A ‘King’ reminisces

I close my eyes. And I am instantly transported back to one nippy winter evening six years ago; exact to a day; when the bright city lights struggle vainly to cope with the rapidly vanishing twilight. I am on my way to get married.

Sandwiched between two septuagenarian relatives, in traditional attire clutching a topor (bride-groom headgear), I squirm uncomfortably in the back seat of a car. Oblivious to my plight the two gentlemen next to me harangue about politics and caught in the cross-fire I can only smile and nod politely. Drawn to the floral decorations adorning the car, occupants in a taxi gawk at me when we stop at a red-light. I console myself by thinking that I would have done exactly the same thing had I been in the taxi.

We finally reach our destination. Everyone climbs out of the car but I am instructed to stay seated. Apparently people are not prepared for such an early arrival; some scamper around, others reach frantically for their cell phones while I glance at my watch in some confusion (only later do I learn the reason for their consternation; the bride is still at a beauty parlor getting ready and indeed as I come to discover in due course, the virtue of timeliness is not exactly worshipped at my in-laws home.) I finally step out, the flash bulbs go off, conch shells blow, ululation drowns out all conversation and I become an instant celebrity complete with a red-carpet leading up to a covered dais where a grand throne awaits me. I feel a bit giddy and my chest swells with pride yet I shuffle slowly to my throne, mindful of my crisp new dhuti (loincloth.) Although it’s readymade and securely tied, it’s the first time I am wearing one and ‘Better safe than sorry’ is my mantra for the day.

People come and greet me and I am introduced to friends, aunts, uncles, grandfathers, cousins, neighbors, office colleagues and so on —I try to keep a smile on my face (something that does not easily come to me I must admit and my jaws start aching soon). My smile turns a notch smaller when I hear a wife nudge her husband and whisper “Why is the bor (groom) looking so gloomy? Because from now on he has to obey his wife”, the husband wisecracks.

Just when I start to feel like a King holding court and daresay start enjoying the show (or is it my show I wonder?) someone hands me a bag with another fresh dhuti to put on. Triumphantly I look around for my Mama (Mom’s cousin brother) to whom I have delegated the intricacies of tying my dhuti, but he is nowhere to be seen. My smile deserts me temporarily and I dispatch one of my minions in a search and rescue mission. Murphy’s Law notwithstanding, I finally spot my Mama in the crowd giving me a reassuring nod. I am led off backstage but can’t find an empty room to complete the task so we pick a room, shoo the guests off and with one underling standing guard at the door, my Mama helps me put on the dhuti (this time not readymade I notice with some initial alarm). But I have chosen well, for my Mama is up to the challenge and soon I’m back onstage beaming with new found confidence.

Thereafter the real ceremony starts; first we have the pantomime of the boron (welcoming the groom) ceremony where middle-aged women circle me with decorated trays in hand, followed by the bride being carried in on a pidi (low wooden stool) by the bride’s brothers her face covered in a big betel leaf. We finally sit around the yagna (sacred fire) and I look skeptically at a baby faced, callow looking purohit (priest) but his voice belies his appearance and soon I am chanting incomprehensible (at least to me) mantras and pouring ghee into the fire. I ask a question to my future wife but she looks at me blankly much to my alarm (again later I discover the reason for her indifference—as per dictates of custom she has a big supari (nut) stuffed in her mouth and can only mumble). Someone gifts me a watch and with no pocket to stuff it in, I have no option but to wear it and the photographers record the incongruous sight of me wearing two watches on my left hand for posterity, much to my chagrin.

The night wears on and all ceremonies over I’m asked to check out the guests as they eat. I walk around and everyone stops eating when I arrive, chairs appear out of thin air and people make compassionate noises about how long I haven’t eaten with no fewer than three people scurrying off when I ask for a glass of water. I feel like a King again and start tucking into some delectable biryani with gusto when one particularly devious looking young lady slides up to me and whispers in my ear “Jamaibabu (son-in-law of the house) all of us cousins are waiting for you in the Bashor ghor (bridal room). When will you be joining us?” The biryani suddenly starts tasting insipid.

I open my eyes and quote Shakespeare: ‘Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown’. Even if it’s for just one day, I muse.