“Wedding flashbacks and what to avoid...”

Dearest Readers,

Today I am writing to you whilst waiting in transit in Delhi’s Indira Gandhi Airport, on my way to Kathmandu.

Well, here I am by myself travelling alone to Kathmandu to help my In-Laws prepare for my brother-in-law Babu H’s wedding to Kirtipur beauty Miss B.  Yes, it has taken years to convince Babu H to consider marriage and now I can hardly believe it, it’s almost here. It’s taken the best part of last year and this year to plan and prepare for the wedding and I am exasperated and exhausted from all the shopping and endless discussions on Skype about venues, outfits, food and wedding card designs. Not to mention this God-awful flight where I was forced to puke into a bag because of severe flight turbulence. My eyes are now puffy to the point of no repair and my feet look like someone else’s feet, all ghastly swollen.

Nevertheless, my eyes sparkle as soon as I think of all the festivities that will take place in the next few weeks. It’s going to be a grand-old traditional mega-event with all the glitz, glamour and tack one can expect from a Nepali Brahmin wedding . All this wedding talk has made me all misty-eyed and nostalgic about the time I tied the knot with Mr. B, eleven years ago.

The main trigger is the lady at the Duty Free Fragrance Counter who suddenly starts firing questions at me about Nepali weddings, such as, ”Do you dress in white usually?”, “Is it a big wedding?”, “Do you marry in a temple?” then “It must be so lovely, such an exotic wedding.” ‘Exotic’ yes, though ‘lovely’ was not quite the words I had in mind.

 I smiled at her the best way I could and answered in as diplomatically a way as possible, whilst battling vivid flashback images of my own wedding. You know, images of multitudes of red-lipsticked women in red saris screaming rather than singing themselves hoarse in my ear while thumping away in dance to a deafeningly loud army band, banging away on huge drums in no particular rhythm. And my Dashing Mr. B in a jester-style Dhaka Deuro Suruwal and topi get-up, with err... pink lipstick and eyeliner and blusher. He firmly denies to this day that his cousin-sisters put any make-up on him but I have actual photographic evidence. As for myself, I was decked out like a Christmas tree in a tinsel-edged red veil and matching sari. Looking back I don’t know why I didn’t protest at this hideousness. I mean, I could barely walk what with me tripping over my sari every 10cms. I shuffled as gracefully as I could in this entrapping bridal-wear and tried hard not to topple over, which was no mean feat as my neck was bowed-over with layers of gold necklaces, grass garlands, flower garlands and as a bonanza prize, a heavy green-beaded tilari.

 To this day, I cannot walk properly in a sari and getting out of the car whilst dressed in one is so traumatic, I need at least three people to help me out of one. I mean, who was the super-bright Einstein who invented saris as choice of wear for Nepali women? Thanks a lot you jerk. Do men even know how long it takes to perfect the pleats at the front of the sari and then get the right length of drape at the back? For a new bride, a sari (especially if you’re not used to wearing one) is mental torture and physical abuse. This I write, whilst watching an agile but very Senior Auntyji jog across the transit lounge in a sari with such grace, I want to throw flowers at her and applaud. But then again, she was wearing huge, white trainers underneath.

Right, back to my wedding flashback. It was a right-jumbled affair but happen it did and though it has been said that our wedding was the most enjoyable in the history of the L family, all I can recall is the noise, the glare of too much red, my sari trips and a heat rash that developed on my neck with such force, Mr. B took to sleeping on the floor in case it spread. And all the crying my parents and siblings did at my departure. Relax Dad I wanted to say, I live on the road next to you in London remember so stop crying unnecessarily. Following the wedding, it didn’t stop. I was fed so much milk and yoghurt I could’ve opened my own dairy by the end of the week.

The best memory I have is of Mr. B giving me a secret wink as I peered at him through my veil. That was the wink that said, hang in there, it’ll be over soon.

With this useless thing called hindsight, I now wish I hadn’t had such a big-fat Nepali wedding and I wish I‘d have been more vocal about what I didn’t want. For example, there were faces there I didn’t recognise and I know that they had been invited only due to social compulsion. Perhaps my parents had been invited to their son’s wedding a hundred years ago, I don’t know but I now know, I would invite only the people nearest and dearest to me and those who matter in my life.

Also, now I don’t believe in splashing out on weddings to such an extent that you’re still paying for that wedding ten years later. (Says I, who has already started planning for daughter J’s wedding and she’s only four)  I’ve seen eye-popping lavish weddings of couples, whose marriages have gone to rot. Was it worth it in the end? Sometimes I believe it’s a case of the typical Nepalese Show-Off Syndrome , whereupon you have to ‘do’ or  ‘show’ for the benefit of others. What will so-and-so say if we don’t do this or if we don’t give this?

Well, we shall have grand wedding for Babu H indeed but I am determined to enjoy it and make it a memorable and wonderful experience for my new sister-in-law Miss B, for all the right reasons, so that when she looks back, all she’ll remember is how relaxed she was and how happy she was the day she married Babu H.

Keep reading next week Dear Readers...I am in Kathmandu!

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Kalpana.column@gmail.com