural and religious diversity became more than apparent when it came to the actual wedding ceremony. She is Hindi Assamese and he is Punjabi Sikh.  Everyone was fine with a Sikh wedding, till it was found out, a few days before the scheduled ceremony, that the sole Sikh priest in the city was out of town. The solution was simple - two South Indian priests (Kannada Brahmans  as they said) did the honours while in the background bare chested, dhoti clad musicians played the orchestra complete with mridangam and shenai!     

It wasn't over, not as yet. After the South Indian ceremony, the prayer room in the house which holds the Sikh holy book was opened and for me, the most intimate and emotive moments of the marriage unfolded. There was reading from the holy book as per the custom, paying of obeisance and the distribution of kada prasad, small portions of semolina halwa redolent with rich ghee. I've always loved visiting Gurdwaras for the kada prasad and there was a time during school days when we would take a long detour on the way back after school, just to be able to drop into the Gurdwara for the prasad. A virtual feast followed.

It wasn't over yet, not yet! Without gaana, bajana and nacchna, no Indian wedding is. This is one function common to all Indian weddings, the address and opulence factors may differ but there is no dearth of fervour. Back in the city, we all wore our most colourful outfits and simply took over the dance floor at the reception hall. All kinds of songs played and irrespective of age, everyone rocked it. The only one person who stayed off the dance floor was the groom's 93-year old grandmother and not because she didn't want to but as she said, because her legs refused to go in tandem with the rest of her body! 

It wasn't over yet, not yet! How could it be, even as we jived, there was a feeling of a little something missing, something we couldn't put on our fingers on but felt it. It took a friend's husband to walk up to the DJ, hand over something and then bang,  the most lilting Bihu songs had everyone keeping rhythm. The Bihu dance of Assam, in plain term, rocks; it might seem simple but next to impossible to master and those who do, its like seeing poetry in motion. Suddenly all the ladies were on the floor, make that all the mekhe-chador clad ladies were on the dance floor and the swinging of the hips and the clapping of hands was infectious. 

It wasn't over yet... alas it finally was. Not because we chose to but because the hotel management said we had to wind it up. They told us we were too loud, they told us we had long crossed the deadline, they told us... Spoilsports.    

Next morning, it was time to pack up and head back to the pavilion. In the midst of it all, I looked out of the window and stool still. The water in the distance was a thin silvery glimmer and in the sky above, some rays of sunshine broke through the clouds reaching down to touch the waters.  Grey still, hazy but also soft, gentle and beautiful.