The Wedding
On the morning of the wedding we’re invited to Netra’s cousin’s house for breakfast. Anthony, at risk of causing offence, insists upon going to the school to mount the controllers (now that the panels are installed on the roof.) Nothing distinguishes breakfast from supper. The inevitable dahl bhat is relieved occasionally with a very welcome fried egg.
I’ve been awaiting with dread the slaughter of the pig, a friendly black fellow who lives with his slightly smaller friend in the sty near the house. A quick death I can handle but the metal arrow like device used is far from humane.
Returning from breakfast, Netra announces that the slaughtering, the start of the wedding ceremony, is about to begin. Of necessity, I make straight for the outhouse, unfortunately adjacent to the sty and try to plug my ears to the ensuing shrieking and squealing. After its demise, the company assembles in the house where the elders chant and intone as they cook the requisite parts of the pig, (we didn’t inquire as to which!) on spits held over the fire.
People gradually gather on the lower terrace, where 100 kgs of dry rice has been cooked for the 80 some guests. We all sit cross legged in two rows facing one another, out of necessity due to the narrowness of the terrace. The happy couple finally take the lid off their Peeple platter to reveal rice, more rice, some pork and a little pickle.
I spend some time watching the children in the courtyard, putting to good use the wipeable, plastic boards I have taken along with coloured pens and pencils. Their drawings are amazingly detailed and carefully executed, doubtless due to the scarcity of paper they’ve had available.
All day long guests come and go. Many have traveled long hours over a great distance on rough trails to be at the ceremony. Many have never seen a white face before. In the evening, Anthony succumbs to a cough and sore throat ( he blames, probably justly, the garlands!) and takes to his bed. I spend some time listening to the elders chanting around the fire in the house. According to Netra, they will continue, as tradition dictates, all night. However, they seem to be faltering relatively early and before long join the larger group on the lower terrace who are dancing to the Hindi music provided by a battery powered tape deck. I’m fascinated watching two of my young friends twisting, turning, arms weaving ,writhing, bare feet moving in perfect rhythm. No giggling and chattering tonight; their faces are solemn, their eyes unseeing, they’re almost hypnotized with concentration.
The adults are relaxed and happy. The chang flows. I feel a sudden, unexpected melancholy. These people have so little materially, they work hard just to survive and hunger is often a reality. But they share such a deep love for their immediate and their large extended family, for their Rai culture; something as part of a small immigrant family I lack and cannot share, despite their hospitality.