The Whole Seven Yards

A blitzkrieg of hugs. Swathes of smiling faces. Fire, incense, and the conch. Squeals from kids twirling to the music. Friends, friends and more friends. More hugs. Flowers, disco lights and photo-shoots. Reunions and gossips. Music, moves and grooves. Folded hands, confusion and chaos playing guest appearances. Chiffon and silk engaged in battle. Kurtas and dhotis. Whitewash and blazing colours. Recollections and flashbacks. Brass bands and street rowdies. Succulence and reticence swinging together. The list goes on and on. In-between, was I the protagonist or was I them, the hundreds of eyes watching and revelling in the goings-on?
Seven days of my life flew by in unchecked, unaudited and uncontrolled reverie as I slid into matrimony and came full circle to witness that which I had seen happening to others. Dad's eyes followed me everywhere I went, perhaps remembering the same week thirty-eight years ago when he was himself in the thick of things. Mom was too busy to be nostalgic except when she was smothered with hugs from visiting kith and kin.
No amount of preparation readies one for an Indian wedding. It's a toast to merrymaking, raised by one and all. We don't live in a palatial mansion, and yet the feeling was regal. I kept cautioning myself not to get carried away, for beyond the mirth and the chaos was a new turn in the road. But the cautioning fell on deaf ears as it was easy to let go of the useless inhibitions and jump into the fun.

Joymakers, dance and sway
'tis your playground, so play
Old friends meet and hug
One by one, they pull the plug
as music welcomes the big day

The day before the wedding was a mutiny of laughter where all present had misplaced their anchors. As the beats pumped out, Bollywood moves were flaunted while those who were newcomers to this (read - friends who were first-timers to Cuttack) gaped and drank in the fun. Even aunts who symbolised prosperity causes seismic ripples, which would alarm Richter. Even yours truly wasn't spared.

I had not expected the big day to jump on me with the agility of a four-year-old playing hide-and-seek. Throngs of boisterous faces rent the air hoarse with excited chatter as my grand vehicle bedecked with floral decor (no, wasn't a horse) left home. An hour later, the public in Bhubaneswar witnessed a motley gang of normal people turn the road into a stage when the "Baaraat" wove its way to the tune of rambunctious Oriya songs as well as memorable numbers. I was the subject of a million stares and a thousand whispers in ears. I felt like I was on a ramp or at a movie-shoot. I learnt later that the feeling was the same on her side as well. Like a magnet, the fun on the road pulled me out and made me groove a bit as well, much to the delight of the youngsters and my pals, and to the chagrin of an impatient uncle!

Beautiful, those kohled eyes
These kids, the groom's spies
Lifted with cheers, heave-ho
I gave in, all smiles aglow
while hundreds swam in glee

If I were to take a snapshot of each smile that day and paste it onto a collage, I would run out of space on my walls to paste it on. Young and old, jubilant and senile, bouncy and fragile - everyone who had waited for that day was there. As the fire burnt, and the smoke hazed out the irrelevant chants of the priests, I could not help but lift myself out from there and mingle with the crowd. Sumit's beating of the drum, Gayatri's focus on her photography, Aai's patient observation of every little activity, the constant attention from the scores of women who I had never seen before, the knowing looks of her friends who I didn't know, the tugging of the turban by truant kids, the pouring of ghee into the fire and the full-blown feeling that I was entering a new dimension. All of these things conspired on the spot to make me smile, an unrestrained smile that healed old scars and opened new windows in the mind.
Is this what everyone goes through? Where were my good friends Cynicism and Skepticism? Why did they not attend my wedding?

Shy, the lowered gaze
the noise, the flames, the daze
The give and take
the cowries at stake
With sunset, the seven circles

As we sat the next evening on a glittering stage and playing the perfect hosts, my eyes searched for myself in the faces of those who came to wish me.
"Do you recognise me, Bobby?"
"Yes ofcourse!"
"Really? Who am I?"
"Errr....ummm...."
I quickly jumped back onto the last carriage of Honesty Express and the evening became much better. Smile this way, smile that way, shake hands, kiss the cheeks of a toddler, lift another, pose to the left, pose to the right, open my coat, flick my hands, and turn straight ahead. The burdens of an evening in glamour! But that was all worth the delicious moments. Especially when Ramesh Aja, my grand-uncle aged 92, turned up in a wheelchair. The lights and the ghazals joined hands, with my sister's lovingly arranged orchids doing their part to perfection. It was an evening that could be wished to last forever, especially when the grand photos of the family were snapped.

It was like a steep climb onto the peak of a rollercoaster, which is followed by a sudden tumble that knocks the breath out of you. Even when I saw the amused looks on the faces of Christian, Anita and Laurant, who were in India for the first time, I knew that they were making the most of it. My sincere hope remains that they went back with a much clearer picture of what happens in India. The chaos, the comfort, the compulsions and the cosiness.

Two days later, a gang of us travelled to the western town of Sambalpur, singing and making merry in a chaotic train compartment. The sheer delight on my cousins' faces made the journey flash by in a jiffy. Burla was a world in its own, where the same delights and postures of an evening reception continued. All hell broke loose in the final hour when the dance floor opened up and I was haplessly dragged onstage. The evening turned into a free-for-all dance fiesta where everyone mellowed down and let their hair down.

She smiles, the music slows
A wish to hold her close
The moment goes and comes
like deejaying phantoms
Boom and slick, the party goes on

Anecdotes are many, and memories are infinite. They merge and mix and produce sweetness of an untasted flavour. The tears of a grandmother, the clipped delight of a brooding father, the hearty sounds of enthusiastic laughter, the warmth in hugging friends, the curiosity of new kin, the ecstasy in the dances of Google, Khushi and Sheela. Moments caught on camera and lost in the inner tunnels of the mind. We all wake up every day with traces of a dream.

When the overwhelming continuum of those seven days ended, I looked at the surviving ring on my right hand and browsed through all the moments gone by.

I still could not see Mr Skepticism and Miss Cynicism in those moments.

All I could see were the laughters and those kohled eyes.

Joy. Transient, yet refreshing, joy.