Shehlah Zahiruddin
November 10, 2002
I was always a willing recipient to performance of any number of ceremonies as long as I was the center of attention. Given that an actual marriage would be a part of it too was a bonus. I am a mixed breed, but my dad made sure it was his Hyderabadi roots to be followed to the tee when his only daughter was to be dethroned from her house and sacrificed at the next.
The Larka and LarkaykiAmma came to view and examine me on a lazy afternoon at the time of the Jerry Springer Show. As I sat in front of them I twitched my toes and wrung my fingers in anticipation of their departure. Shuttling between the kitchen and drawing room, I caught quickglances at the “If-your-ex-follows-you” theme on Springer. The Larka did not talk. I wondered about his ability to talk. I had my phone number written on a econosize chit of paper to push into his hands. However, he left without shaking hands with me and I was left with my dejected and dismayed number.
LarkaykiAmma called the next hour regaling at Potential Bahu’s nervous and reticent demeanour. A lightening of joy made its round through other people’s house via the phone. My mother in a controlled voice asked for some time to think the obvious. I winced and Ammi agreed. She had played this game thrice before.
Every Tom, Kiran and Taufiq arrived at Larka’s office periodically throughout the next day. Some wanted a job. Some had just sauntered in by chance. Some had been referred to by a friend. Some came with a job offer. Some were undercover CBR officers. Some were selling Office Harassment Insurance. Some wanted to offer the services of a spare masi to Larka’s house. All of course inquired about the well being of his wife and kids. Larka did not get much work done that day. And I was flooded with phone calls with animated descriptions of Larka’s expression on hearing the wife and kids query. A sigh of relief made its rounds through other people’s house via the phone once more. It has been established beyond doubt by my buoyant family that the Larka did not have a clandestine family tucked away somewhere.
Ammi said yes in a very nondescript way. She called LarkaykiAmma up when I was wiping an oniontear from my eye while simultaneously asking the masi to clean the tiles above the sink and eyeing my dad reading the instruction manual of how to use the microwave. My mother placed the mouthpiece on the hand set and told my father that “they” would be coming to settle further details soon. My father folded the instruction manual and asked me to put it in TheBaksa. He could not bear to see himself using the microwave any more.
On Friday my mother told me that “paaon maiz” was to happen. Long after it happened my father informed me that I was an engaged woman. But for the present I just wondered what my foot measurement had anything to do with my reproductive or culinary skills. Thinking that the Larka and LarkaykiAmma had decidedly very weird measurement criteria, I scrubbed my foot of toe jam and weak nails.
Larka, LarkaykiAmma and Nand came in full force on Friday with a retinue of thaals. One thaal had a beautiful dress, ring, sandals and bangles and the other had shoes, sweet meats, flowers and yet a third had a long string of pearls. I wondered which of the embellishments I would get to keep till my father informed me once more that I could get to keep all of it and ask for more too! Suddenly it occurred to me that the whole concept of getting married was not such a bad idea at all and I blessed my mother immediately for it.
My eye glistened with anticipation as I watched the string of pearls hungrily. However, the pearls were more than an arm’s length away from me. LarkaykiAmma first put garlands around my neck with such surgical precision that not once did my dupatta veer from my slippery head. Next I got to taste all the sweets she had and I whispered to her to get Smarties next time. I don’t think she understood what Smarties were otherwise she would not have given me such an angry glare.
Next began the arduous process of measurements. I was asked to stand and Ammi hurriedly whispered in my ear that my measurements were to be taken. I was petrified by mortal fear. Never in my life did I remember giving my measurements to my darzi! It was always “make is a little looser than ‘this’ kameez” and the darzi would size me up visually and nod his bleached head. “But we don’t have a measuring tape in the house,” I told LarkaykiAmma hurriedly, “I don’t use a measuring tape or a weighing machine.” LarkaykiAmma just smiled and picked up the pearls stringed in a rich red thread. I held my breath and sucked in my stomach but it only expanded my chest. Suddenly, I did not know what to do with my body. I saw angry goose pimples rising their red heads on my newly waxed arms. Larkay ki Amma gently took my hand and wound the pearls around my ring finger. I looked at the ceremony queerly. She then tied a knot at one end and let go of my hand. “Mashallah very slim fingers,” said LarrkaykiAmma out loud to everyone. “Yeah its because the fat got deposited at the wrong places,” I thought to my self. “She is going to save us a lot of money in gold,” LarkaykiAmma said again and everyone laughed at this silly joke. “Maybe you can get me Smarties with the money you save,” I suggested in earnest. However, my father gave me one quick jab in the ribs and I had to shut up.
I sized up the pearls once more and concluded once more that they were not enough to take the measurement of my waist. LarkaykiAmma then took the measurement of my neck and cracked the now-clichéd joke of saving her gold again. I was wincing with pain from the old jab and so kept my peace this time. Next LarkaykiAmma bent down almost on all fours and encased my foot with the string of pearls again and tied a knot at one end once more. She seemed visibly pleased with herself and I tried to visualize her at a shoe shop asking for a shoe the size of a pre determined pearl string! I let out a muffed laugh and was hurriedly rushed to my room before I broke out into a guffaw.
My next few days were spent in a surreal mode. I wandered around the house, but was miffed a little for it smelt different. I wondered about Larka again and his ability to speak. I eyed the phone in the hope it would ring, but my mother rudely interrupted my reverie. She asked me to get ready for my “Manjah” and I wondered how I was supposed to do that. I had a sinking feeling in my stomach as if a hundred stones had descended upon it and were now kneading its folds. I clutched my stomach and angrily looked at the calendar that showed my departure only a couple of days away.
The Manjah was even more ceremonious than my Paaon Maiz. It started off with the exchange of a “nashta” that would put the Nizam of Hyderabad to shame. My mother and a retinue of phoophis and chachis spent 2 nights preparing Dam ki Murghi, Bhagar-e-Baigan, Double ka Meetha and Kachay Ghost ki Biryani and spent another half day decorating the food in fancy trays and chandi kay warq. I wondered why my family went through such a horrendous exercise for LarkaykiAmma sent the same! I quipped that we could have just re-decorated the same food and returned to the sender. However, my brilliance in Energy Conservation, Economics, Efficiency and Lateral Thinking was not appreciated.
Once done with the eatables, the retinue of women decided to handle me the same way they had handled food – with ceremonious roughness. I was led to a “mandak” in ceremonious procession where all my cousins and aunt applied as much ubtan as my body would allow them too. I ended up reeking of Haldi chiksa, ground sugar, chambeli ka tael, sandal wood and ground coconut. The concoction felt cold even though the colour was warm yellow. I wondered what colour and smell emit from my skin once this yellow blob was massaged off me. As my cousins enveloped me in the yellow muck, they started humming tunes softly. The humming turned to muted songs often distorted because no one seemed to remember the complete lyrics. I felt strangely ceremonial. Amongst the humdrum I was made to get up and under the penumbra of a red duppatta I was led to the bathroom which now being called a “hammam” by every one. I failed to comprehend why a perfectly sane English description was being replaced by a ghastly Urdu word – one that evoked images of barbers` shops, naked men and an equally rude Urdu idiom. I was asked to take a bath and thank fully alone. I scrubbed myself raw, but was interrupted again by my chachi who was insistent that they pour water over me. I was aghast! Surely she couldn’t be serious. But not only was she serious but so were 6 other women who insisted they were the “Saat Suhagans” who would bless me with their holy touch. I protested and asked them take a dip in the Mangrove Swamps for all I cared, but the whacking on the door was unrelenting. Admist a barrage of verbal protest I opened the door hastily clad in jeans and T-Shirt that had my chachis and phoophis go into a whirl of squeals. I was adamant that I ridicule an already ridiculous ritual and so they conceded and grudgingly poured water on me sans any songs. This little intrusion was wrapped up rather quickly and I had the luxury of an uninterrupted bath. I was then told to dress and wait inside the “hammam” with the door opened, but eyes closed. By now I was really scared for I had not idea where the next assault would come from. I felt my mumani’s hand grip mine and keep it on something leathery. In quick anticipation I opened my eyes to find a Quran in front of me. I knew I would be expected to read from it, but suddenly I had the urge to be left alone. The retinue was relatives was asphyxiating. I wanted to read the Yaseen at my own leisure as I did facing the sun during late afternoons with the shadows of the crocheted curtains bathing the stylized Arabic fonts. However, what was not to be was not to be and what was to be was thrust upon me. I read the Yaseen in a low voice somewhat like a last conversation with Allah. My nose meanwhile piqued and my throat coughed at the rush of a suddenscentedsmoke. It was “Dhooan” or “Dohooni” (in another vernacular). Laden with Aggarbarian and Awadh the Dhooni was circulated from my head to toe seven times and then kept very near me so that the smoke could waft and settled into my hair and epidermis. I enjoyed this sweet smelling composite and my phoophi sensing my pleasure covered the Dhooni with a bamboo basket asked me lie down for a while with my damp hair enveloping the basket. I lay like that in respite for some time till it was time for prayers and beginning of Milaad.
I felt sobered (as opposed to being heady earlier) as I sat amongst my numerous cousins and friends all adorned with garlands by my doting Ammi. For the first time in my life I actually listened to na’ats – those lovely poems of devotion. I was quiet throughout yet another ceremony where my parents received gifts from their near ones. As Milaad revolutionized into Sanchak I perked up a little. My cousins remarked how I looked like a regal Hyderabadi princess in that six feet long duppatta careful tapestered around my shoulders all along to the inside of my pajama! My cousins stood behind me throughout yet another ceremony that had all my relatives garland my parents and myself. All my loving shopping was laid out near me, which included all my clothes, purses, shoes, jewelry, make up for others to view and comment on. I was horrified as my maid also decided to bring out my lingerie at which point I could no longer be the demuredulhan and instead lunged forward almost tripping on my yard long duppatta. Everyone surged forward to save me from tripping as I simultaneously screamed, “Azra go inside the house immediately”. I am not too sure if she had mastered English till that time, but she marched right into the house nevertheless.
Sandalwood, roses, fruits, assorted sweetmeats, chiksa, choba, paan and missi lined numerous intricately carved silver trays. My eyes were stinging with the amalgamation of colours, movie lights and people. I bowed my head in exhaustion when a female’s ring finger made its way into my mouth and smeared some missi on its inside. My mouth went dry and my body nauseous. Someone gave me a glass of water to gargle the blackness out. No sooner had I spat the missi, a paan was shoved with equal brutality in my mouth. I chewed on it a little but then decided to spit that out also. Some nameless faceless sympathizer offered a tissue to me and I was amazed at what all I could get away with with my head bowed low. A curious black-red colour now danced upon my lips making them look rustic and lovely. The photographer fascinated by the addition of colour on my pale face took numerous photographs of my psychedelic and comatose stares.
In a bid to save on dinners, the next set of rasms had also been integrated in the same evening so once my Sanchak was over, I had to proceed to be guineapigged for my Mehndi. Several women shoved themselves and me in my small room and detached my yardful duppatta. Next I was reassembled into a green saari with not-so-matching jewelry. I felt primal with multiple rings in my fingers and toes apart from the usual plethora of necklaces and earrings and teeka and choori and bracelets. As if the above was not enough I was garlanded once again and made to sit on the same podium that had been my host an hour earlier too. Someone shouted that the “Goud Bharana” should begin soon. I was aghast! Wasn’t this queer ceremony used to announce a woman’s success at her reproduction abilities? Here I was waiting to witness some concealed parts of life, but my family was going to do my Goud Bharaee already? “I swear to you I am not pregnant,” I told Ammi with tears in my eyes. “I swear I have never met Larka”, I quivered with further tears in my eyes. She slam dunked her hand on my pinned head and told me to “shut up”. I think she did not believe me.
Goud Bharna was what it said it would do. I was made to sit on a chowki covered with a velvet red cloth adorned with a yellow gold edges curiously called a “masala”. Next a tray adorned with a similar cloth was laid in my lap with the usual ensemble of paan, chaalia, sandalwood and etcetera and etcetera and etcetera on it. Similar trays were put in my choc-a-block “goud”. Just as I was preparing to begin the display of my jugglery skills, many of my cousins rushed out with happy squeals of Larka’s arrival. I groaned under the weight of the trays and my parents’ frugality on packing it all in an All-Rasms-One-Night-One-Dinner Package.
“Waran Pheri” was conducted on Larka. His mouth was first stuffed with sweet meats followed by the subsequent stuffing of ‘his’ goud. Then came the rasm that had initially sent my cousins squealing towards the Larka. It was the rasm of “Ungli Pakarna”. First they all laid out in front of the Larka the goodies he would receive from us which consisted of multiple suits, ties, shoes, shaving kits, perfumes, combs, brushes, surma, surma dani, dasta, chappal and shorts. I cringed at the fact that his shopping cost us more than all my shopping put together and I swore I would spend my entire honeymoon shopping at Larka’s expense. A veil was temporarily erected in front of the Larka and my cousin eagerly caught hold of Larka’s pinky through the veil. However, he pulled it back saying “Meri Baandi bano phir ungli pakro”. So my cousin sat on the floor with utmost respect and proceeded to apply mehndi on Larka’s finger. Once she had caked his finger completely, she then tied a red triangular piece of cloth on the mehndi and the demand for money began. Each of my cousins to whom money mattered more than respect partook in this activity. Haggling continued till the movie wallah was exhausted and he threatened to film no more until he was given his share of the money too! Compromise was reached on a couple of thousand rupees – the actual amount never told to me for I was demanding my share from it too! Next Larka got to wear a silver ring lovingly put on by my cousin and she asked for a further Mehndi ki Salaami. Larka was jolted by more demand for money. Little did he know that in these times, demand for money was no longer only a prerogative of the Larkawalas only!
That night Larka called. I wondered at his power of comprehension given he took almost a month to decipher my scribbled number. Given my disorientation all I remember are moments of conversation where I could almost taste his sweetness and kindness without remembering a word of what he said. I felt new. I felt happy. And most importantly I felt rested. I found out that Larka made parts for some biscuit manufacturing machines. I asked him how soon before he set up a Smarties factory. He completely missed the joke. And I went to sleep. Afterall, I had a big wedding to attend the next day.
I had funny dreams through the night - dreams where I saw a bottle of Coke getting married to a bottle of Miranda with lil Sprite popping out of his mother’s not-so-curvaceous body immediately after she slurped Coke. I think my own burp woke me up. But the whole house was asleep. I went around kissing all my dear relatives on their foreheads uttering a prayer in my heart. The distant crickets mocked my distended emotions and I just quietly lay down next to Ammi. She hauled me in her arms and we cried.
Many were pooped on Shadi morning, but I was in a hurry. I had heard my salon gave a margin of only fifteen minutes for a bride to be late. After that she was shown the way to the nearest barbershop. I was hurried through the bath, Dhooan and prayers rituals and rushed to the salon before I could change my mind about the wedding altogether. After all that dangerous moment only lasts till the make-up is applied. After that every woman is dying to be in a King’s harem – or at least that is what SpinsterPhoopo thought.
Evening crept up to me doused in cakes of foundations, rouges, eyeliners and mascaras. I stared blankly at the woman in the mirror. Even the damned tear would not creep out of its decked up prison. I arrived home and sat alone in an AC room with my held low for the first time. A person’s chin is only up to the point he knows what he is doing. I did not even know if I was myself anymore. Mamoo, Chacha, Abbu and Maulvi came into the room, took some quick signatures and made me utter a few Qabools and were out in no time. I was left holding Abba’s favourite Mont Blanc and that damned tear that still wouldn’t visit.
I flaunted my gait and regalia to all admist the multiple lights of the movie walla, camera flashes and center spotlights. I sat next to MyLarka and a ghoongat was put over both of us. A mirror was duly placed on our laps that we curiously were almost sharing already! MyLarka and I were asked to gaze into the mirror. I admired myself while MyLarka proceeded to utter some quranic verses and I listened carefully lest it consisted of a “La hol”. MyLarka then gave me a watch, which I thought was to remind me to kick up a fuss if it got too late. However, the watch never came with a manual of how to kick up that fuss.
My parents then garlanded me with Widai kay Phool and gave my hand in MyLarka’s hand asking him to duck all the dishes I would throw at him in future and that he did not have much to worry for I was just a case of bad shot laden with crockery. And yes in the meantime, he would also be responsible to take care of me and all those other things that parents say at this time of the shadi.
MyLarka and I were paraded and kissed and hugged for the next three and a half hours before we were finally abandoned in the quiet of our room where I proceeded to greet that damned tear along with a deluge of its friends. MyLarka handed me tissues all night long begging me not to insist that he drop me home that instant. Finally he gave me a few Smarties and I munched on them the entire night.
Next morning my cousins arrived with Khichri and Kheer to my room. They garlanded my patience and gave me money too. Finally I could go home! As I descended the stairs, LarkaykiAmma gave me a paandaan, some money and gratuitous smiles. Once home I slept alone for suddenly Ammi’s arms felt alien. In the evening MyLarka and his band of merry followers arrived at my house armed with tomatoes, eggs, phool ki dandi, phool kay pathar, water, oil and rang. What followed was a melange of screams, colours, ducking exercises and a lot of happiness. In the process MyDirtyLarka’s shoes were also hidden and he had to bribe his way into going home with dignity. MyDirtyLarka was given salaami as day two farewell and I happily rushed home to prepare for the Valima the next evening.
The uneventful Valima was followed on every Friday by a “Jumaaya”. Each Jumaaya consisted of a dinner at either of the houses with me not being allowed to do any housework for 5 consecutive weeks. On the fifth Jumaaya Ammi came to Myhome with flour, ghee, kheer, badaam, vermicelli, belan, karhai, kafgeer, bartan and choola! We made puris, kheer and sawaiyaan together and from this FifthFriday it was established that the objective of spending all that money and conducting all those rasms was finally achieved. I was domesticated.
Footnote: Just an attempt at chronicling Hyderabadi weddings before all these delicious rasms are lost. The fact that all this actually happened to me is supposed to be the fine print. Serious.
Shehlah Zahiruddin
I`m just a regular average beychari karachiite who has had surreal experiences in life. Those who say god created order out of chaos has not visited our lives! Am a Marketing Manager by profession and a parhi likhi by education and a mother worshipper by religion and anti-military as a politician. Have acted in and directed stage plays, raced cars and bungee-jumped with Life till it dawned how much responsibilty and work for others has been straitjacketed in these tiny lives of ours and hell if Maulana Edhi can do it so can we armed with all our fancy degrees, english gibberish, cars and money! Did my schooling from St. Joseph`s. Hold a masters in Business Admin from IBA and another from Khi Uni in International Relations. The only real education though is limited to the two years of A Levels studying English Literature, Comparitive Religion and Philosophy and a course in Development Economics much later. The rest was taught by life and people pretty adequately thank you! Have my mother to thank for giving me the incredible courage to think, feel, observe, read, talk, write and most importantly, to just go out there and EXPERIENCE.
Comment posted by Asif
at 5/8/2007 9:24:00 AM
why this article?
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