Fit For A Bridegroom

Seated on the back of my friend, Dinesh’s motorcycle in Rajasthan, India, we pass at least fifty Langur monkeys lined up, one after the other, on the side of the road. Dinesh has never seen me so sad. To help take my mind off my troubles and my imminent return to New York City, he’s invited me to join him on a ride down the mountain to the next town, about twelve kilometers away.

The langur are  sacred by Hindus in India but with their bearded chin tufts and bushy eyebrows, they remind me of Islamic scholars. With all my many years of travel in India, these dark faced, long-tailed creatures still fascinate me. In my sad state, my mind dredges up the fact that there is usually one dominant male who sires all the offspring. When a new male seizes power, he kills all the babies that the former male sired. I wonder if modern man weren’t subjected to the forces of law and order, would he behave much differently than these monkeys. I continue to watch them: mothers with babies attached to their fronts like newly sprung limbs and mischievous boys scampering about, angering the men. I think that they are taking a respite from their constant foraging, seated on the side of the road, hoping for a passing bus or car to toss them an offering.

We drive on down the mountain toward the city. The dry, desert scrub fills in with scattered buildings until the view becomes a solid wall of recently erected structures of concrete, freshly white washed yet already cracked, like make-up applied to a blemished face.

Dinesh has reluctantly been recruited to help a bridegroom, whom he doesn’t know, buy a washing machine and to take him to a shop that specializes in formal wear for bridegrooms. The bridegroom is marrying into the family of an old school friend, Raj. Over the years, Raj has repeatedly let Dinesh down and continues to take advantage of their old friendship, Dinesh’s loyalty and good nature, success, contacts and lawyer’s skill for negociation. Dinesh feels that he cannot refuse his old friend. Partly to cheer me up and partly to diffuse the situation, Dinesh invites me along.

Raj’s face shows his annoyance when he spots me. He wants the bridegroom to ride with Dinesh and my presence thwarts his plan.

At the appliance store, Dinesh works out the price  and terms of the purchase quickly and the men load it inside the family’s SUV.

Back on the bike, I zip my thick sweater right up to my chin and watch with interest behind Dinesh, as we enter the marriage bazaar. The streets are lively and bustling and the mood is exuberant as clusters of shoppers contemplate the showy displays. Glitzy red and gold sarees hang outside of shops beckoning brides inside, beside finely embroidered circular lenga skirts and matching choli blouses.  Shops specializing in 22 carat gold dowry jewelry  tempt and taunt shoppers with their dazzling windows. Shops specializing in printing invitations display announcements in parchment and velvet  that are so elaborate that they remind me of fifteenth century illuminations. All things related to marriage is available here, in all its varieties. Business is brisk and marriage is clearly a huge industry in India.

We remove our shoes and we are ushered into the small, back room of a shop that specializes exclusively in bridegroom’s wear, much like a tuxedo boutique in the West. A soft faced salesman greets Dinesh with the just the right amount of familiarity and respect. Dinesh has just been there, outfitting his brother-in-law a few weeks before.

Everywhere gorgeous tapestry like fabrics sparkle and dazzle the eye in shades of red, orange and maroon. Wherever your eye lands, something twinkles back at you. This exotic men’s world is unlike any I have entered before. For this once in a life time occasion, a man is expected

to don a richly woven brocade coat called a sherwani. It is usually embroidered in gold and beaded with hundreds of tiny seed pearls. The groom also sports a jewel encrusted turban and he is draped in waist length strands of pearls.

The groom- to-be removes his jacket and the salesman takes his measurements. Dinesh explains to me that the sherwani, trousers and turban are on a rental basis and the accessories are for sale. The salesman shows the groom  a few coats and he slips one on for size and fit. This one is maroon. There is an additional charge if the coat has embroidery on the front and back. The sleeves are too short, the chest is too tight and the back sticks out. The salesman explains that for almost twice the price, they can custom cut and stitch a coat to measure. They agree on this option. Unstitched coat material that is fully embroidered with seed pearls beaded in beautiful arabesque patterns around the neckline and up the front and along the edge of the sleeves is neatly placed on the floor and studied. The groom choses an elegant design in a burnt orange hue. Next come the accessories.

The soft faced salesman lines up matching, ready-made turbans  before us after he measures the groom’s head. The salesman points out one turban that is in the same brocade as the sherwani and repeats the same seed pearl motif. The groom allows the salesman to place it on his head and he is instantly transformed into a Maharaja.  The salesman adds a jewel and a feather.

The future groom admires his reflection. The salesman assesses the effect and choses another jewel and feather before he show us tikkas. Dinesh admires a black and rhinestone stick-on forehead jewel and the groom goes along with his choice. 

We are shown  cummerbunds next. I’m listening to most of this conversation in Hindi. My ears pick up when I hear the word cummerbund. I tell Dinesh that cummerbund is also an English word. He says that it means tight belt in Hindi. A few more accessories complete the outfit.

I have managed to forget my troubles and enter a world of fabulous fantasy, even if only temporarily. On our way out, I notice that next door, seated on a white sheet are workers beading and embroidering turban jewels. I watch in fascination. Dinesh nudges me, “Hungry? Do you like kachoris? There’s a really famous place near here. Come on, let’s go.”

Back on the bike, leaving the marriage bazaar I take a last look. Indian wedding fever has somehow seeped into me. I close my eyes for a second and imagine myself  having an Indian wedding. I think of the saying that one hears all over India, “Everything possible in India.” And I am happy.

Play on Light

It’s no secret; India is my passion. When I read that Mira Nair would be talking with photographer, Prabuddha Dasgupta about his new book of photographs, “Edge of Faith,” at the Aicon Gallery on Great Jones St. in NYC , I called my friend, Elena, to see if she wanted to come along.  She likes multi-culti themed events and readily agreed.

I wasn’t surprised when Elena picked me up, all decked out in her India garb: long kurta with strings of beads. I, too, had carefully chosen my Indian attire.

We arrived at the bare white gallery early and staked out our seats. I had to remind Elena that I didn’t want to sit in the front row. She always likes to be right in the middle of the action. We were greeted by a few big sculptures in a red resin like material of Gandhi listening to an ipod. Two chairs and a small table were set up in the front of the room surrounded by cameras. The mood was very congenial. The room started to fill up. Most of the audience was of Indian origin but sprinkled in were Indiaphiles like myself.

A lovely, well dressed young woman sat in front of us. It appeared to me that she, too, had put on her best Indian attire. Elena is a jewelry designer. She couldn’t stop looking at this woman. Finally she tapped the young woman on the back, “Isn’t that a Dosa?” She asked, refering to the long tunic she was wearing. I actually design clothing and textiles but  I always thought that a dosa was something you eat, much like a crepe.  The woman turned around and smiled, looked at Elena and answered, “Isn’t that a Dosa that you’re wearing?” Elena admitted that it was and a conversation ensued about the upcoming annual sale and all the bargains to be had. Elena complimented the young woman on her slender silhouette. Then she moved from her wardrobe to her jewelry. First it was her earrings (her neighborhood pawn shop) then it was her necklace (Amrapali in Bombay) and then to her ring (Forever 21). By this time I was getting embarrassed by Elena’s relentless interrogation. But I became intrigued by the woman as well. What was her connection to India? I sensed in her a similar love for India. So I  asked her my questions.  She had inherited her interest in India from her mother who is an artist and had traveled to India in the 70′s. Her mother’s theory is that India changes your life. I think she meant for the better but she didn’t elaborate and Elena didn’t ask about that. 

Elena kept firing away with more questions. The woman answered without hesitation or impatience. She said that she is a writer. Then Elena burst out, “Nina’s a writer too.  You should be friends on Facebook.”  Elena doesn’t even have an email address. The woman looked at me intently. “Your name is Nina?” I said, “Yes, it is.” She said, ” So is mine. And I’m on Facebook.”

The lights went down and an announcer stood before us. I saw Nina reaching inside her purse. So I dug out my visiting cards, as they are called in India . I have three separate cards:  my clothing business, my travel business and my writer’s card. I selected the writer. And we exchanged cards. The last  round of  admiration was for our cards. She admired mine with Ganesha and I admired hers. Prabuddha Dasgupta and Mira Nair took the stage.

Dasgupta spoke briefly about the book and his work.   A video of the black and white still photographs followed. One photograph bled seamlessly into the next, depicting the lives and homes of the disappearing Catholic community of the former Portugese colony. The photographs are sentimental yet maintain an objective distance from the subject, resulting in an unusual tension, sometimes achieved through the play on light or the use of mirrors that reflect the subject from afar. The work is exquisite. One can almost smell the mildewed walls and decaying books, time nearly stops as a subject stares out the window and the smiles of the women melt your heart. You understand that this world is doomed to disappear. And you wish it were otherwise.

My guess is that Mira Nair is a true friend of Dasgupta and knew that her presence would attract a larger audience for him. They chatted casually as two good friends might. She asked him leading questions and he spoke about his work, his life and this project.  It was such an intimate conversation that we all came away feeling as if we had made  new friends with this photographer and  film maker.

When I got home I took out Nina’s card. I saw that she has a website, www.theajnabee.com, so I searched for it. It’s a weekly about all things Indian related and very artisically designed. I browsed through it and when I got to the very bottom I saw that it was powered by wordpress. So many connections, so many incarnations.