Annabelly

Namaste. Aap kesse hoh? Mein budia hey. Mira naam Annie Hay hey. Or aap? Meri mataji ka naam hey Jaquine Hay. Muray pitaji ka naam hey Alan Hay. Mein Bharat key sanskriti seekany Bharat aaee hoon. Yahan par dekanay layak kiya heh? Thoda sa bi nahee, jaissee aapkee marzee. Koi baat nahee. Kaal melangay, dyaan rakna! EH! Chaale Jao! Nikal jao! Bus, rahanay do. Ghanda Chokra. Ben Chode. This is the full extent of my conversational Hindi knowledge. Hello, how are you? My name is Annie, what is your’s? My mother’s name is Jaquine, my father’s name is Alan. I have come to India to study its culture. What is good to see here? No, not at all, as you wish. It doesn’t matter. See you tomorrow, take care! And… Go away. Don’t touch me! That’s enough. Dirty boy. A very bad word that usually comes next in the sequence. So, just in case my last note left you all feeling as if you had no reason to be jealous of my minimalist Jain existence, think again: I am writing this as I wait for my personal, at-home masseuse to arrive and give me a full-body rub-down for one hour, for a rate of $2.10. Beat that. I am now a good Jain-- I am spending very little money on what we will call an hour of meditation. So, back to where I left off with my story about my life 3 weeks ago (yes, I am that far behind.) At ten a.m., after our all night bus trip, we hopped yet another bus and went out to the town of Ajmer, where the bombings of the Sufi mosques occurred two weeks prior, for our professor’s brother’s wedding. The wedding was incredible. I, like most Americans, knew nothing about Indian weddings and I believe my only frame of reference was the short scene in the movie “Bend it Like Beckham” or “Monsoon Wedding.” As it turns out, traditionally, the groom leaves the home of his parents atop a white horse and rides with a procession of family members and close friends, all the way to the home or hotel of the bride. He wears clothes spun with golden thread and brings gifts like gold jewelry, diamonds, and clothing for his future wife. I found this practice particularly appealing: what girl has not dreamt of her man arriving on a white horse, dressed in gold, bearing jewelry and clothing, and promising to love her eternally? If only they had actually met before… Our professor, (a gorgeous, energetic woman who was married a few years ago and, unlike many Indian couples, has a very loving marriage), treated us like family. I think many of you have seen photos, but we brought saris and dressed in the traditional wedding dress to be polite. One of the best decisions I have ever made. The family was so flattered to see a bunch of white girls in saris that we could barely get out the door to join the procession because we were so flooded by people who wanted to ask us how we knew how to wear them, where we got them, and why white people didn’t wear saris more often—my explanation was useless, they still insist that I should wear them at home. They were sweet though, and I think I posed for 1,000 photos… The procession was crazy and any inhibitions I had about dancing and my lack of rhythm were cured: everytime I could pause to breathe, I was whisked away by another auntie or cousin who grabbed my hips, flung them right and left, and then grabbed a hand and tossed it into the air. I must say, it was quite a scene. I think my hips have some loosening to do. We walked for about 3 miles altogether. First came the Aunties, all dressed in gorgeous saris with intricate hand beading, and shaking their hips all over the place. A few of the male cousins and husbands joined in, and one guy in particular caught my eye. I was told he was an incredible Indian dancer but, to my untrained eye, it looked more like a strange, slow interpretive dance that was some sort of mixture of the Macarena (which I cannot spell), walking like an Egyptian, moon walking, and Hoola. After the Aunties came the older people, who danced with their arms but had retired their hips long ago. I did my best to hide in this pack. Lastly came the groom, bejeweled and with a stoic expression atop his white horse. At the edges of the procession, a band and men with big lanterns kept the rowdy dancers confined, and the people watching along the streets out of the procession. It was all very surreal. I think one of my favorite memories was dancing along and peering out into the street to see a huge crowd of men, staring and pointing, trying their best to figure out why the hell three white girls were wearing a saris and dancing like fools with a wedding procession. It was just one of those moments I wish I could have a freeze-frame photo of: the expressions were worth a thousand words. When we arrived at the bride’s house, the dancing went wild. Mind you, that procession was the most exercise I have had since arriving in India, and easily the most movement my hips have done—ever-- and by the time we got there, I was doubled over with a side ache and had sweat pouring from every pore in my body. The word “tired” meant nothing to the Aunties, I suppose it was just too much fun to watch the dancing, demented white girl. So, I tried to dance until the bride’s family finally let us in the gate, and then I settled myself into a comfortable chair with my fellow travelers (who were, thankfully, just as mortified to dance) and had some chai. Upon arrival, the groom is hurried to a stage where he is seated on a thrown-like chair and has photos taken until the bride comes out. When she comes, they are both photographed and stand up there for about an hour and a half for photos. While most of us would kill ourselves, smiling for that many photos, Indians have figured out a solution: the bride must look very upset and sad to be getting married. There can be no sign of happiness on her face, lest she look provocative, like she is awaiting her wedding night and, bonus, she her face doesn’t get tired from photographs. We sat out in the audience, observing, and trying to escape the prodding of the Aunties. No luck, right after we sat down, we were asked to join the groom on stage. So, in front of at least 300 Indians, we awkwardly climbed the steps in our saris onto the stage to speak with the groom. When we reached him, he told us that he had asked that we come up so that he could tell us personally that, “you are looking so beautiful. I am very flattered that you have come to my marriage and that you have dressed in the traditional manner. You are looking so very nice, this dress suits you.” He then asked to have one photo taken and then called a waiter over to make sure we had food and sweets for the rest of the evening. I must remember to be this considerate and kind at my own wedding. And so the night went on; photos, food, and conversations about where we were from, what we studied, whether we liked Indian culture, and why it was that in our country, we make such bland food. Conversations are very predictable with Indians. I must introduce myself in terms of who my father is and his occupation, what university I go to, what my field of study is (I think I need to switch to economics or physics, they like that answer,) what my religion is and sometimes, what my caste is. I haven’t quite found the right response to that last question, it still always leaves me surprised and sputtering. By 12:30, and after a night without sleeping on the bus, we were barely able to keep our eyes open. So, our professor and her husband and their son drove us to their home where we all slept on the marble floor with a small sleeping mat, lined up like sardines, and I had the best night of sleep I have ever had in India. The wedding would go on for two more days. We woke up to a man pushing chai at our noses and telling us to come down for the breakfast banquet that celebrates the bride and groom’s first night together. Exhausted, we did, and spent an hour stuffing ourselves as the aunties and uncles scooped serving after serving of spicy breakfast food onto our plates, loving the fact that white people ate Indian food. I thought I was going to pop. After breakfast, we escaped, and all decided that the wedding had been incredible, but after a week of travel and very little sleep, we needed to go home. So, we excused ourselves, packed, said our farewells, and caught a bus back home to Jaipur. It was quite a week.