Not wanting to bombard a lot of walls on FB, I am writing this blog on the one day most girls feel elated to be joining hands (well, almost) with the love of their life.
I watered the plants and checked the colour of my Mehandi. It was a little disappointing for it wasn’t the red I expected. The fun and frolic with the RAMAN gang the previous day was way too much to have paid attention to this. My parents along with my grandMom were beaming and glowing. I, on the other hand, felt nothing.
“Drag me to Hell” was playing on TV. I was so engrossed in the old lady and “LA-MIAA” that I didn’t wanna get ready. My grandMom’s behind was hiding half of the TV as she was doing her Jabam. What’s the point in having a 32inch TV when I can see just 10 Inches, I wondered. I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to watch the climax but all that my mom was concerned about was the colour of the bananas. They were a wee bit black. Fans do that to fruits. But nobody cared. She wanted to buy new ones. I thanked her attention to detail, in the later part of the day.
With my hair done, I was waiting for the rest of RAMAN to arrive. As they did, I wore the saree and started to put on make up. That was when I realised, the make up reacted with my skin and let out more sweat. “The make up will blend d” one of them said. It looked like I rolled on flour. There was no time to alter anything. The photo clicks began. Nexus 5, Moto G, Sony Digi cam and iPad captured our beautiful faces. And the van honked. It was time. Still no feeling.
I expected a tempo traveller. I saw an old Mahindra van approach. It meant more sweat. I recalled a line from Mary Higgins Clark- “Men and Horses sweat, Women glow” and smiled to myself. The van journey was interesting for I watched my aunt evaluate my girlfriends for the vacant daughter-in-law position.
A huge crowd was waiting to receive us. May be because I was bitten by a dog, I get very difficult to handle when I see a lot of people and above all that, there was approx. 100 pairs of eyeballs on me. Again, more sweat. And my Bindi fell off. Some philanthropic aunt offered hers and I stepped in. The Aarthi was taken. Fear kicked in. My eyes met his for some support. He was shitting in his Veshti (he wasn’t wearing pants).
Vedams were chanted. I found myself a place to sit and that was on his house’s showcase. Classy and comfortable it was. Fear had faded away. That’s when hell broke loose. My betrothal saree’s blouse was at home. We had left the whole bag behind. I didn’t mind wearing a non matching one. After all, photos and people commenting on my blouse was the least of my worries. But if a black banana gets so much importance, imagine the blouse. A team of uncles with a car was sent back to collect the blouse.
Namaskaram panindu sit down, the Iyer said. He had grown cute over the years, I thought. I had seen him as a kid. The love of my life was wearing the FabIndia red kurta. He seemed less handsome than the day he had tried it on. May be cos of the garland around his neck and a battery of bare-chested Iyers. In a way he resembled a scape goat. Since there was no ring exchange, there was no chance of “a second longer than necessary”. Even eye contact was being watched.
Now that’s a traditional betrothal.
I boarded the same van and it felt nothing different. All credits to the RAMAN gang, the black banana and the left behind blouse. If there was supposed to be a feeling of elation, euphoria and fear, I had nothing.
May be it was a blind confidence on that cute smile of his.