by Moondi, Romi
When I finally got rid of Anju, I had five minutes left to slap on some eye shadow and curl my hair. My sister of course would be thrilled with the sloppy look, as it would greatly increase the contrast with her beauty. I kept reminding myself that her happiness came first since this was her wedding after all, so some sloppy curls later I was ready.
To finish off my outfit (an emerald green Indian suit-dress with the silver embroidery), I put on some earrings that were moderately-sized along with a matching necklace. There was no way in hell that would piss off my sister.
I turned to make my way downstairs, but before the first step I collided with Anju, who was wearing...giant chandelier earrings. All I could do was gasp, as she smiled and sauntered away. This was the strictest violation of the “Indian girl code” I’d ever witnessed. The code stated that for any kind of Indian party you were at, whether an engagement party or a birthday party or a wedding, each girl’s earrings must not “out-glam” those of the party honoree’s, and the second-in-line honoree’s (which would be me in this case), and so on. Didn’t everybody know this? It was so obvious. Meanwhile this little rat had made me waste all my time on her hair and makeup so I’d spend less time on my own, thus making her out-shine me as well. Diabolical!
As a quiet revenge, I wished her the meanest thing of all: that her parents would take her to India one day, and force her to marry some creepy old man from the village.
And may you birth an entire army of dead-beat sons...
***
The light atop the videographer’s camera blinded me, as my sister, mother and I stepped into the yard on this beautiful summer’s night. We were each carrying trays with various ceremonial sweets and props, for the soul-cleansing ceremony that would follow. The camera didn’t stay on me for long, because before I knew it twenty or so ladies ambushed my sister and brought her to the “staging area.”
The staging area referred to an uncomfortable stoop that Neema was required to sit on (God help the bride who has early-onset osteoporosis). Behind the stoop hung rows of shiny coloured fabric, which formed the garish rainbow backdrop that would pop in all the pictures and videos (since the classy white backing of the tent was just too boring for us Indians).
I hid in the back far away from the action, but before I knew it two Indian friends from my childhood days were on either side of me. They were non-identical twins and my sister’s age. Both of them were pretty enough, but neither of them was married. And their parents kind of hated them for that.
“Your sister looks so pretty,” said the first twin Reena.
“What’s with your cousin’s earrings though?” asked the other twin Neetu.
I sighed. “I know! I think she stole them from her mom’s bridal jewellery set.” We laughed.
We turned our attention to the makeshift stage, as my mother finished mixing up a cruddy yellow paste. This stuff would now be rubbed on every exposed part of my sister’s body.
“That’s kind of disgusting,” said Neetu.
I shook my head. “I know dude...I know.”
It was rather fascinating to watch all the aunties jockey for position, so they could grab the largest clump of paste, and rub it on the largest surface area of Neema’s body. An elder lady who was someone’s cousin’s grandmother or something scored the collarbone, and she rubbed and rubbed while my sister winced in horror. As much as I knew this was a sacred ritual, it was totally hilarious.
My aunt or the earring-code-breaker’s mom took the next biggest chunk, and got to rub it up and down my sister’s right arm.
We were almost out of paste and skin by the time my turn finally came, so I took a small chunk and rubbed it against her cheek. This moment for me was my one small victory against all her Bridezilla behaviour, so I exfoliated the shit out of her goddamn cheek with that paste.
“I’m gonna kill you,” she said.
“Whatever, you’ll be out of the house in two days.” I smiled and walked away.
***
Dinner had come and gone, which meant there was a very clear divide in the party by now. The men were in a side-tent getting their drink on, and the always-sober women were in the centre of the patio, chanting their little hearts out. It was fascinating and wonderful to watch two generations of Indian women, as they recited memorized chants one after the other. Meanwhile they’d take turns balancing a decorated jug or “jaggo” on their heads. The jaggo was lit with oil candles, which sometimes resulted in drops of hot oil landing on old ladies’ foreheads. It was awkward.
As I watched them, I actually felt disappointed in myself, for never having learned these songs. How would I pass these traditions down to my children? And why had I never been interested in this stuff during all the Indian weddings I’d gone to in my life? I realized then that as I’d spent so much time associating Indian weddings with horrific arranged marriages, I’d subsequently blocked out these cultural milestones. Nowadays the music I loved was some new indie rock band or some old-school Madonna but these chants? They were Greek to me. This one moment represented my failure as a good Indian, but it didn’t make me suddenly obsessed with another pilgrimage to India. Not yet. The bigger problem at hand was that I’d barely even seen two specks of the world. I hadn’t even been to Europe! As a writer who wanted to see the world, I’d have to deal with the basics first (like Paris), before I ever tried to be a chant-happy Indian.
My aunt broke my spell of inadequacy with a tap on the shoulder. “Come on, we’re going to take the jaggo in the streets now.”
Umm excuse me? As in the streets where non-Indians live?
Twenty minutes later (since that’s how long it takes to organize multiple generations of Indian women), we made our way down the street in full chanting form. Within seconds, lights started turning on in the houses along the street. As for any cars that would drive by? God help us. I knew deep down that I wasn’t a teenager anymore, and so I shouldn’t be embarrassed to be “loud and proud” as an Indian, but I felt a bit bad for even being out here. It was eleven o’ clock at night for goodness sake, what if we were waking these people up? Would they call the police?
To my surprise, neighbours started coming onto their driveways to...wave. And smile. A few seconds later, they all started fiddling with their mobile devices, and a few seconds after that they started videotaping us. Oh god. I wanted to believe all these people would show their friends the video later, to tell them how cool Indian people could really be.
The pessimist in me decided they’d be posting that shit on YouTube.
From that day forward, I would always wonder if I was featured on YouTube somewhere, in a video called “Indians Girls Gone Wild”...
***
One day left...
In the corner of a make-shift basement salon, I sat in the spinning chair and held my hands together nervously.
“How does it look?” I asked.
“So beautiful!” said the stylist.
“Now remember,” I said. “I’m not the bride so let’s keep it simple.”
“But your hair curls so beautifully!” said the other stylist. Thanks to years of damage.
These stylists were actually two young Pakistani women I’d found on a message board, and they’d agreed to do my wedding hair and makeup for cheap. They were also only a few minutes’ drive from my house, which was enough to convince them to make a free house call before the reception. This standard “trial” was essential before the big day (I do NOT want them screwing up my look). I was cutting it pretty close at only a day before the wedding, but if they ended up being horrific I’d just do everything myself.
When they were finally finished I rose to look in the mirror and gasped. The girls thought I had gasped because I loved it so much. I definitely did love it, but…I looked like I was gunning to be the bride! My hair was curled and coiffed into something you’d do for the Oscars, and my eye shadow possessed a smokiness I had yet to ever pull off myself.
My sister’s gonna kill me.
<
br /> I thanked the girls and rushed home, knowing that my sister was out getting waxed and buffed for the big day.
I can totally beat her home.
When I pulled into the driveway her car was already there.
Oh no.
I walked along the side of the house so I wouldn’t go past her bedroom window, then snuck inside through the sliding door in the back.
I raced through the kitchen and grabbed the banister, but before I could climb the first stair I heard it.
“What the fuck?”
I turned and once again I saw her “wedding fire” eyes, but how had she appeared out of nowhere? It was impossible. She must’ve converted from Bridezilla to Bridewitch.
“It was just the trial,” I said, trying my best not to stammer. “They always try everything, but it won’t end up looking like this at all.”
She was standing mere inches away from me now, as I suddenly feared for my life. Meanwhile I wondered where everyone was. No witnesses? Weren’t there like twenty people living here right now? Were they all just taking a nap on their basement cots? She grabbed a thick curl and pulled on it. When she let it go it sprung back into place. This seemed to infuriate the beast.
I waited for her to say something, but instead she was eerily silent.
“Do you need anything else before tomorrow?” I said meekly.
“Ohhh, what do you mean?” she said, her voice getting louder with each word. “Why should you do any work? WHY DON’T YOU JUST PUT ON MY TIARA AND CALL YOURSELF THE BRIDE?!” She stormed upstairs and slammed the door shut.
I breathed in and out as slowly as I could.
It will all be over soon…
***
Later that night, my sister, mother, aunts, cousins and close friends were seated on various floor mats in the kitchen, waiting to get our “mendhi” or henna patterns done. This was the last thing to do before the big day, and once it was finished we couldn’t mess it up by doing housework, which at last meant a moment to relax!
My sister would be getting a design on her entire forearms and hands, as well as her legs from the knee down. This guaranteed the bride’s design would be fabulous and unmatched.
Most of the other girls were picking flowery patterns, but I wanted something a little more badass. I found one that looked like it was daggers shooting out of my hands. Cool. When my mother saw it she still made me get a flowery pattern for the inside of my hands. Whatever.
My sister and I weren’t on speaking terms yet, but when she saw my mendhi getting done and confirmed it didn’t extend any further than my wrist, she was appeased.
From there, our hands were wrapped in plastic and rolls of white gauze bandage, so we could sleep without upsetting the pattern. My sister, with half her arms and legs now completely bandaged, looked a lot like a mummy or a burn victim. That and the fact that it was itchy made her very frustrated, which of course was hilarious to me. I could hear her complaining right up until she went to bed.
If she even went to bed.
Neema’s wakeup call was three a.m., for what would undoubtedly be a big fat Indian wedding…
Chapter Eight
Yelling.
A baby crying.
There’s a baby staying here?
Pots clanging.
Mother’s yelling louder than anyone else’s.
Yes, it was six a.m. and the big day was here.
I brushed my teeth and strolled into my sister’s room, because according to the time she should’ve been ready by now.
When I saw her I tried not to flinch.
“Is it done?” I asked.
“What?” she said.
“Your makeup.”
“Yes it’s done; she just has to do the lashes.” The makeup artist nodded. “Wait, why did you say that? Doesn’t it look done? TELL ME!”
I smiled reassuringly. “Calm down it looks fine, just hurry up and finish your hair.”
I walked down the stairs with my eyes still in shock from what I’d seen. Is this what they did to Indian brides on their wedding day? Eyebrows penciled in so thick and lipstick so pink that you’d confuse her for a drag queen? A lovely drag queen mind you, but “draggy” nonetheless.
I made a mental note to never let the makeup artist know I was the bride on my wedding day.
If I ever have a wedding day...
***
An hour later, with more babies screaming now (where the hell did all these babies come from?!), I stood in front of the mirror tying my hair into an elegant ponytail. Since this was a Sikh wedding ceremony, I had to tie my hair and cover my head, with the help of the flowy head-covering draped across my bed. This turquoise covering matched perfectly with the long turquoise blouse and matching tights which were my “Indian suit” attire. Though some might consider turquoise an ugly colour (easily associated with hideous bridesmaids dresses), I was freshly tanned and capable of pulling it off. Not to mention that the shiny silver and (fake) diamond jewellery would add a nice touch. I held up a mid-sized chandelier earring to my face, wanting something bigger...but knowing that I wasn’t the bride.
One day my time will come...let’s hope.
***
I stood outside my parents’ bedroom, rolling my eyes at least once every five or six seconds. Meanwhile my sister, now looking resplendent in her pink Indian dress with the blinding embroidery, put on her huge chandelier earring as the camera rolled.
The scraggly Indian videographer directed her each step of the way, with his constant “Smile now! Look here now!” instructions. He’d chosen my parents’ bedroom as the movie set, since there inexplicably large dresser and matching furniture would look great on camera. As for me, I couldn’t stop rolling my eyes because this fake-smiling bride was the very same one who’d been terrorizing me every day. This was an Oscar-worthy performance.
A distant cry reminded me of all the random babies that were crawling around the house. I decided to quickly check on them, but before I could head downstairs the videographer called for attention.
“All come in now! For family moments!”
What the hell is a family moment?
“Brother! Parents! Sister! We need you here.”
A few minutes later with all of us gathered in the bedroom, my greatest fear regarding awkward family videos was realized. For our whole lives, my siblings and I had avoided displays of affection; any affection at all was our sibling kryptonite. For this very reason I watched in horror, as the director acted out exactly how myself and then my brother should hug my sister for the camera. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d hugged my sister, but my best guess was sometime in the nineteen-eighties.
After taking all the direction like a champ, the camera started rolling and I was off. I walked towards my sister---this Bridezilla of nightmarish proportions---with the slowest of awkward steps. My walk was so unnatural that I looked like I was holding a DVD player between my legs, like a thief had once done in the store I used to work at as a cashier. Since I wasn’t actually straddling any electronics, I must’ve looked like Brendan Fraser in “Encino Man,” when his caveman self first melted out of the ice and remembered how to walk. When I was three feet away from her, I reached out my arms and patted her shoulders, which maintained a safe and non-affectionate distance.
“No, no, no.” The director switched off the camera, as his Indian head bobbled rapidly in disdain. He then showed me how our bodies were meant to touch, with my cheek on Neema’s shoulder as the finishing touch.
“Maybe you can add me in with some special effects,” I suggested.
The Indian director sighed as he grabbed the camera, while leading me back into position. A moment later he yelled “action!” for the second take. This time I grudgingly did as I was told, and tried not to stare directly at my sister’s layers of makeup as I closed in for the hug.
My parents completed their shots without any issues, but my brother Sonny ended up taking fifteen takes. He blamed the suit for his stiffnes
s, but in reality I could tell that just the thought of touching my sister was making him sick.
At least we don’t have to worry about incest...
***
After what seemed like three hours of filming, the wedding party and some stragglers were finally leaving the house , herding their way through the beautiful flowered archway (which I’d built all by myself), then piling into the SUV limo.
At least they “attempted” to pile their way into the SUV limo.
It only took a few seconds to realize there were too many people and not enough limo seats. In the end, all the ‘on-the-fringe aunties” had to take their own cars to the temple, and based on their expressions I just knew it was the start of a feud that would last two decades.
Once the legit family members were in the limo and it peeled away, my mother started staring at me. Usually this was the start of a critique about my flaws, so I quickly straightened out my head covering, or anything else on this turquoise Indian outfit that might be wrong.
To my surprise, she simply said “Beautiful.”
I patiently waited for the punch line.
There wasn’t one.
I didn’t have a tape recorder, but I would cherish that moment forever.
***
“You should eat something,” I said. My sister and I were alone in the bridal room, with the ceremony only minutes away. This bridal room was a combination of stacks of books on the history of Sikh religion, religious icons painted on big canvases, and glass walls so everyone who walked by could stare at us like paparazzi. Most of those oglers were children with sticky-looking hands.
