The Hallowed Feet of the Bridegroom

The greatest enemy of principles is courtesy. One can deal with difficulties, impediments and temptations if one has robust resolutions and devout determination. Nevertheless, one cannot be discourteous to a close friend, irrespective of whether one’s principles are upheld or whether they collapse. Several years ago, I had held my jenewo in my hand and pledged that I would never again accompany someone on his baraat even if it meant that my world turned topsy-turvy. What had prompted me to make such a fierce resolution? That is a long story and to this date, recalling it gives a new lease of life to my pledge.

It was a baraat for a wedding in the Kayastha community. The samdhi was an old friend. Most of the people accompanying the baraat were known to me. We had to go to the village. I thought I would enjoy village life for about two or three days and I joined them. However, I was shocked to see that once they reached there, the baraatis’ sensibilities became quite debased. They fought among themselves and confronted one another at the slightest provocation. All of them seemed bent upon picking fights with the bride’s people. This thing has not been given and that thing has not been sent. Is he a man or is he an animal? Why should we drink water without ice? And the ass has sent merely ten seers of ice. Tell me, would one apply ten seers of ice over one’s eyes or would one make an offering of it to a deity?

There was such a commotion. No one listened to anyone. The samdhi sahib was beating his head because his friends had been treated so badly there. He would remain sore about it all his life. How could he have known that the girl’s people were so ill-mannered? ‘Why ill-mannered, one should say selfish. On the face of it, they look respectable and cultivated, and by the grace of God, they have not been blessed with just a little wealth, yet they are such penny-pinchers. They send ten seers of ice and not a single pack of cigarettes. Surely, I have been cheated, what else?’

Without expressing any sympathy, I said to him, ‘What is the harm if they have not sent cigarettes? At any rate, they have sent ten seers of blended tobacco. Why don’t you smoke it?’

My samdhi friend looked at me, eyes full of surprise, as though he could not believe his ears. Such impropriety! He remarked, ‘You are such a strange man. Who smokes blended tobacco nowadays? People sold off their large and small hubble-bubbles in the flea markets long ago. A few old-fashioned people still draw on their hookahs—but only very few of them. By the grace of God, all of us here are enlightened people, up to date in our thinking, belonging to contemporary times and the girl’s people are aware of this and yet, they have not sent cigarettes. Several gentlemen here smoke about eight to ten packs a day. One of them smokes up to twelve a day and smoking four to five packets of cigarettes a day is quite commonplace. Even a hundred packets of cigarettes will fall short among so many of us, and have you seen the ice? It seems he has sent it to be used like a medicine. This much ice is consumed in each of our household. I can drink up to ten seers of ice myself. These villagers will never act prudently, no matter how educated they are.’

I responded, ‘In that case you ought to have brought a carload of cigarettes and a ton of ice with you.’

He was shocked. ‘You haven’t had bhang, have you?’

‘Certainly not! I haven’t had it all my life.’

‘Then why are you talking such utter rubbish?’

‘I am absolutely in my right mind.’

‘No one in his right mind can talk in this way. We have come here to get our son married. The girl’s family will have to take care of all our needs and wishes. All of them! They will have to provide us with whatever we ask for—even if they have to go through pain to provide it. This is no laughing matter. I’ll make sure we give them a hard time. We are being brazenly disgraced. They cannot invite us and then insult us at their doorstep. These people who have accompanied me are not barbers or palanquin-bearers. They are respectable people. I cannot watch them being affronted. If they remain adamant, the baraat will go back.’

I saw that he was in quite a rage. It wasn’t prudent to argue with him at that time. For the first time in his life, for a couple of days, he had a right over another human being. The head of the girl’s father lay at his feet for him to crush. So, why wouldn’t he become inebriated with power? Why wouldn’t his head turn? Why wouldn’t he patronize him to his heart’s content? People belonging to the bridegroom’s family have been exercising control over people from the bride’s family for ages and it isn’t easy to let go of this right. How could these people be made to understand this at that point of time that because they were guests of the girl’s family, they would have to live within the limits of what those people had to offer? Guests have to satisfy themselves with the regard, the respect and the hospitality they receive, however meagre it may be. Courteousness can never permit anyone to collect a tax from the hosts who are looking after the guests’ well-being. I thought it best to remove myself from there. However, as soon as the auspicious hour for the marriage ceremony was announced, the bridegroom’s people asked for one dozen bottles of whisky with the stipulation that only after they were delivered would anyone go to the mandap for the marriage to be solemnized. I could not countenance this any longer. I realized that these people were like animals, devoid of compassion. Staying with them for even a minute was equivalent to murdering one’s own soul. At that moment, I pledged that never again would I ever accompany any baraat. I packed my bags and my bedding, and left right away.

That is why when my best friend, Suresh Babu, gave me an invitation card for his son’s marriage last Tuesday, I gathered up all my courage and said, ‘Oh no! Please forgive me, I will not come.’

Taken aback, he asked, ‘But why?’

‘I have pledged that I will never accompany any baraat.’

‘Not even your own son’s baraat?’

‘I will be my own master in my son’s baraat.’

‘Then imagine that he is your son and that you will be your own master.’

I was at a loss for words. Nevertheless, I did not forsake my point of view. ‘I hope you people will not make unreasonable demands on the bride’s people for cigarettes, ice, oil, alcohol, etcetera, etcetera.’

‘Not even by mistake. In this regard, my opinion is similar to yours.’

‘I hope that despite having views similar to mine, you will not go there and agree with the other wretched people who will begin playing their games?’

‘I am appointing you as my representative. How is it possible that your resolution would be disallowed over there?’

My heart still felt uneasy. Nevertheless, it would have been rude to dismiss the offer after being given so many assurances. After all, these poor people would not receive any extraordinary endowment by my going along. They held me in high regard and so they had left everything in my hands. I agreed to accompany them. However, when Suresh Babu was about to leave, I probed further in order to ascertain the validity of his claims.

‘I hope there are no issues regarding the exchange deals between the two families?’

‘Not even in name! We will accept whatever they give of their own free will. You will reserve the right to make or not to make demands.’

‘That is good. I will accompany you.’

The baraat departed on Saturday. It was a train journey of only fifty miles. We took the afternoon express and by evening, we had arrived at the doorstep of the girl’s house. All manner of provisions had been provided. There was no need to send for anything. I did not have even the slightest idea that such great hospitality could be extended to a baraat. The hosts were so humble and courteous that merely at an utterance, four people would present themselves in readiness to comply.

The auspicious moment for the marriage ceremony was announced. All of us went to the mandap. There wasn’t an inch of space there. Somehow, we wedged our way in and made a place for ourselves. Suresh Babu was standing behind me. There was no place to sit.

The ceremony of giving away the bride began. The bride’s father, clad in a yellow silk garment, came forward, seated himself in front of the bridegroom, and began to wash his feet and make the flower offerings to them. By now, I had accompanied hundreds of baraats, but had never had occasion to witness the proceedings of a wedding. Only the close relatives of the bridegroom are witness to these. The rest of the baraatis either sprawl around the place or watch the dance or listen to records on the gramophone, and if nothing else, then several of them get together in groups to play cards. I do not remember how it was at my own wedding. At that moment, my heart bled to see the girl’s elderly father worship a young man’s feet. Is this one of the ideals of a Hindu marriage or is it one of its jokes? The son-in-law is, in fact, almost a son to the girl’s father, and it is his obligation to wash the feet of his bride’s father and offer flowers and gifts in reverence. But this seemed like a traditional ritual. The girl’s father had to wash the feet of the bridegroom and this practice did not fit within the ambit of good behaviour, spirituality or dignity. My ageing soul could not keep itself calm. I spoke in cross tones: ‘What is this deplorable custom, brothers? The bride’s father is being insulted in such a terrible manner! Have all of you lost all sense of propriety?’

There was pin-drop silence in the mandap. Everyone’s eyes were focused on me. Nobody understood what I had meant.

Finally, Suresh Babu asked, ‘Who has been insulted and how has he been insulted? Nobody is being insulted over here!’

‘Should the bride’s father wash the bridegroom’s feet? What is this if not an insult?’

‘This is not an affront, brother—this is an ancient tradition.’

The bride’s father spoke up. ‘This is not an affront against me, gentlemen. On the contrary, I am very fortunate that this day has dawned. You have worried yourself needlessly. There are at least a hundred people waiting to wash the bridegroom’s feet. There are so many who crave for daughters so that they may pay adoration at her groom’s feet and propitiate their lives.’

I was speechless. When the bride’s father had performed the pooja at the groom’s feet, a crowd of about a hundred men and women gathered round the bridegroom. Each and every one began to pay adoration at his feet. Whoever came, they made an offering at his feet in keeping with his or her financial standing. Everyone was merrily engrossed in watching this drama unfold and I was thinking to myself that when people have lost their sense of propriety to the extent that they misinterpret an affront against them as a form of reverence, then why shouldn’t women in such a society suffer so extensively? Why shouldn’t they perceive themselves as the slippers on their men’s feet? Why shouldn’t they lose all sense of self-respect?

When all the ceremonies of the marriage had been solemnized and the bride and the bridegroom came out of the mandap, I quickly moved forward, picked up some flowers from the tray and in a state of partial consciousness, overcome with incomprehensible feelings, I placed them at the feet of the bride and left for home right away.

Translated from the Urdu by Fatima Rizvi