Two Weddings and a Headache

PLANING a wedding is stressful in any circumstances, but trying to do so in a foreign country without fully grasping the culture and the language is even harder. I was at a loss with where to begin. In hindsight, it was probably a good thing that I didn't know what was involved, otherwise I may never have agreed to let Aryan make a respectable woman of me.

As the months passed, the issue of our marriage – or rather, the fact that we were still unmarried – magnified. We couldn't keep living together like we were and get away with it. An outrage was brewing. The landlord kept asking when our wedding would take place, and the housing society wanted to see our marriage certificate. My visa would also expire soon.

I hadn't spoken to my family much about the possibility of getting married before I moved to Mumbai. I didn't want to prematurely concern them, in case something went awry. Back home, my dad was concerned. He wasn't comfortable that I was so far away and in a serious relationship with Aryan. A combination of work commitments, intense dislike of crowds, and an ear problem prevented him from coming to Mumbai to find out for himself what was going on. Having contracted tinitus from ongoing exposure to loud noise at work, his ears were very sensitive. No doubt he'd struggle to cope with the constant din of the traffic in Mumbai. I did, and my ears were fine.

It wasn't very surprising when my dad's sister Patricia and her husband Nick announced that they'd be visiting Mumbai on their round-the-world trip. My aunt would report back to my dad. My cousin Virginia also came to visit. And then my mother.

All of them took to India in the best spirit possible; they were adventurous and bold. My cousin and mum even rode the Mumbai local train.

‘Is Aryan always this peaceful and happy?’ my mum asked. ‘He seems to be really good for you.’

She noticed and appreciated his sweet, easy-going nature, just as I did. And the way he balanced out my episodes of stress and anxiety. Aryan's family was delighted to meet my mum. They lavished her with gifts, and were thrilled to see her dressed in a sari.

My mum went home content that I was in the hands of a caring family, and excited about the opportunities that India was bringing me. I let her break the news of my impending wedding to my dad and other relatives. It was cowardly, but I didn't want to deal with any disapproval. I was finding it difficult enough coming to terms with the life-changing decisions I was making, and only wanted to keep positives in my mind.

Aryan's parents suggested that we get married on their fiftieth wedding anniversary. We planned a simple Hindu ceremony, followed by a reception. We'd also need to have the formality of a registry wedding. Since I wasn't a Hindu, the religious ceremony wouldn't be enough. It would be meaningful to us though, and the day we'd choose to celebrate as our wedding anniversary.

Aryan and I decided to get the civil ceremony over and done with as soon as possible so that we could meet India's moral requirements and get my visa sorted. I reeled at the thought of two weddings, especially the rambling process that would be involved in getting married at a government registry office.

I was still struggling to feel secure in Mumbai, let alone get married. Aryan also marvelled at the direction his life had taken. When we met in Kolkata, neither of us had any intention of getting married, least of all to each other. A few years later, here we were, on the brink of tying the knot. I'd only recently come to terms with being single again – did I really want to risk getting married again?

The fact that Aryan had no qualms about marriage was reassuring. He'd had plenty of time to have fun and explore being single. He'd lived his life without any regrets. He knew who he was and what he wanted – he was never going to need to go off and ‘find himself’. I could trust him to be committed. That, combined with my faith in the bigger picture of my goals in India, helped me feel confident in our decision.

Aryan wasn't concerned that I had been married before. Having had a number of prior relationships himself, he was as accepting of my past as I was of his.

We decided to view the civil ceremony as a procedure rather than a wedding. Our idea of starting our future lives together was not in a dim and decaying government office, crowded with impatient couples and disinterested public servants.

The Mumbai Office of Registrar of Marriages, located behind the Old Customs House in the Fort District of south Mumbai, certainly was a typically run-down government office. It had flaking paint, a decaying ceiling, plastic chairs, reams of stacked papers and a stray cat running around. Two gold-and-red velvet thrones sitting near the entrance were small concessions to the austerity, and hinted at the importance of what went on there.

It took us four hours to submit our Notice of Intention to be married. The process was hampered by one particularly unhelpful officer, who either provided us with no answers or misleading answers to our questions. Getting the photocopies of my documents notarised was another challenge. The notary public from the Magistrate's Court next to the registry office refused to do it because they were a foreigner's documents. He didn't want to take the risk of them being fake, even though he could see they were all the originals.

The only option was to take a taxi to the High Court a short distance away. An agent waited out the front.

‘How can I help you?’

‘We need to get these documents notarised.’

‘No problem,’ he assured us as he took the photocopies.

‘Wait! Don't you want the originals as well?’ I called out to him.

‘Not necessary, madam.’ He returned the photocopies to us within five minutes, with the addition of arresting big red seals and numerous other official stamps. All for 50 rupees ($1.20) per document.

A little over a month later we returned to the registry office, this time to solemnise our intention to be married. Both of us wore jeans. It was another lengthy process involving more forms, photocopies, three witnesses and waiting. At last, our names were called. The marriage officer handed us each a piece of paper with our vows on it, stating that we would be each other's lawful husband and wife. We recited them. Then, it was time to sign on the dotted line. Slightly baffled and bewildered, Aryan and I were pronounced married.

Afterwards, we sat on the thrones and exchanged wedding rings while fascinated strangers, who were also there to be wed, took photos of us with their cameras. But the process wasn't over yet.

‘Come back again only after two weeks to collect your marriage certificate,’ one of the officers told us.

Relieved to have gotten the biggest step out of the way, we headed to Leopold's Café and opened a bottle of champagne.

Next came the process I'd have to go through to be able to remain in India. As the initial step, my tourist visa needed to be extended and converted into an entry visa. Permission for that could only be obtained from the Foreigner's Division of the Ministry of Home Affairs in Delhi. I turned up to locked gates at 8.30 a.m., on a hot Delhi morning, in order to get a good position in the queue when the compound opened. Two hours later, the waiting room was about to overflow with the masses that continued to stream in.

I gazed around at some of the more interesting characters. There was a Sardar (male follower of the Sikh religion) sporting a fluorescent pink turban and a disgruntled American. No one had been able to tell the American the proper process for submitting his visa application, or even if there was a number system in place. He was about to reach boiling point when someone finally pointed out the number on the top of his blue form. People from the Middle East surrounded me, many with whole families in tow. With no babus (government employees) in sight, they lounged all over the unattended interview desks.

The process moved surprisingly quickly after the staff filed in. They cleared the interlopers, sifted through the piles of forms and commenced calling applicants. My interview took less than ten minutes.

‘Come back at 5 p.m. to collect a letter with instructions to be submitted at the Foreigner's Registration Office in Mumbai,’ the unexpectedly friendly babu told me.

In a country of more than one billion people, what were the chances that I would encounter two foreigners from Varkala in Delhi at the same time? But that's exactly what happened.

‘I saw Lucy in the Visa Facilitation Centre,’ Aryan mentioned as we left. Sure enough, she was there again in the evening when I went to collect my letter. Lucy, from England, was a long-term resident of Varkala.

‘I've come to Delhi in the hope of getting some final advice on my visa renewal. It's been dragging on for over eight months and has become too involved to be dealt with in Kerala. So over 130 phone calls later, I've ended up here,’ she sighed.

‘Varkala has changed a lot since you were there,’ Lucy continued. ‘So many foreigners have been forced out by locals who've been complaining to the authorities. They either haven't had their business visas renewed or have been deported. Some are even up on drug charges.’

That evening, Aryan and I also encountered the Little Book, Big Secret man in Delhi's grungy Paharganj backpacker's district. He was, of course, spreading the word about his conspiracy theory. Like Lucy and me, he'd come to Delhi with a greater purpose.

‘My family and I don't have visas. We've been doing the rounds of the Ministry of Home Affairs to find out if we'll be allowed to stay in India. No one seems to be able to give us an answer though. We've been called back there three times already.

‘Something big is going to happen in the town of Bowen, Australia, in September,’ he gravely called out to us we departed.

As it turned out, our registry wedding was much less stressful than our real wedding. A combination of a family crisis, Indian time frames, hectic lives, travelling away from Mumbai and not knowing what was involved in arranging an Indian wedding soon had me at my wits' end. Two weeks before the wedding was due to take place, the venue (a groovy roof garden in Bandra) and entertainment had been organised, but nearly everything else was still outstanding. Even the wedding invitations were still being printed. I'd notified close friends and family in Australia of the wedding, but wanted to send them their invitations in advance too.

People in India didn't make plans weeks in advance however. They acted spontaneously. This meant that guests only needed to be formally invited a few days ahead, particularly as we were keeping the guestlist small. The invitations would be personally hand-delivered by family members. There was no way I would be able to send the wedding invitations to Australia in time for people to receive them.

My friends and family were due to arrive in India around five days before the wedding. Most of them had never been to India before and would need looking after. I wanted to have plenty of time to spend with them and take them sightseeing. I didn't want to have to worry about last-minute wedding plans.

I tried to get as much as possible organised for the wedding before they arrived, but I was so helpless. Everything took longer than expected. I didn't know where to get things or even how I should dress. An Indian wedding was completely out of my realm of expertise. There wasn't even one style of Indian wedding to guide me. What took place and what people wore depended on the community they belonged to. Not only that, two outfits were required: one for the wedding ceremony and another for the reception.

Oriya weddings are known to be simple and modest affairs. The attire for the wedding ceremony would be more conservative and traditional, while the bling would be saved for the reception. Unlike weddings back home, wedding ceremonies in India are private affairs, usually only attended by close family members and friends. It's understandable, as these ceremonies can take the whole day. The remainder of the guests, often hundreds and sometimes thousands, turn up for the wedding reception lured by the promise of an extensive buffet of food. More guests mean more importance, and more prestige. It's a huge contrast to weddings in Australia, where numbers are often kept as low as possible to save money, and it can be viewed as rude to attend the party (and the free feed!) without attending the ceremony. Despite our minimal guestlist for the reception, around 150 people were still expected. A substantial-sized wedding by Australian standards, it was considered small in India. Only a dozen of the guests were from my side. Many people I wanted to be there couldn't travel because of the global financial crisis.

Aryan's mother had stashed away a red-and-gold sari from Orissa for my wedding ceremony. However, I didn't have my reception sari or jewellery. I was beginning to get upset about everyone's lack of concern about the wedding arrangements. Even Aryan had become tired of my nagging about needing to get everything done. He was obviously clueless about what remained to be done and how long it would all take to finalise. I started to resign myself to the wedding being a disaster.

Then, early in the morning ten days before the wedding, Aryan received a phone call. It was his eldest sister, Maliha. It seemed that people had at last woken up to the fact that it wasn't long until the wedding. Orders were given. Aryan had to collect the invitations from the printer that evening. I had to go shopping for my sari that afternoon.

It took four hours of looking, comparing and dressing up to find a suitable sari for the reception. Maliha and I both agreed the sari should be red. It should be practical enough for me to wear again in the future, but still formal enough for the wedding. It also had to be made out of lightweight material and not too heavily decorated, because it would be the middle of summer. Richly decorated saris are surprisingly hot to wear.

That's where our agreement ended.

‘One of the signs of a good sari is the embroidery work around the border. It should be heavy and hand stitched,’ Maliha told me.

I liked simple patterns. To my mind, which was used to relatively plain western dress, the saris that we looked at appeared overdone and garish.

The salesman at the first store showed us dozens of saris. Two interested me but Maliha delivered the verdict: ‘The border work on this one isn't good’, ‘This one isn't made out of good material’.

The saris she liked all had big patterns or too many different colours on them. I wanted something delicate.

At the next store, a further twenty saris were duly pulled out from behind the counter. Our opinions continued to differ and I was starting to lose hope. I almost resigned myself to settling for something that I was less than happy with. Then the salesman showed us another sari. We both looked at each other and smiled. It was made out of georgette, and had an unusual but striking hand-stitched border. The rest of the sari was quite plain, which also appealed to me. I tried it on over my jeans, and we agreed it was the one.

Days later, bad news awaited, though.

‘I'm sorry, but I don't like it,’ my youngest sister-in-law, Radha, informed me when she saw the sari. A fashion designer, she was married to Aryan's youngest brother. She was also in charge of designing Aryan's wedding outfits. Radha thought it was too plain.

‘It doesn't have enough embroidery on it. It looks too casual to be worn as a wedding sari.’

I was devastated. I was so far out of my depth that I couldn't even choose a decent wedding dress for myself. She did have a point, though. The more I looked at the sari, the more I agreed with her. It was impossible to take the sari back and exchange it as it had been hemmed and the blouse stitched. There was only one thing left to do – get more sequins sewn onto it.

Five days before the wedding, only chaos reigned. Cars, flowers, lights, decorations, menu, mehendi (bridal henna on the hands) were all still in the process of being organised. There had been, on average, four hours of shopping every day. Most of that time had been spent looking at items and comparing them. I felt constantly besieged by the number of choices to be made.

The previous day I'd been taken shopping for the jewellery that I'd wear to the reception. I needed to cover myself in many ornaments, the bigger the better. Items would be adorning almost all parts of my body – forehead, ears, nose, neck, arms and feet. This round of shopping was followed by another four hours of shopping the next day. I had no idea it would take so much effort! Bangles, bindis (forehead decoration), gifts for my sisters-in-law, gifts for me and the most important thing, the mangal sutra (meaning ‘auspicious thread’, it's made out of two strings of black and gold beads, joined by a gold locket).

To buy this necklace, which would be my Hindu equivalent of a wedding ring, Maliha and I had to venture into the fray of Indian gold-shopping. As Indian families favour investing their money in gold, it's serious business. Most families have a preferred jeweller, and Aryan's family was no exception. Like any good Indian gold store, it was perpetually busy. The daily prices per gram of gold were listed at the entrance to the shop. Inside, there were no fewer than twenty shop assistants tending to the flock of women who crowded the counters.

All kinds of gold jewellery were being placed on scales and their prices calculated according to weight. The bright yellow colour glittered charismatically. It wasn't 18-carat gold, which was widespread at home. This gold was 24 carats, as pure as it's possible to get.

As I had fair skin, I'd always preferred silver to gold. However, that was going to have to change. Despite my attempts to choose a small and delicate necklace, Maliha forced a substantial gold locket upon me.

‘People will be looking at it and commenting. We don't want to appear cheap,’ she insisted.

Indian weddings, I learned, were about showing off. Families spent lavishly, even if they couldn't afford to. Poorer families took out huge loans to finance the expense.

‘I know of weddings that have cost 40 lakh rupees ($100,000),’ Maliha said. India was far from the impoverished country that some people thought it to be. A home could be purchased with that amount of money.

The expense comes from the number of events in a Hindu wedding. A typical wedding consists of an exhausting six parts over three days – sangeet (evening of singing and dancing performed by female family and friends), mehendi (application of henna designs to the bride's hands), haldi (cleansing application of turmeric to the bride and groom's skin), baraat (marriage procession featuring the groom riding on a horse or elephant), pheras (wedding ceremony where the couple walks around a fire) and the reception.

Aryan and I wanted our wedding to be memorable, but not costly. We decided to keep the wedding as simple as possible and leave out the sangeet. We also planned to give the reception a Punjabi twist in the form of a bhangra band. The aim was to break the ice and get everyone, both foreigners and Indians, up and dancing together. It was impossible for me to participate in a haldi ceremony.

‘Have you seen how turmeric stains my fingers yellow? My whole body can't look like that on my wedding day!’ I was alarmed.

Aryan was also especially keen not to have a baraat.

‘Oh come on, it would be hilarious to see you riding a horse,’ I coaxed him.

‘No way!’ he was adamant.

To add to the tension, a problem was brewing over the selection of a pandit (Hindu priest) to perform the wedding ceremony. Radha had concerning things to say about the Oriya pandit who'd performed her wedding.

‘The ceremony went for over six hours. He went on and on, and I could hardly even understand what he was saying. I wanted to pay him to finish fast. I was so hungry and dizzy by the end of it that I fainted.’

Aryan and I wanted a short ceremony that didn't take longer than two hours.

‘Let's get that pandit that your sister uses for pujas,’ I insisted.

To me, a pandit was a pandit. However, he was a Gujarati pandit. As I was to later discover, Gujarati wedding rituals, although Hindu, differed from typical Hindu ones. Only four rounds (pheras) of the sacred fire are performed in Gujarati weddings, instead of the usual seven. Nevertheless, he would have to do. Our wedding was going to be a blend of cultures anyway. He would merely add to it.

The shopping continued after my family and friends arrived in Mumbai. They didn't want to risk their health by drinking anything other than mineral water. This led to an elaborate mission to find and buy as much mineral water as possible.

‘We got lost and ended up in a slum. The people there were so warm and welcoming, though. They invited us in!’ my mum exclaimed.

I was relieved that everyone seemed to be enjoying the random delights of India. More shopping continued. Everyone wanted to buy Indian clothes and jewellery for the wedding. Led by Aryan's sister Amita, we converged on a wholesale market near Dadar railway station. Within ten minutes, she was as stressed as me. People had headed off in all directions, leaving us wondering how we were going to keep track of them all. Five hours and much confusion later, everyone had found something.

Most of my friends and family were staying in a serviced apartment in Bandra, near the wedding venue. It was filled with women, as the husbands had all let their wives come in a group to the wedding. My dad had remained back in Australia too. Although there was an understanding that it was for the best, it created another issue, because someone had to perform the role of my father in the ceremony. Not only that, I didn't have a brother, who was apparently required to escort me to the mandap (stage).

Only one – brave? – male family member, an uncle, was attending the wedding. He and his wife, who was the sister of my uncle Nick, had been to India previously, and they intended to spend more time travelling around India after the wedding. I roped him in to take my father's place, and thankfully he was gracious about accepting his honorary position. Justin agreed to take the place of my brother.

My mehendi party was to be held in the apartment two days before the wedding. That same day, I also had to collect my cousin from the airport.

‘My luggage isn't here,’ Justine said when she finally emerged nearly two hours after her flight had landed. Apparently, it hadn't been loaded onto the plane and was still in Sydney. The airline didn't know when they'd be able to deliver it.

We arrived back at the apartment to find restless and hungry occupants, two fretful male mehendi artists and no bed for Justine. The Indian guests were an hour late for the mehendi party and the food that we'd ordered came two hours late. Despite my repeated requests to the staff, the spare bed couldn't be located.

‘I can't handle this responsibility anymore. Nothing is going right. I can't deal with it. I'm worn out and have had enough,’ I sobbed. The control freak in me never did cope well under pressure.

While I'd become accustomed to the idiosyncrasies of India, my friends and family hadn't. By now, they'd grown impatient and needy. They weren't used to eating dinner late in the night, as invariably happens in India, at a time that they were usually going to bed. Food is normally served as guests arrived at parties in Australia. In India, it was served later, before guests departed. Their angst was understandable. But India ran on India time, and always would. It struck me that this was how Aryan must feel when I got fed up with the many small things I encountered. The party was salvaged when Aryan's family arrived with a bag full of saris and began giving everyone an Indian makeover.

Then we got down to the serious business of mehendi application. The Mughals are believed to have brought the art to India thousands of years ago. Although there's nothing spiritual or sacred about applying henna to a bride's hands before a wedding, it serves as an important mark of transformation and fortuity. The Arabic design, characterised by swirls and floral patterns, still remains in India, but a distinctly Indian design has also emerged. It commonly encompasses detailed lines, lotus flowers, paisley patterns and peacocks, and usually extends most of the way up the bride's arm.

Of course, mehendi wouldn't be an Indian tradition without some superstitions attached to it. The darker the henna stains the bride's skin, the more her husband is supposed to love her. The new bride isn't expected to perform any household chores until her mehendi has worn off, so brides like it as deep and as dark as possible. A bride's mehendi design also includes a hidden inscription of the groom's initial on her palm. It's believed that if the groom fails to find it on the wedding night, the bride will dominate the couple's married life. The use of henna isn't restricted to weddings though. Women in India also apply it to their hands and feet during festivals and special celebrations, as it's considered to be very auspicious. Henna has even been elevated to the status of body art, worn to make a decorative statement.

I selected an Arabic design for my mehendi as it was less concentrated. I didn't want to look like I had two black hands and arms. The mehendi artists were fast in their work. As with most occupations, India's mehendi artists traditionally belonged to a particular caste and the skill was handed down from generation to generation. Called Nai, it was a caste that incorporated barbers, hairdressers and midwives. The caste was deemed a lower class one due to impurity from touching customers' hair, feet and blood. In contrast, in modern-day India, talented contemporary henna artists train at beauty colleges and command high fees.

Soon, over a dozen pairs of hands and arms were elaborately decorated. While we waited for it to dry and stain our hands, we practised some Bollywood dance moves. I left the henna on overnight, so that it would be as dark as possible. In the morning, my bed was filled with crumbly flakes, but to my delight the design emerged a deep brown colour that remained on my hands and arms for weeks.

Although the wedding day dawned peacefully, it soon resumed the chaotic pattern of the previous few weeks and remained that way until the end. Aryan rushed to his parents' apartment early in the morning for his haldi ceremony, where all the married women applied turmeric paste to his body to cleanse it.

I knew so little about what was going to happen to me that I found it hard to believe that I was actually getting married. But, eager to experience a new ceremony in a different tradition from my first wedding, I figured it would truly be the fresh start to married life that I needed.

I was supposed to go with Maliha to the Bandra apartment to get my hair and make-up done. Radha had arranged a professional make-up artist to meet me there. Maliha had a lot to do, however, and was running late as usual. In the end I went without her. With me came the pandit, who was in a hurry to get to the wedding venue and start the preparations. We loaded the car with bags full of coconuts, rice, fruit, betel nuts, garlands, ghee, sweets, red kumkum powder, brass pots and numerous other items required for the elaborate wedding rituals.

After my hair and make-up was done, a row of sparkling bridal bindis was placed above my eyebrows and I was slathered in gold jewellery. I could hardly recognise myself. An Indian bride. My heavily kohl-rimmed eyes registered astonishment when I looked in the mirror. At the wedding venue, Aryan was also almost unrecognisable, dressed in a delicately woven gold tunic and dhoti, red scarf and turban. It was the first time I'd seen him in traditional Indian clothes and he looked so handsome.

As I was hurried inside, my mum welcomed Aryan. She greeted him with a garland and aarti (traditional Hindu prayer with a lamp placed on a platter), and put a tilak (auspicious red mark made out of kumkum powder) on his forehead. She then led him to the stage where two red thrones had been placed. Meanwhile, the soles of my feet were anointed with red dye, and a red-and-gold veil was affixed to my head. Justin held my hand and walked me to the stage. The wedding was ready to commence. A conch shell was blown loudly to attract the attention of the gods and herald the start of the proceedings.

Aryan and I exchanged garlands to signify the acceptance of each other as husband and wife. Then a long thread was placed around our necks by my family to protect us from evil influences. Next it was time for me to be given away, by my substitute father, to Aryan in the kanyadaan. My right hand was placed in Aryan's right hand, and filled with betel nut, flowers and money. Our hands were tied together, sacred mantras chanted and blessings given. The joining of our hands, as well as the knotting together of my veil and Aryan's scarf, symbolised the union of our souls in holy matrimony. Next, the holy fire was lit. Ghee and rice were poured into it as it crackled.

If I'd had any idea of what my Indian wedding might look like, it certainly didn't include having a huge ornamental gold crown placed on my head like Lord Jagannath during the Rath Yatra festival in Orissa. Shaped like a betel nut, it was embellished with coloured beads and fabric. Yet, it was an important and unavoidable part of the wedding ceremony. With crowns on both our heads, it was time for Aryan and me to do our laps of the holy fire to confirm our marriage.

The four rounds, as per Gujarati custom, symbolise the basic human goals of Dharma (duty), Artha (earning wealth and livelihood), Kama (love) and Moksha (liberation from suffering in life). Aryan and I also helped each other touch seven betel nuts with our right toes. The betel nuts represent the seven vows of married life, incorporating nourishment, courage and strength, prosperity, progeny, happiness, harmony and commitment. Next, we fed each other sweets four times as we recited the vows in Hindi. I promised to serve Aryan first and to give food to any holy men who came to the door. Aryan promised to provide for me and come home early so we could eat together.

As a mark of my being a married woman, Aryan dabbed sindoor (red kumkum powder) on my forehead. Then came the time for him to give me my mangal sutra. Except it was nowhere to be found.

The chaos had finally caught up with us. The mangal sutra was back in the apartment. A replacement was quickly borrowed, the pandit blessed it, and Aryan put it over my head. At last the wedding was over. People threw flowers at us, and we touched everyone's feet.

The whole ceremony took around two hours. It was noisy and full of disarray. Guests arrived late because of the traffic. I misplaced the toe rings I'd been given. The conch shell continued to be blown throughout the ceremony. Rice was poured on our heads and went everywhere. All the foreigners, including me, had no idea what they were supposed to be doing, and required ongoing instruction and explanation. There was constant chatter. I struggled to recite the vows in Hindi and understand what I was saying. But it was a happy occasion and utterly memorable. I couldn't stop smiling.

As soon as the wedding ceremony was over, Maliha rushed me back to the apartment to get ready for the reception that would directly follow. A full change of clothes, hair and make-up was necessary. It was time to put on the traditional red sari that I was so looking forward to wearing. Despite having jewellery hanging off or attached to almost every body part, from head to toe, the Indian women thought I still looked too plain. A packet of sparkling bindis was swiftly located and they began sticking them in my hair. They were on a mission, and none of my protests would stop them.

Back at the reception, Aryan waited for me, wearing a rich brown Sherwani suit with a long jacket and hand embroidery on the front and sleeves. We took our positions under the flowery canopy of the stage and prepared to greet each of the guests and receive their good wishes. If it's a large reception, this can take all night.

After lining up and wishing the couple well, the guests usually proceed to the buffet to start eating. The arrival of the bhangra band interrupted the formalities and produced an instant transformation. One minute, the guests were sitting sedately and talking among themselves, in the next, they were up and breaking out in the most incredible dance moves I'd ever seen. Arms punctured the air, shoulders rapidly shrugged, hips swivelled and legs leaped. It was just like in a Bollywood movie.

The reception was a surprising success, which was such a relief for Aryan and me. We were concerned there'd be a divide between east and west, and disapproval from some people. We needn't have worried. The day brought everyone closer together. Many fears and misconceptions melted away that night of our wedding reception, as both families connected.

Aryan's family had gone out of their way to make sure my family was comfortable and enjoyed themselves. It couldn't have been easy for them, particularly as they hadn't been around foreigners before and knew very little about western customs. My family had been open-minded towards India and all its tribulations. It gave me hope that with the right attitudes, two cultures can be blended.

After the night was over, I collapsed at the table where my mother-in-law was sitting to finally have dinner.

‘Khaana kaisa hai? (How's the food?)’ she asked.

The unfamiliarity of the day receded with the familiarity of her question. I was a real part of the family now. An Indian daughter-in-law and wife. Along with the role came new responsibilities, customs and traditions; traditions steeped in legends that I knew nothing about, yet all were to be learned and followed.