A sense of anticipation rippled up and down the block. It became apparent to me that weddings in India were events the entire community looked forward to. A shaadi, or Indian wedding, is as much about uniting families as it is about the bride and groom’s marriage. It’s not unusual to have hundreds, even thousands of guests.
The ritual traditions were quite elaborate, and the family and friends were busy for days decorating the street outside the bride’s home—the trees, gates, fences, cars, and even the homes were festooned with lights and flowers. Tents were set up along the sidewalks for guests. One large tent was set in front of the house, where the bride and her family would welcome the groom.
The day of the wedding, the street was blocked off to cars, and guests arrived early to greet the bride. Then they filtered outside to the tents. Some lounged on pillows under the tents, others around tables and chairs, visiting and relaxing. Singers strolled the street, and music was everywhere.
By the time we arrived, our neighbor’s house was already full of relatives. Vida and I wore shimmering shalwar kameez of yellow and orange silk that Mommy had made just for the occasion. She had done our hair up in plaits and buns, and I wore brand-new sandals. The house was packed with guests, and the bride sat in the middle of the living room, where her mother and sisters decorated her hands and feet with mehndi. She wore an elegant red sari. Sparkling diamonds and brilliant gold jewelry decorated her head, arms, and neck, and every finger had several gold rings. Her mother and aunts doted on her, fastening bracelets, adjusting necklaces, making certain her hair was just so. Watching her, I felt magically transported to a time when love and happiness existed not as a dream but in real life.
Now I stood in the midst of a joyful celebration, and it kindled something inside me—maybe I could experience this one day.
Soon it was time for the wedding to begin, and we filed outside to wait for the groom to arrive. The groom, dressed in a yellow robe with a turban on his head, came into sight atop an elephant that lumbered slowly down the road. A cascade of velvety white flowers draped down from his turban, hiding his face. The beast was surrounded by the groom’s family and friends, singing as they marched down the street. The huge animal had a painted face and was decorated with flowers. As it came near, I wanted to run over and touch it, but Mommy held me back.
The procession stopped in front of the house. The groom dismounted. And surrounded by family, he strode forward. The bride came out of the house accompanied by her father. When he presented her, and the young man took her hand, a lump caught in my throat. Even my normally stoic father seemed moved by the moment.
After the presentation, it was time to leave for the hall where the ceremony would take place. The bride and groom left, and the entire throng made their way to the reception hall. After everyone was seated, the bride was escorted to a chair under the mandap, an ornate canopy held up by pillars wrapped in flowers and garlands.
Their parents sat on each side of them, and the priest read them their marital responsibilities. The sacrificial altar was lit and the couple circled it seven times, each time reciting a promise to each other. Only after the circling was complete were they announced as husband and wife.
Once the celebration was over, the feasting began. They served naan with a variety of curries, samosas (savory pastries with spiced vegetable fillings), fragrant rice, pakoras (fritters), paneers (cheeses), nuts, sweet cakes. All of this was topped off with desserts of ice cream and fruit. I ate a bit of everything and watched the dancers, listening to the music late into the night. I went home full and happy and ready to attend another wedding. I wouldn’t at all have minded having one of those for myself—someday.
Life for me in India became a fabric of events that fit well into my life. As the year progressed, I found it more difficult to sense the distinction between the old me, used to the old ways, and the new me, here in New Delhi. The colors and customs of this amazing country filled my imagination. I could see myself growing older here, finishing school, and maybe watching some handsome young man ride down the road atop an elephant to ask Padar for my hand. Why not? Everything seemed possible.
Padar continued to leave every morning looking for work, making calls, checking out opportunities to create a new life in New Delhi. Mommy remained active, though her energy wasn’t the same; some days she had to rest longer than usual. She kept us busy, making sure we were good students, that we stayed with our lessons—Vida with her dancing, and me with my singing. By the end of that first term, my Hindi became so fluid some began to think of me as a native speaker. The language even became part of my thoughts. Along with the food, the boys, the festivals and celebrations, which never ended.
Holi is the customary festival that celebrates the changing of the seasons from winter to spring. Vida and I embraced it with special enthusiasm. It’s called the Festival of Colors, and that’s exactly what it was. For weeks leading up to the day, stores sold packets of colored powder: fiery orange, ocean blue, hot pink, lemon yellow, deep purple, crimson red—all the colors of the rainbow in iridescent hues. Each time we went to our favorite markets, we would stand by the stalls that sold the powder from silver bowls you could purchase by the scoopful. We’d dip our fingers in the powder and smear it on each other’s faces until the dissatisfied glares of the shop owners chased us away.
On the day of the festival itself, we dressed in white clothes and stood in groups out on the street, where the whole neighborhood was gathered. With our stash of packets, we commenced to pelt each other with the colored powder, creating a cloud of colors that enveloped everything. I heard laughter and shouting, but I couldn’t see a thing. Not even Vida, who was beside me. When the dust settled, everyone was covered in a rainbow of hues, from our hair down to our feet. I recognized friends only by the white of their teeth that gleamed as they laughed.
Spring, Mommy explained, is a beginning, a time of growth, a time to sweep out the old and usher in the new. That night as I showered off the powder, the vigor of the day did make me feel renewed. I had washed off the refugee. I laughed at how much fun a change of season could be.
23
MOVING FORWARD
It was July, and Vida and I sat outside the door of Mommy’s doctor’s office. Padar had asked us to wait in the hall while the physician discussed her latest exam, so we sat on a crowded, hard wooden bench inside the district hospital. The heat and humidity threatened to melt our clothes off. Mommy’s breathing had become more labored the last couple of weeks, and her energy had flagged to the point of lethargy. We had been here many times before, and after we stepped into the hall, I had left the door open a crack so that Vida and I could lean forward on the bench and grab what we could of the conversation.
Heart attack. Options. Bypass. Life-threatening.
The doctor went on to say that she needed the surgery and that her life would be in danger if she didn’t have it immediately. Vida and I looked at each other and held each other’s hands for strength. I expected my parents to have solemn expressions on their faces when they came out of the office. But that wasn’t the case. Mommy was as cheerful and positive as ever, and Padar possessed his usual poetic stoicism, as if everything that happened had been foretold in a verse of Hafiz or Rumi. I knew he went to his memory for comfort as he supported Mommy, who walked with a slight stoop and roll of her shoulders as she shuffled her feet down the hall toward the door.