A cousin was getting hitched in Delhi, alove marriage that would further dilute the family’s already mixed-up UPBrahmin stock in a joyous celebration of India’s diversity.
Our very own Y, who drives barefoot and works with refugees, finally chose K, alithe sardar of refined sensibilities and—obviously— impeccable taste inwomen.
My husband and I fled the snowstorms of our home in Seoul to plunge into weddingcelebrations in Delhi.
I felt my way around this newness.
At the first theme bash, we had to wear one of the five Ks: kirpan, kachha,kangha, kada or kesh.
My husband, who shaves his head, wrapped a sky-blue cloth around his skull,donned a suit and dark glasses. He supplemented it with an earpiece for a mobilephone. At my mother’s theatrical suggestion, I braided my hair into two plaitsand looped them above my ears. I couldn’t think of anything else. "Will theybe offended?" somebody asked. A few phone calls were made to the groom’sside, and it was decided not. In the end, thumping Bhangra beats drowned out alldoubts.
Y, the bride-to-be, had several vodkas, climbed onto the divan and proclaimedfirmly to her betrothed— "Darling, I love you." A constellation of iPodskept the Bollywood tunes and Bhangra rhythms coming and we danced into thenight.
"It’s not Gajra Re, it’s Kajra Re," my sister said. "NRI!" I learnedthat when a Sikh man travels, he might, for example, check the kind of doorhandle the hotel room has, to see if he can use it to help tie his turban."Gurmukhi’s the script," said Ma.
"Isn’t it also a language?" asked someone. "Sardar means leader!"
On the appointed day, K came on a horse, surrounded by friends and relatives incrimson turbans. From a distance, us waiting UP relatives only saw handstwisting in the air, shoulders jumping and the joyous cacophony of a Karol Baghband. K wore a splendid silk achkan and a sword and was clearly delighted to bemarrying my cousin, who looked resplendent in her pink salwar kameez. I lookedon in amazement, for UP-ites get married in an unadorned cotton sari dipped inhaldi, bedecked with flowers only.
The Sikh hymns were mellifluous. I didn’t understand the words, but the musicwas stripped of drama and drifted simply around the congregation sittingcross-legged on white sheets. Y and K walked around the Granth Sahib under itscanopy, and Y was escorted by her sisters and brothers-in-law around eachquarter of the circle. It was a walk that tied each of us more tightly to thePunjab. The alliance was cemented in the only appropriate way —with feastingin the Delhi sunshine.
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This article originally appeared in Delhi City Limits, March 15, 2006
