Day Eight – the Big Day

I managed to sleep, somehow. Not the longest or most restful of nights sleep but not bad given that I’d thought I would hardly sleep a wink. Prised one and then the other eye open and was surprised that the world looked … cloudy. I blinked hard …. Still cloudy. Murky even. I could hardly see the door from the bed. Couldn’t work out why I should have been afflicted by a sudden half blindness on such an important day and then a corresponding pain in my eyeballs helped me quickly to the dreadful realization that I had, for the first time in YEARS, gone to sleep with my contact lenses in. On the night that I am stone cold sober, focused and charged about my big day... I go and forget to pull out those wicked little discs which normally enable 20/20 vision but which on this occasion were glued to my eyeballs rendering me half blind and with huge puffy bags below each eye thanks to the overnight oxygen deprivation to the eye. Fabulous. I managed to prise the lenses out of my eyes (with a disconcerting sucky sound), hoped I hadn’t removed too much of my corneas, and looked at myself in the mirror. The horror! Two slits peeking out of two bright pink golf balls. Black bags under the golf balls in which I could have carried my entire wedding trousseau. Thank goodness Jo works for an airline as I ran to the fridge for ice and found some iced cold towels which I immediately pressed to my poor eyes. Slowly, finally the freak show started to subside and I saw my face returning to normal. I had that whole “bridegroom bolts at altar” thing going on for a while and it wasn’t pleasant.
With face more or less returned to normal Julie and I headed over to the posh parlour where we were due the full bridal/bridesmaid treatment (fancy hair and makeup), picking up Sarah and Justine on the way. They were both tense and tempers were overall a bit frayed. But after settling into our bridal suite and starting to get pampered, the tension visibly dissipated, until I pulled out my dress and found it to be creased. Actually the creases were fairly minimal and I should have hung the damn thing up earlier in the week (I had asked the salon to bring an iron but they had assumed I could send the dress out to the dhobi wallah … yeah right .. visions of little man scrubbing away at my satin and antique lace bridal gown …). But as the girls pointed out the reases were only really visible to my over-exacting eye. We also had to send someone to the bank for a last dash for cash to pay for the booze in the evening which was a bit of a saga but worked out in the end.
Finally we emerged, looking nothing short of fabulous. I had my hair pinned up in a gorgeous and complicated bun arrangement with curls and swirls and twirly bits hanging down. Another slight panic when we discovered that the beautiful tiara which had been painstakingly attached to the veil did not detach and could not fit over said tresses, but it looked ok perched on the top of my head instead. The girls all looked great with their hair washed and blow dried and flowing. I discovered that the itty bitty diamante stones covering my blingy shoes kept catching on the net inside the ‘hoop’ (cancan) which went under the dress. Try as I might I couldn’t help my feet getting stuck to the inside of the skirt, and it felt like another disaster in the making. Kick out, kick out was the helpful advice from the girls and on practicing this deft move my shoes behaved themselves. Dad had arrived very early at the parlour and was nervously sipping coffee, and fretting about getting me down the aisle. He was panicking about a coughing fit, falling, or generally getting over emotional. That made two of us. The car arrived (merc) and we headed for the church. Realising the futility of trying to stuff two bridesmaids, a maid of honour, a small child, the father of the bride and the bride in a full skirted dress into one car, Justine Donald and Sarah hopped into a cab.
We arrived at the church half an hour early (hoorah) and slipped into the back. Somehow the agonizing wait came to an end and it was 2pm, time to start. I was so excited and happy, and so emotional that I knew I’d start to blub if I even caught the eye of a single friend in the pews. The bridal party set off – tiny kids in the front, girls looking adorable in little handmade purple dresses and boys handsome and regal in tiny purple bow ties and black suits. Julie, Sarah and Justine followed, poor Julie walking solo and the others arm in arm with handsome (last minute) groomsmen. And then Dad and I started our slow walk, after a short pause to create maximum “entrance effect”. We reached the front, me without catching the eye of anyone, and I could sense my husband to be’s eyes boring into me and willing me to look at him., Hardly surprising really given this was the biggest moment in our lives to date but I just needed to compose myself and control my emotions, so I stared resolutely ahead and then leaned forward to catch his eye. He was looking so handsome, the suit which he’d had made looked absolutely fantastic, the cream silk cravat and waistcoat looked gorgeous especially against his dark skin, and he had his hair pulled back and a huge smile on his face. From the moment I caught his eye (and I know it sounds cheesy) everything was just fine. I visibly relaxed, and loved the entire ceremony which somehow seemed so much less complicated than during the rehearsal. The vows and the exchange of the rings part was simply amazing, and I will never forget those powerful words. We had considered writing our own vows but eventually stuck with the traditional version and I’m glad we did. The exchanging of the rings was amazing, though VIvek initially reached for his ring to place on my finger bless him so excited to get his hands finally on his ring. Then a couple of hymns, the lighting of the candle, a quick communion for the bride and groom only, and we were done. I am so happy that we eventually married in the cathedral, what a beautiful place. Simply stunning. I have to say that I had never ever pictured myself walking down a traditional churchy aisle in a white dress with a veil but that’s exactly what happened. And it felt fantastic.
So, we were married. Amazing. Big burst of pride in my heart and hanging onto my new husband for dear life through all the endless photos.
Then we all ran off to transform for part 2. Julie and I ran back to the parlour and cracked open the bottle of sula which had been intended for the morning but I couldn’t handle the thought of drinking that early. Hair washed clean of hairspray and backcomb, blow dried into swingy curls, new makeup applied (more Indian bridal less English virginal) and time to pull on the lehenga. One gorgeously shimmery number, bedecked from top to bottom with hand sewn sequins and stones, heavy as hell but a perfect fit. Husband called twice as I was squeezing into the thing – turns out we were late and he and his entire family were waiting on the street, him in horse driven carriage, with full band ready and waiting, and only the bride missing. Damn! Rushed out of there faster than you can say “don’t forget to pin the dupatta” and of course, forgot to pin the dupatta. Result, heavy scarf which slipped down over one eye all night, but apparently no-one noticed.
I felt like an Indian princess next to my Indian prince. I have to say, we both looked utterly fabulous, as did all the guys and gals from the UK in their sherwanis and sarees. We all looked like something out of a movie set. The actual reception part was a little dull as we had to stand on the stage and greet everyone individually but it was fine as we were doing it together and it was nice to meet everyone. We also managed to make speeches and have a toast, and I made an impromptu speech. My dad had been terribly nervous about speaking but in the end he did a fantastic job though I think I was more nervous than him as I knew how much it meant to him. So the evening passed in a blur of feeling princessy, greeting hundreds of wellwishers and receiving gifts, quaffing the odd glass of wine and finally collapsing at a table to sample some of the food. There were a couple of minor disasters – it seems the wedding organizer had forgotten about the need to provide toilet facilities so guests had to use the revoltingly unhygienic bathrooms in the main house, and the promised aircon didn’t work so no-one went inside to hear the FANTASTIC band and so we never got to dance. But that aside, we had a brilliant night and a fabulous end to a truly magical day which I will remember for the rest of my life.

Day Seven - the filling in the sandwich

So the penultimate day of being single came and went rather unremarkably. It was like discovering that filling in the middle of your fresh store bought sandwich is not the juicy prawn and avocado mix with creamy mayo that you had anticipated, but rather the dried up remnants of a tin of spam with a lick of salad cream. We’d had a wonderful run of days and the anticipation of a fabulous finale to follow so little wonder that the ‘day before’ was generally a damp squib, especially given the size of the hangover which I woke with. Never mix tequila and Moet … haven’t I heard that before somewhere? Result – a sharp piercing pain above the left eye, a day long nausea and a general sense of apathy and mild hysteria. But we both managed to get through the day. Afternoon saw the wedding rehearsal which meant a fierce concentration throughout as my addled brain tried to remember the details of when to walk, kneel and speak. It seemed terribly complicated and the thought of forgetting some fairly significant part of my own wedding ceremony only added to the churn in my gut. I tried to record the feelings of the “day before” for the sake of posterity as and when they were happening but the time ran away in last minute organizing and I felt a little too sick to write. I remember though that the feeling was one of nervous excitement combined with a slight paranoia at being late to the church / having a last minute dress disaster/losing the bridesmaids etc. Not a moment’s concern however about losing the groom at the altar, I felt totally and utterly secure in the knowledge that my husband to be would be waiting there for me with a shine in his eye looking utterly fabulous in his tails and tie.

Day Six – Mehendi and Madness

Thursday morning had been scheduled for the Mehendi session, a traditional event during which all the ladies sit for hours having beautiful and intricate mehendi (henna) designs piped onto arms and feet in preparation for the big day. The mehendi is painstakingly applied by a team of young women and girls who have been trained by their mothers and grandmothers to in the art of creating stunningly elaborate swirls and designs each of which tells a secret story which winds around palms and fingers in an age old tradition. The mehendi is applied onto the skin using a kind of miniature piping bag and takes a while to dry, and then begins the fun part. It must be left to dry naturally and left to flake off rather than being rubbed off or peeled off, and only then will the colour really ‘take’. The temptation to scratch off the crusting goo is unbearable, yet I managed to get to the parlour (barefoot) and last an entire hour’s facial with my henna designs drying on hands and feet throughout. The final colour of the henna stain, is apparently a test of the bridegroom’s love for the bride – the darker the better. A dark blackish brown colouration means that your intended is burning with passion and love for his intended. An insipid muddy tinge means presumably that he can’t really be bothered either way.
And so I used all the tricks of the trade to produce a healthily dark colour – avoided scratching off the crusty dried henna, left it for hours, cleaned it off with mustard oil and didn’t wash til the next morning. The last bit was particularly vile and it took a few glasses of wine at the hen party in the evening to make me forget my sticky hands and feet, reeking of henna and oil.
I headed back to Jo’s place to meet the girls for the hen night. We’d decided long back to split forces and stay true to the hen/stag tradition. The girls (led by my sister Julie) had done themselves proud – apparently spending all afternoon deep in the nooks and crannies of New Market buying up their entire supply of anything which fitted the “bright, shiny and purple” requirement. I arrived back to find the house festooned with purple balloons, glitter and candles, with everything covered in shiny pink wrapping and a neat set of pink fluffy angel wings, mask and wand waiting for me to adorn complete the look. First I needed to get clean after a long day of being mehendied – no mean feat given that my hands were not supposed to touch water. Eventually Bridget (a trained nurse and accustomed to these things) gave me a sponge bath – bliss. Finally I felt clean enough to don said wings and mask, along with Christmas tree bauble earrings and sexy dress, and we were ready to go. Several glasses of Julie’s finest punch later, things were becoming only slightly raucous, when the doorbell rang. Tired of being without the girls, and with the best man unable to organize much of a party, the stag party landed.
We ended up in a fantastic club, half empty until we arrived to enliven the scene. Vivek and I consumed copious amounts of tequila shots and champagne (a lethal combination as we discovered the next morning) and generally had a fantastic last night of ‘freedom’ even though we were together which if you ask me was the very best way to celebrate my hen night – with my closest and dearest friends, family and beloved.

Day Five – Mehendi and sticky hands

Thursday was the day of Mehendi application – when I most uncharacteristically sat still for an entire five hours whilst henna was applied to my hands, arms and feet. It was intensely boring but after a while became strangely relaxing, with the gentle tickling of the henna being piped into elaborate swirls all over. The waiting for the mehendi to dry was the most boring part, and eventually I wiped the thick layer from my feet, ran out in bare feet, and into the Bridgette Jones parlour where I had booked my bridal facial, the first in a set of luxurious treatments which would culminate in hair and makeup for the wedding itself. Lying back whilst the henna dried into crispy swirls, whilst various unguents were applied to myface and wiped/scrubbed/polished/peeled off was a fairly surreal experience, but the facial was absolutely wonderful and left me feeling as clean as a new pin for the first time in ages.

Day Four – the throwing of yellow goo

Wednesday saw the Haldi ceremony, which I knew involved an awful lot of yellow goo being rubbed into the faces, arms legs etc of the bride and groom but I hadn’t realized quite how involved it all was. We arrived at V’s parents house, the location for the ceremony and I was quickly wrapped up in a yellow sari. No timid yellow colour this, but rather a particularly fetching shade of luminous banana, which looked pretty dreadful against my white skin, but a lot better once the haldi had been rubbed in. Haldi is basically turmeric, which is ground and mixed with water to form a thick gooey paste, and apparently does wonders for the skin in terms of brightening it and making it glow. It seemed to be pretty resilient stuff, and I was a bit concerned that I’d end up tripping down the aisle like a giant banana in a white dress, but I was assured by everyone that it would wash off in a couple of days and as this was only Wednesday, it seemed safe to plunge into the mayhem. All of the English guests were wearing white kurta pyjamas and looking like members of some weird cult, and they all lined up to take their turns in covering Vivek and I with haldi. Before they were given access to the gloopy bowlful however, the four sisters demanded money from them, in an elaborate ritual which saw people dancing around with notes, hiding money in pockets, pretending to give a few rupees and then whipping out a few thousand, and generally participating in the ritual. Everyone present got a good chance to throw some slop over us, by the end we were covered from head to foot, and Vivek had even had his trousers cut off and haldi rubbed into his every crevice.
After everyone had taken their turn with the haldi, we went to shower. After scrubbing myself all over I managed to get the bright yellow to fade to a jaundiced shade (in fact I looked exactly how I did when I did have jaundice except without the dodgy liver) and as I changed into yet another, prettier yellow sari, I admired my all over yellow tinge which I hoped would soon fade to the healthy glow I’d been promised.

Day Three – of car mixups and lost boys

Having learned from the lessons of the previous day (plan in advance, don’t hang around waiting for boys, go to ATM well in advance) we set off bright and early prepared to finish off the last minute shopping for the girls, as the boys had of course finished all their shopping the day before (sherwani – check, pointy shoes – check, dupatta (scarf for sherwani) check. Over and out.
WE managed to make it to the bangle shop where everyone whipped out their pieces of saree fabric and set about co-ordinating coloured bangles to match. Cheap and cheerful, everyone got away with armfuls of bangles for around 300 rupees, to add to the general glamour and glitz for Saturday night. Patience ebbed and tempers were occasionally frayed in the sultry heat as we all waited for each other to complete examining, purchasing, packing and wrapping but generally we all remained calm.

Day Two - of chaos and changing plans

Day 2 of the pre wedding preparations saw chaos in motion. Trying to co-ordinate 14 people and a three year old, for lunch and shopping may seem like a fairly simple task but in reality and amidst Calcutta’s very own brand of pandemonium, it was no picnic. We managed to get to the airport bright and early to meet the 2 latest arrivals from the UK, Rich and Nadine who arrived looking frazzled and dazed but delighted to have finally reached the end of a very long journey. Rich revealed that he’d slept for only 2 of the past 48 hours but nevertheless was up for the shopping expedition which we had planned for everyone to pick up their gear for the wedding reception. So after a delicious lunch during which I suddenly remembered that I had left everyone’s sarees at the guesthouse and had to charge back to pick them up so they would be able to select bangles to match, we headed to New Market. Imagine trying to steer a large party of foreigners through the dark twisted interiors of New Market, whilst from all sides hawkers and salesmen and beggars and scruffy street urchins pulled at clothes and tried to touch bright blonde locks of hair and pale skin, hoping to appeal to the soft hearted westerners who would be more than likely to dip into pockets give generously.

We headed first to pick up sherwanis for the guys …. And waited and waited … and waited … as they chased around to find a cashpoint. Apparently the UK banks have introduced new tougher security rules which basically means that none of our lot were able to get any money out of the ATMs so everyone was in a bit of a panic. Somehow they managed to beg borrow and steal enough rupees to get by, and joined us for the sherwani shopping. Boys all looked like white maharajahs in their gorgeous outfits, and I think they primped and preened more than the women. Next, salwar shopping for the girls. Having dispatched the boys to the Oberoi coffee shop, girls were free to shop to their hearts’ content – oohing and sighing over stunning fabrics bejeweled and glittering, shimmering and shining.

Interesting to see the British dealing with the mayhem that can be India. Brits are so used to having their lives measured out in 15 minute intervals, making plans weeks in advance for even a dinner date, and heaven forbid anyone who might just drop round for a coffee on the spur of the moment. We are, as a nation, bound by our collective need for order and for everything to be proper and in its correct place, for meetings to start on time, trains to run on time (though they rarely do, which gives us fodder for the moaning which we love to indulge in) and meals to arrive on time. India is the complete opposite, bound by chaos and the need to create chaos to be able to offer solutions, meetings which never begin on time and always due to ‘the traffic” (as if its not part and parcel of life), and trains which ironically DO run on time. In India its unusual for a plan not to change, in fact any preparations however painstaking will normally be turned upside down and back to front before the day is done, and that’s all acceptable and normal. We Brits (and I include myself even though I’m used to this system now) get so uptight when plans change, because we are programmed to make things happen on time and without delay. In India, there are delays for no reason (or so it seems) or for reasons which may seem unacceptable or odd to us (traffic, prayers, stopped for chai, illness in family etc). When plans change here, Indians take it in their stride and adapt to the new arrangement without asking too many questions. Brits huff and puff and generally get hot under the collar. When there are delays which make waiting a necessity, the Indians calmly get out their dabbas, drink chai, read the paper and smile all the while. Whereas the Brits huff and puff some more, grinding their teeth with the effort of not wringing anyone’s neck. Always fun to see afresh the cultural differences between our countries.

Friends and Family

Vivek's Granny .... somewhat bemused by all the activity ....

Day One - of worlds colliding

So the first of my friends arrived from England into Calcutta yesterday, and we all met up at VIvek’s sister’s place for lunch. Talk about twilight zone, it was just so bizarre to see my two best girlfriends Sarah and Justine and Sarah’s adorable 3 year old , one of my oldest and dearest friends Jamie and his Israeli friend Maya, old friend Jimmy and his wife Sha … sitting in Jo’s living room in Calcutta tucking into Biryani. It was truly one of those – am I awake or am I dreaming moments, and as I’ve been having increasingly bizarre dreams for weeks about the wedding, it was hard to differentiate.
All the guests have settled into the cutesy little guesthouse we’ve booked, and acclimatizing themselves to Calcutta’s pace. Those who have visited before are fairly relaxed and enjoying the familiar sights, sounds and smells which are so generic to any Indian city, those who are coming to the continent for the first time are a little more wide eyed, a little more challenged by the spicy dishes, and certainly not entirely relaxed as we hurtle around the streets in Calcutta’s traffic.

One week countdown ....

One week today and I’ll be waking up as a newlywed. Can’t believe the time has finally come, and we’re actually living all those excel lists and plans and e mail promises. Seems like we’ve been planning this forever, I can’t even remember a weekend when we haven’t had to shop for lehenga, go for wedding dress fittings, send e mails to guests reminding them to confirm flight details, speak to sister in laws about accommodation plans in Calcutta, order rings etc etc. But I think we planned it all pretty well and down to the last detail, finally. Now all that remains is to see how far life imitates the plan.
Of course, the best laid plans always go awry, and last minute hiccups should be savored rather than stressed over. My ability to relax and go with the flow was sorely tested yesterday when I decided to show Mum my amazing bridal lehenga …. And so I shook out the jewel encrusted skirt, flaunted the backless bodice and reached for the dazzling dupatta … the dupatta (scarf part and very integral to the entire outfit) … which was nowhere to be found. After scrabbling frantically through the cupboards and searching my brain for its whereabouts whilst my husband to be tried to calm me down, it was clear that the dupatta had not accompanied the other parts of the lehenga home. WE rushed to the store …. I tried to stop my voice from going squeaky as I breathlessly asked the patient salesman – my lehenga, my lehenga, no dupatta, see …. Calmly he reached for his book of receipts, located one and informed me that I had in fact left it back for minor alteration a month previously. Doh!!! Shamefacedly I retrieved the gorgeous item and finally banished all nightmarish thoughts of being the world’s first dupatta-less bride.
Mum and Dad and Julie arrived 3 days ago, and we’ve enjoyed catching up and getting them prepped for the wedding events. Picked up a lovely salwar for Mum, another dazzling lehenga for Julie (though of course not as blingy as mine J) and a sherwani for Dad. Then went shopping for bangles and bindis, the best part. Simply hold out your lovely bright saree/dupatta/blouse, stand back and allow the banglewala to mix and match from his vast and glittering collection of brightly coloured bangles, some silvery hued, others all colours of the rainbow, some studded with crystals and pieces of glass which catch the light as you glide through the room. Within a few seconds, he has feverishly unwrapped and mixed and matched a set of bangles, one for each arm, which perfectly complement your outfit.