FIFTEEN
Around nine in the morning on Sunday, Mr. and Mrs. Ali arrived at the small town where Irshad’s wedding was going to take place and were taken to a house crowded with people. They were expected, and a teenaged boy with a straggly mustache took them inside the house, telling them that Irshad was getting ready.
Irshad came out of the room and greeted them both warmly and said, “We are running a bit late but we should be able to leave in the next hour or so.”
One of Irshad’s friends said, “You’ll be waiting on her for the rest of your days. I’m sure the bride can wait for you this one day.”
Everybody laughed. Irshad’s mother hugged Mrs. Ali and took her to another room where the ladies were gathered. Mr. Ali went with the men into the bridegroom’s room.
Irshad told Mr. Ali that the bride’s house was two blocks away. This house had been rented for the week by the bride’s parents and given to the groom’s family to use as a base for the wedding. A couple of young boys came in and announced, “The band is here.”
There was a lot of confusion as the one bathroom in the house was overwhelmed by the rush. Some people got angry and muttered muti nously that the bride’s family was being close-fisted and inconveniencing them by cramming them all into a too-small house. Children dodged in and out among the adults, playing hide-and-seek or tag. A bevy of teenaged girls, all dressed and made up, were standing around giggling, ostentatiously ignoring a group of boys trying to catch their eyes.
Mr. and Mrs. Ali came out and stood on the road.The house was stifling with so many people in it, and it was better to stand outside. Slowly, the confusion resolved itself, and more and more people made their way out onto the road. Mr. Ali pointed out to Mrs. Ali a white mare on the other side of the road. A once rich, now faded blanket covered its back under the saddle. A studded leather flap covered the front of the mare’s face. Its groom was holding the bridle tight, so it wouldn’t fidget.
Mrs. Ali said, “It’s been such a long time since I’ve been to a wedding where the bridegroom used a mare. It is so much more romantic than a car.”
A man came riding a Bajaj scooter down the road. He looked at the crowd in their wedding finery and at the horse, and slowed down. He tried to weave his way slowly through the people, but an old man in a dark sherwani and a maroon fez stopped him and said, “Can’t you see the road is full of people? Find another way.” The man on the scooter looked about him and must have seen it as a lost cause because he turned around. Just as the people standing on the road were getting restive in the hot sun, a little boy came running and shouted, “The bridegroom is coming out!”
Irshad came out of the house slowly. He walked haltingly, guided by a young man. His face couldn’t be seen because it was hidden behind a thick veil of white jasmine flowers hanging from his turban. He was brought in front of the horse and just stood there. Mr. Ali realized after a few moments that Irshad had probably never ridden a horse before and so did not know how to mount one.The fact that he could only see his feet behind the heavy veil probably did not help, either. The mare suddenly turned back and tugged at Irshad’s veil. Before Irshad could react, half a string of flowers were in the horse’s mouth and the other half trailed on the ground. The groom pulled sharply on the reins and tried to tug the flowers out of the mare’s mouth, but the animal just put its head down and snorted loudly. Irshad hastily stepped back and stumbled against a stone on the road. He clutched at the horse’s mane and the animal moved skittishly forward and back, stepping on one of Irshad’s fancy shoes.
“Ow!” he cried, hopping on one foot. A black mark disfigured his shoe.
The stableman hit the horse on its neck to stop it moving, which made the horse even more unsettled. One of the guests who seemed to know a bit about horses stepped forward to help. It was several minutes before the beast calmed down.
Finally, Irshad partially lifted his veil and looked dubiously at the stirrup and was guided onto the mare by the guest. Slowly the mare was led out, and all the people fell behind the bridegroom on his mare. The baraat—the wedding procession—was on its way!
The band struck up a popular tune from a Hindi film:
Color your hands with mehndi,
And keep the palanquin ready.
Your love is on his way,
To take you away,
My fair lady.
The bridegroom was followed by the men and women of his party in their finest clothes, and the garishly dressed band playing music.The procession wound its way slowly, taking the long way around to reach the bride’s house. Along the way, people looked out of their shops and houses at the loud baraat going slowly past. A few beggars and a couple of intelligent stray dogs who could predict a feast attached themselves to the back of the procession.
Finally, they reached their destination. As Mr. Ali turned into the street, he could hear the shout, “The baraat is here. The bridegroom has come!”
The road was covered with a thick tarpaulin, a stage erected at the far end and rows of chairs placed in front of it. The horse balked at the edge of the tarpaulin and stopped suddenly with its head down. Irshad tottered precariously in the saddle and clutched the reins tight—his knuckles white. The groom quieted the horse. He had to tell Irshad three times to loosen his hold on the reins before Irshad let go. There was more confusion because Irshad did not know how to get down from the mare. He finally managed it with his dignity more or less intact. The bride’s family welcomed Irshad.
When they reached the tent that had been erected across the road in front of the bride’s house, a lot of the bride’s relatives and friends were waiting for them. Jehangir, Aisha’s brother, greeted Mr. Ali with a hug. A pretty ten-year-old girl took Irshad’s hand and said, “This way, elder brother.”
She led him through the rows of chairs to the stage.Young girls and boys from Aisha’s family sprinkled rose-perfumed water from silver sprinklers over the bridegroom and his party. Irshad took off his shoes and turned to the little boy who had announced that Irshad was coming out of the house and said, “Remember what I said. I will give you a chocolate later.”
The boy nodded and sat by the shoes. Irshad climbed onto the stage and sat down cross-legged. Mr. Ali was one of the two official witnesses to the wedding, and he joined the bridegroom as well. The groom’s party followed behind them and occupied the seats in front of the stage. The bride’s party then filled the gaps until all the chairs were full and other people were left standing.
A dignified-looking old man with a neatly trimmed white beard came to the stage and sat down next to Irshad. He introduced himself to Mr. Ali and Irshad. The man was the imam of the local mosque and had known the bride’s family for years.
“I was the imam at the wedding of the bride’s parents, too,” he said, smiling.
The other official witness was Aisha’s oldest uncle. Mr. Ali took out a lace skullcap from his pocket and put it on. So did Aisha’s uncle. A roughly dressed young man, obviously the sound man, came crawling over the stage, gave the imam a microphone, and went crawling back. The imam tapped on the microphone and the loud noise from the speakers silenced the crowd. The sound of a little boy crying and his mother remonstrating him became audible in the sudden silence. Everybody turned toward the sound, and the boy and his mother went quiet.
The imam waited a few more seconds and then said into the microphone, “Assalamu ’alaikum”—Peace be upon you.
The crowd muttered, “Wa ’laikum assalam”—And upon you, too, be peace.
The traditional greetings exchanged, the imam said, “Bismil lah . . .”—In the name of Allah, the most beneficent, the most merciful . . .
“We are gathered here in this assembly of Muslims and non-Muslims to celebrate the marriage of Mohammed Irshad, son of the late Mohammed Ilyas of Vizag, and Aisha, unmarried daughter of Janab Syed Jalaluddin of this town. Marriage is a most sacred relation. The bride and groom accept each other as husband and wife of their own free will, without coercion. Remember the verse in the Quran:Your wives are a garment to you as you are a garment for them. The garment is worn next to our bodies; so should a husband and wife be. Just as a garment hides our nakedness and defects, so should the husband and wife keep each other’s secrets from the rest of the world. Just as clothes provide comfort in inclement weather, a wife and husband should comfort each other against the trials of the world. Just as clothes add beauty and grace to our looks, so does a wife to her husband and a husband to his wife.”
The imam looked around at the crowd and then turned to Irshad. He said, “Many men oppress their wives, but remember this is not Islamic. The Quran says that if you have certain rights over your wife, your wife too has certain rights over you in all fairness. Remember that Islam allows a woman to keep her own money and conduct her own business.Who does not know the example of the first and most beloved wife of our Prophet, Khadijah, who had her own business and even hired Mohammed, peace be upon him, as her agent to trade on her behalf? Fear God in your treatment of your wife, for you have taken her on the security of God.Your wife is your noble helper, not your slave.”
The imam continued, “Of course, it is not all one way. Wives too have responsibilities to their husbands. A woman should protect her honor and her husband’s property. A virtuous wife is indeed a man’s best treasure. Insha’allah, God willing, this union will produce children; it is the woman’s responsibility to raise them to be good people and good Muslims.”
The imam opened the marriage register and got up. Mr. Ali and Aisha’s uncle got up as well and followed him into the house where Aisha and the other ladies were listening to the imam’s words through a speaker. Aisha was sitting on a bed, wearing a red sari with a golden border. A bright red veil covered her head and shoulders. Her hands were colored with intricate henna patterns. She was surrounded by her mother and various female friends and cousins.
The imam asked Mr. Ali and Aisha’s uncle to stand next to him. In front of the official witnesses, he asked her loudly, “Do you, Aisha, accept of your own free will Mohammed Irshad as your husband, with dower ten thousand rupees payable to you on your demand?”
“Yes,” replied Aisha softly, from under her red veil.
The question was repeated twice more and was answered yes each time. The imam gave the register to Aisha and asked her to sign it. The three men left the room and came outside to where the bridegroom was sitting.
The imam asked, “Do you, Mohammed Irshad, accept of your own free will Aisha as your wife with dower ten thousand rupees payable to her on demand, which dower shall be her own personal property to spend or dispose of as she sees fit?”
“Yes,” replied Irshad.
The question was repeated twice more and answered each time. The imam gave the register to Irshad and asked him to sign it. The two witnesses and finally the imam then added their signatures.
The imam closed the register and said, “I declare you, Mohammed Irshad and Aisha, as married in the presence of this assembly as witnesses to your marriage. God bless you and grant you a long and happy married life. Let us say a prayer to Allah for He has given us this boon of marriage to support us, to comfort us, and to make us whole.”
The imam was the first to congratulate Irshad. Mr. Ali, sitting on the stage as a witness, was next. Aisha’s father, uncles, and brother all shook hands with Irshad and hugged him three times, once on the right shoulder, then on the left shoulder and finally on the right shoulder again.
All the people got off the stage. Everybody wore shoes except Irshad, whose shoes were nowhere to be found. “Where are my shoes?” he asked.
All the people looked back at him blankly.
“Where is Pervez?” he asked.
They saw the young boy sitting a little distance away in a chair, eating an ice cream in a cone. Irshad had arranged for the young boy to look after his shoes, but it looked as if he had been outsmarted.
“Okay,” he said. “Who has taken my shoes?”
“Your shoes, uncle?” asked the ten-year-old girl who had led him onto the stage, looking innocent.
He had gone from “elder brother” to “uncle” during the ceremony. Mr. Ali smiled. The girl was definitely not as innocent as she looked.
“Yes, dear. My shoes,” Irshad said patiently.
“Are they lost, uncle?” she asked brightly.
“Yes, my girl. Where are they?” he asked.
“I can find them for you if you give me a fee,” she replied.
“All right,” Irshad said, taking a hundred-rupee note from his pocket and giving it to her.
The girl waved the hundred-rupee note in derision. “Nah!” she said. “That’s not worth my time.”
Irshad added another hundred-rupee note. She looked at him with the best sneer she could manage on her young face. Irshad sighed and added a five-hundred-rupee note.
“Shall I tell my aunt that she married a stingy man?” she asked, playing her trump card.
Irshad looked around. Everybody was laughing and he was embarrassed. He was definitely coming out second best in these negotiations. He added three hundred rupees more, bringing the total to a thousand rupees. The girl looked thoughtfully at the money and glanced around at one of her older cousins standing a little bit away. The older cousin nodded discreetly and the girl turned to Irshad, took the money, and disappeared. She reappeared in a couple of minutes with the shoes.
“They were just around the corner, uncle. I don’t know how they landed there,” she said.
“I’m sure you don’t.” Irshad laughed, putting on his shoes.
Irshad was led into a room in the house. Mr. Ali decided to stay outside while people started stacking the chairs and unfolding tables for the wedding feast in the tent.
Mr. Ali started chatting to the other official witness, Aisha’s oldest uncle. The gentleman’s name was Mr. Iqbal and he had worked for the state government before retiring, in the irrigation department.
“Let’s go and have a look at the food being prepared. It must be almost ready by now,” he said, taking Mr. Ali’s arm by the elbow.
The two men went through the crowded house to the open area at the back. There, the scene was one of organized chaos. Men and women rushed around carrying spices and utensils. Three large stones were placed in a triangle and a big cauldron, taller than a big boy, was on the stones. Stacks of firewood were burning under the cauldron. Steam enveloped a man stirring the spicy brinjal and bottle-gourd khatta with a five-foot-long iron spatula. A fat, bare-chested man with a towel tied around his forehead, to keep the sweat from pouring into his eyes, was standing next to an even larger cauldron.The large cauldron was sealed tight with a ring of cotton cloth covered with dough between the lid and the pot, and the fire underneath was banked. White-hot embers from the fire were spread on the lid, so the food inside was steaming as if in an oven. This was the famous dum biryani, without which any South Indian Muslim wedding is incomplete.
The menu at a South Indian Muslim wedding feast is always the same—mutton biryani, brinjal, and bottle-gourd side dish as a sauce, and a coconut and onion raita. Long after everything else is forgotten and the bride has become a matron with grown-up children, the biryani will still be remembered and used to grade the quality of the wedding celebration. The best meat is mutton from full-grown ram. There must be at least as much meat by weight as the rice—preferably one and a half times or even twice as much, if the family can afford it. Ideally, the rice should be basmati, but few families can afford that, and so a local long and thin-grained variety is acceptable. The meat and rice alone are not enough, however. There is the skill of the chef and the right combination of onion, chilies, ghee, salt, spices—cloves, cardamom, cinnamon, poppy seed, ginger, garlic, and a vast number of others—cooked for the right amount of time at the correct temperature. Cooking for a thousand people in one batch is not a job for the fainthearted, especially when all the guests have eaten the dish scores of times before and fancy themselves as critics.
Mr. Ali looked at the fat man and knew that he was the biryani chef. He was walking around the cauldron, checking the seal around the lid. The bride’s uncle saw Mr. Ali looking at the chef. He said, “His name is Musa. He is a good cook, but not as good as his father. His father cooked the biryani at all our weddings, and people still talk about those feasts.”
Musa gave a shout and several men ran to him, including the man stirring the khatta, or wet curry. The moment of truth had come. Mr. Ali and the bride’s uncle moved to one side to give the men a clear space. The embers on the lid were swept away carefully. Two long wooden poles were brought and placed under the overhanging lip of the cauldron.The poles were tied together with old cotton saris. All the men took up position, holding the poles.
The chef counted, “One, two, three!”
On the count of three, the men’s arms bulged and their faces tightened with strain as they lifted the hot and heavy cauldron off the stones and placed it on a sandpit previously prepared next to the stones, so it was away from the fire. The dough around the lid was dried up and it was hastily chipped away and the lid taken off. A vast amount of steam arose from the cauldron, bringing with it an aroma of cooked rice, meat, ghee, and spices. Everybody stopped, and all eyes were on the chef as he dug a big spatula into the food and took out a sample of the biryani. He tasted the rice, felt the texture of the mutton between his thumb and index finger, and popped it into his mouth. He chewed for a few seconds, and nodded and smiled. Mr. Ali had been unconsciously holding his breath and he let it out with big relief. The frowns of concentration around him were replaced by smiles. Musa turned around and called the bride’s father.The bride’s uncle joined her father in going to the chef, and pulled Mr. Ali along with him. They all tasted the biryani and gave it their approval. Musa nodded in satisfaction and shouted at his men to put the lid back on the cauldron, leaving a little gap for the steam to escape, and retired. His job was done.
After lunch, there was a lull while everybody rested, the bride and the groom separately. In the late afternoon, Mr. Ali knew, other ceremonies start, like jalwa—the show. In this ceremony, the bride and the bridegroom are shown to each other, traditionally, for the first time ever. There is much ribaldry and teasing of both the partners. Then comes the bidaai, the good-bye, when the bride takes leave of her father’s house and her childhood, and accompanies her new husband to her new house to start her new life. There are always lots of tears at every bidaai, and there would be at this wedding as well.
Mr. Ali did not want to stay for all this, however. He looked around until he saw his wife talking to some ladies of the bride’s family. He finally caught her eye and she came over.
Mr. Ali said, “That was a good wedding, wasn’t it?”
Mrs. Ali sighed. She said, “You know how young women become broody when they see their friends’ babies? I feel like that now.”
Mr. Ali looked at his wife, alarmed. “What?” he asked. “Broody?”
“No, silly!” She laughed. “I long to see our son’s wedding. I wish to see him on a horse with a floral veil covering his face going for his bride.”
“I know what you mean. I feel like that too, but I don’t see when our silly son will give us that pleasure,” he said. “Anyway, let’s go. I don’t want to see all the crying and wailing at the bidaai.”
Mrs. Ali agreed. They said their good-byes and left.