CHAPTER 6
MISSING THE DANCE AT AN INDIAN WEDDING
Worrying about what’s coming next will
make you miss the best times of your life.
Sometimes we get so lost in overthinking the future that we forget to live in the here and now and we risk missing the best times of our lives. Some of the best ideas, greatest people, most wonderful relationships, and best times can emerge during times of chaos.
Some years ago, my wife and I went to India to see her only brother get married. I had been to Indian weddings in the United States, but it wasn’t enough to prepare me for one of the most chaotic but memorable experiences I’ve ever had.
An Indian wedding is an event where people run in all different directions, where time has no meaning, and where horses, strange uncles, and even the bride show up out of nowhere. At the wedding, I was trying too hard to control, to force my own logical, orderly, and boxed way of thinking onto something that is completely unpredictable. I learned a lot about myself that day and have since realized that I never again want to miss the moment in front of me by allowing my mind to focus so much on what’s next.
“What do you mean the horse isn’t here?” I said to one of the many cousins and friends lurking around the grandmother’s house as we were getting ready for the big night. My brother-in-law, who lives in the United States, was getting married to a woman from India, in her home city of New Delhi.
I had only been to one other wedding in India, and I was sick with “Delhi belly” at the time, so I don’t recollect much of anything except the side of the road where my food often ended up. Besides, this time was different. As the oldest, sane, and organized American, I was kind of in charge . . . or so I thought.
In an Indian wedding, the bride’s side of the family usually sends a horse to pick up the groom on the evening of the wedding. Adorned by flowers and fed by the boy’s sisters, the horse is supposed to carry the groom slowly alongside the bandwala (traveling band) guys and the rest of the groom’s party in a procession to the location of the ceremony. But neither the horse nor the band were anywhere to be found.
“Are you kidding me?” I started screaming, when my wife informed me that she still had to go to the hair salon to get her hair and makeup done. “We were supposed to have left an hour ago and there’s no horse, no band, and the groom’s sister isn’t ready. What is the deal with everyone? Why can’t we ever get this stuff right? Don’t they know it’s the wedding day?”
No one was listening. My wife had left for the hair salon. The rest were busy doing whatever it is people do in India before a wedding.
No head.
I was exhausted from three days of events, functions, food, and formalities—a slew of pre-wedding parties that all seemed to blend in with each other. It was all too much, and at this point I was eager to get it over with. The stress and anxiety of being in India for two weeks—and of using two-thirds of my precious vacation time from work—was getting to me.
As I stood outside in the cold evening air, waiting, I wondered why they couldn’t do a destination wedding in a normal place like Florida or Cancún, like other people.
The groom’s dad was out running an errand (seriously, who runs an errand at such a time?), and the groom’s mom was freaking out, trying to prepare gifts, envelopes, jewelry, flowers, sweets, and all the rest of the items required as part of the inventory of things exchanged between the bride’s and groom’s families. She had no time to worry about a horse.
And there’s never a dress rehearsal. So off I went to take charge, because it felt like everything was falling apart and someone needed to take charge. After figuring out who had ordered the horse, I tried to get in touch with the horse guy. No answer. Called the bandwala guys. No answer. Finally, I went outside to get some air and took a walk around the neighborhood in hopes of perhaps finding the horse, who may have gotten lost.
And there he was. The horse! And the horse’s handler, just sitting on a stack of bricks near a construction site on the side of the street.
“What are you doing? Why aren’t you at the house? Come on. Let’s go.”
“Yes, sir,” he said, rising.
But he just stood there, smiling and shaking his head.
“Why don’t you move?” I asked. “Let’s go. We are getting late.”
“Yes, sir.” Still just standing there.
“What is the problem, man?” I asked in great frustration.
“Sir, you have such a big house and we are such little people . . .”
Are you kidding me? Was this guy trying to shake me down for some more money simply because he’s got me in my time of need? So typical! And this wasn’t even my house!
I stopped him right there.
“Don’t worry about the money. I’ll take care of you.” This assured him enough to start walking.
Horse. Check. I felt relieved. Things were going my way.
Thank God I’m here, I thought. Otherwise this wedding would fall apart. The control-freak ego was rearing its ugly head.
Next, the traveling band.
As I walked back to the house with the horse and his handler, I was relieved to see that the bandwalas had also arrived. Thank God! The band was about a dozen Indian men, dressed in white, Westernized band uniforms that were clearly aged to perfection by the crisp, roasted streets of New Delhi. They had probably picked them up at some Army/Navy store, if there was such a thing in India. Some were holding instruments—tubas, trumpets, or drums. The others held up candelabra-type lighting powered by portable generators.
My wife finally arrived from the hair salon and we were finally ready to go. We were arguing because she’s “always” late and I am a stickler for time.
“Can we finally go now? Which car are we taking?” I asked.
“We can’t leave yet,” she answered. “We have to get him on the horse.”
“I know, but that’s for the photos, right? I mean, he’s not going to ride that horse all the way to the hotel. . . . Is he?”
“I don’t know, babe,” she responded, and then she was pulled away by giggling girls.
“What happens next?” I asked my wife’s father.
“They feed the horse,” he responded, almost sarcastically, probably because he figured I would know how Indian weddings go, having been married in an Indian wedding in the United States.
I couldn’t help feeling a little foolish. I mean, I kind of knew what was going on, but it felt so different. My own Indian American wedding some years ago in New Jersey was a little tamer than this. I had done what I was told to do and just smiled and waved. It was all such a blur.
And the wedding invitation didn’t say anything about feeding a horse.
The procession of young girl cousins, friends, and my wife ceremoniously fed the horse, which had been further adorned everywhere with flowers and symbols. The groom, all dressed up with his flower helmet, his necklace of rupees, and his very manly customary sword, climbed up on the horse and, accompanied by a beating drum, began his journey toward that holy alliance, marriage.
“Good photos. What’s next?” I asked innocently.
Off we went. But not as I expected.
The groom, high on top of his horse, followed a procession of his family and friends—some walking and some dancing—down the streets of New Delhi to the site of the marriage ceremony, a few miles away. Lit by the weak glow of light rods blurred by the mist in the cold winter air, the procession looked worn, tired. The procession was going slowly and we had a long way to go. They weren’t going to make it.
My stomach started to churn and the pressure was building in my mind as I looked at my watch and realized that we were about two hours behind. Something about time always makes me nervous. I like to be on time. No, I need to be on time. I was trained in sales, and in my mind I could hear the voice of a former New York City sales manager from twenty years ago: “Be early, but never, ever be late.”
I popped some pink tablets that were supposedly Pepto-Bismol, but the spelling was wrong, so I knew they were knockoffs. Whatever. I needed to calm my stomach. If only they made that stuff for my head, I thought.
I had joined the procession and was walking along with my wife and the rest of the family. I told my wife we weren’t going to make it in time and suggested that we go a few yards forward with the half-dancing procession, and then all of us could get in the cars that were following us and head over to the venue. The band could get there in the van that was accompanying them. That left the horse, which could probably gallop to the venue. Why not? It is India, after all. I figured we would have time to do all the dancing in the parking lot before the milni, the official meeting of the two families.
This seemed reasonable enough to my wife, her brother the groom, and their parents, who all agreed. I didn’t want to further our argument about why my wife was so late, so I got into a car with a bunch of “uncles” who were part of the wedding procession. They weren’t my uncles, literally, but in India you address anyone relatively older than you as uncle or auntie, out of respect. Six of us were squeezed into the car.
As soon as I entered the car, I felt much better, more relaxed. At least were moving in the right direction, toward our destination.
We went a few miles and then the uncle in the front seat asked the driver to stop the car on the side of the road. It was not a major road, only one of the side roads, but it was still a fairly busy street, in the evening after rush hour. The uncle got out of the car and the others started to follow. The van carrying the band had kept up with us pretty well and pulled over to the side of the road ahead of us.
What now? I wondered. We were probably only half a mile away, but we were still a good two hours late.
Stressed and anxious to get there already, I unwillingly got out of the car with the others to see what was going on. One of the uncles went behind the car and opened the trunk. I figured he had forgotten something. Curious, I went over to see what he was getting out.
“You gotta be kidding me!” I couldn’t help saying it aloud. It just came out. In the trunk of the car, in plain sight, was a big cooler full of ice and four or five bottles of scotch. “You got out to get some Johnnie Walker?” I asked in amazement.
“Want some?” he asked, smiling as he started to pour.
I guess the open trunk of a white Maruti Suzuki behind a wedding procession of bandwala guys in dirty white uniforms is a smoke signal of some kind, indicating to all the men attending a wedding, “Bar is open for business! Come and get it!” All of a sudden, three or four other cars in our party started lining up behind ours.
Some of the other guests were bringing out their own preferred single malts, along with some salted snacks. One of the uncles brought out some roasted almonds and started passing them around in a paper cup. There they were, standing in the middle of the road in a major Indian city, drinking Johnnie Walker Black Label out of the trunk of some uncle’s car, heading to the wedding of my brother-in-law, with a traveling band in front of us—two hours late.
My neck became stiff and I was freaking out.
In hindsight, I could probably have used the drink, but I refused. It didn’t correlate with my view of how things were supposed to be. I couldn’t drink on the side of a road with all these cars passing by!
I implored the handful of uncles to get back in the car. Their only response was, “Relax. Come on, have a drink. We’ll get there. Don’t worry about it. Have a little fun. Besides, he will get married.”
Tension continued to creep into my body as I stood, amazed, watching these uncles shooting the breeze as if they were having a backyard barbeque. I’ve been to plenty of tailgate parties in a parking lot before a football game, but we were late for a wedding! How could anyone be so relaxed?
The procession of women dressed in beautiful saris arrived in their cars, bit by bit filling the black-and-white scene with vibrant colors, bringing life to what felt like a circus where no one was taking anything seriously. Soon, there was a row of cars parked on the side of the road, one in front of the other.
My worry increased as the other women in the wedding procession began pouring out of their cars. With my wife leading the way, they headed over to the band and the drumbeat began in full force. Everyone started dancing spontaneously. Their sore feet were infused with a burst of energy, laying claim to the big fat Indian wedding bhangra music. Tired faces were brought back to life, smiling, rejoicing in a celebration that comes once in a lifetime.
My wife was loving it. She peered over at me, winked, smiled, and started dancing, signaling for me to come over and join her. Her spontaneous wink broke my stiff demeanor, but I still couldn’t let go. The time pressure to get there made me resist her invitation to dance. I needed to get everyone there. I felt responsible because I felt like no one was in charge. The uncles were laughing, enjoying their Black Label. The women, in their rich, vibrantly colored saris, sparkling jewelry, and extravagant shoes, were dancing with some of the younger male family members.
I considered what I would be doing right now back home. How different this looked from my daily routine view of black and blue coats rushing to grab bagels and coffee. There was something about the colors, vibrant hues dancing all around, celebrating with open arms, inviting me to join in on the fun. But I still couldn’t get myself to let go. To liberate myself from the shackles of my notions of how things ought to be. To be free and just dance.
Deep inside, I wanted to join in, but my overthinking wouldn’t allow me to be free of this self-imposed responsibility to get to the wedding on time. I wanted to dance with my wife, but I couldn’t. Conflicting thoughts in my head wanted me to maintain my almost Western composure. I couldn’t accept the chaos. And I felt as if I was suffering for it.
Slowly, the band started walking forward to the venue, along with the procession of dancing women—now joined by boisterous husbands who had at last found their confidence.
Finally! We arrived at the parking lot of the hotel where the wedding was supposed to take place. My stress lifted when I realized that we had gotten there.
A number of the bride’s family members were gathered on the platform where the groom and bride were supposed to formally meet each other. I felt embarrassed at being so late and went up to check in with one of the bride’s many cousins, to say hello and to apologize. To my shock and surprise, I learned that the bride was just getting there herself.
“Oh, man. No way. You have to be kidding me. I give up.”
Exhaling a breath of exasperation, I sat down on the platform to wait another twenty minutes or so, chatting with some of the bride’s cousins. In some ways, I couldn’t help laughing a little.
The bride arrived in all her beautiful glory. Amid music and much fanfare, the bride and groom exchanged their formal flower necklaces. The array of family members exchanged red envelopes and gifts. This went on for a good half hour.
Escorted inside, the bride and groom walked side by side to a platform adorned with soft cushions and flowers. Seated next to the pandit who would be performing the marriage ceremony, they smiled nervously. Sitting across from a small, square block of bricks where the fire would eventually burn, the pandit began the ceremony.
Over the course of the next two hours, the pandit performed the ceremony, sometimes in Hindi and often in the ancient Indian language of Sanskrit, while the couple faced the fire. Pouring oil, wood, and other earthly materials into the fire, the couple repeated their holy vows and sought blessings from God. With all the families sitting around smiling at the young couple, blessings of love, affection, and excitement continued to flow throughout the night.
In what I would have thought to be a more serious part of the ceremony, some young guys were casually joking around behind the groom. Girls were also in a playful mood as they hatched their plans to play a joke on the groom after the ceremony. Something about stealing his shoes and then making him buy them back. Giving the young guys a serious stare, I hoped they would chill out and let the pandit perform.
It was all so confusing at times. Some people were praying, some were laughing, some were dozing off, others were intensely focused on the burning pyre.
Eventually, the pandit tied the groom’s coattails to the bride’s red sari and they walked around the fire seven times. Watching the young couple’s faces as they walked around the small, warm fire put me into something of a peaceful trance. It had been a long day. And it was over. That was it.
They were married.
Following many more fun and vivacious rituals and customs—including the new husband buying his shoes back from his bride’s girlfriends—we ate our dinner, which lasted late into the night.
“What happened to the dancing?” I asked my wife.
“That’s it. No more dancing,” she said, turning her attention back to her kid brother who had just become a married man.
Everyone sat around a table enjoying one another’s company until 2 or 3 a.m. I was relieved that the wedding had taken place and everything went fine and everyone was happy. I felt satisfied but not fulfilled. Relieved but not happy. I couldn’t believe it was actually over, but I felt like something was missing.
It went by so fast, I thought. My heart felt as though I had unfinished business. I wanted to celebrate, to dance. But it was all out of order. You’re supposed to dance after they get married, not before. That was it. They got it wrong. It’s all upside down here. How are you supposed to celebrate something that hasn’t finished yet?
As we were leaving the hotel to go back to the house, exhausted, I glanced over at the still-burning fire, and suddenly I realized that they had not gotten it wrong. I had gotten it wrong. I was so focused on the destination that I forgot to enjoy the ride. I was worried about the wrong things. My mind had been so busy focusing on my way of thinking about how things ought to be that I didn’t enjoy how things really were. I was so worried about getting to the wedding on time and what was coming next that I didn’t fully enjoy the experience of the horse, the cocktails by the side of the road, dancing with my beautiful, joyful wife, the rituals and customs and their deep meaning.
I didn’t appreciate the ride, but ultimately it all ends the same way: two people get married. They get married, and everything works out in the end. My overthinking mind had made me miss possibly some of the best moments of my life. This was my wife’s only brother, and I had missed out on dancing at his wedding.
Exhausted as I was, the picture of the trip was still vibrantly alive in my mind as we flew home the next day. I was deep in thought and didn’t realize the flight attendant was asking me if I wanted any water.
My wife joked, “He’s still thinking about my brother’s wedding we just came from.”
With a sparkle in her eye, the flight attendant replied, “They’re great aren’t they? I just absolutely love Indian weddings! All that jewelry, colors, smells, food—and the dancing! And the shoe negotiations at the end! I miss it, too.”
Perhaps sensing my disappointment and regret, my wife gave my arm a little squeeze.
“Don’t worry, honey,” the flight attendant added. “There’s always an Indian wedding happening somewhere in the world.”