Her Big Fat Hindu Wedding

I had just convinced myself that I am happy single. Not that it's been hard to convince myself of—I've been unexplainably happy here in India. In this state of euphoria I had decided that I would be able to get home to the crazed dating scene in Provo with my head on straight, my heart open, and my focus on graduation. I didn’t feel the desperate need to find a boyfriend anytime soon—they cause so much heartache, lead to lots of confusion, and take up so much time! And as I said at my 24^th birthday, “27 is the new 24” a.k.a. the age that seems very ripe for me to marry (mature, but not yet at the desperate 30). I’m two years from that “deadline” and in no hurry to rush things along.

However, I found my resolve melting as I watched this wedding unfold. Wait, first I’ll explain: I had been invited to this unconventional wedding by a professor in the Physical Education Department at Bharathiar University. Since the other girls in the group had never seen a Hindu wedding, we thought we might as well postpone our travel plans to watch this American man marry his Indian bride in the Hindu fashion.

Jeff was working for an IT company in South Carolina and had met Vidiya, an Indian working at the same company. They had a Catholic wedding in the states two weeks prior and all Vidiya had to say about that wedding was “It was short.” I laughed. Yes compared to the two day long weddings of Southern India with several ceremonies, clothes changing, etc. an hour long ceremony in the backyard would seem very short.

We came the night before the wedding to watch the many ceremonies surrounding the engagement. And that’s when my perfectly happy single future started looking like it might be missing something important.

Jeff was sitting on the “stage” holding the wedding saree his bride would be wearing the next morning. He was supposed to be presenting the saree to Vidiya’s sister. While holding out the saree to his soon-to-be sister-in-law, an old man from the village stood in front of the two singing old Tamil songs. The man was dressed in a worn button down shirt which was not quite white anymore, a lungi which looks like a long white hiked up to his knees and a towel wrapped around his head like a makeshift turban. He would throw rice at certain intervals during his singing and the drummer would hit his drum to emphasize the rice throwing. Frankly, it looked sort of ridiculous. Having been in India for 6 months I wasn’t much moved to laughter. I’d spent lots of time with Appa dressed this way, but trying to look at it from fresh eyes, this looked quite silly.

Jeff thought so too, but tried desperately to keep his composure, maintaining the dignity of the ceremony. He did well until the man’s singing droned on and on. Vidiya sneaked into the audience, sat on the second row, and started smiling at Jeff. His calm, dignified listening was interrupted as he couldn’t keep from smiling at her—a very shy sort of smile. My eyes darted back and froth between the two of them—yep, it was the look of love.

I watched them both again the next morning—this time I was sitting behind Jeff who was in the audience on the first row as he anticipated the arrival of his bride. His anticipation was killing me! She walked in and he only had eyes for Vidiya dressed in that beautiful pink saree. There are so many clichés I could use, but I must say I don’t think I’d do that couple justice. Their love for each other was so visible. I was touched at her willingness to go through a Catholic wedding and his willingness to go through a Hindu wedding. The sacrifice they were willing to make, the complete acceptance of each other (“weird” culture and all), and the deep love they conveyed in those small glances.

Maybe I won’t be so happy as a lone world traveler. Maybe I would like to have someone like that in my life. Maybe. It's yet to be seen if love will attack me with such force.

Making a Living by His Sweat and Blood

I don’t want you to think that this is normal—in the 10 months I have spent in India (last trip and this) I have never seen anything like this. Not that there aren’t beggars in India. There are plenty women carrying babies asking for milk money, kids touching your arms again and again repeating “Ma!”, and handicapped people laying on the side of the road displaying their deformities for money. But this, this was different.

I’d seen this “family” before—one man, an adolescent girl, and a small boy about 6 or 7 years old. On Diwalli we watched the man crack his whip and walk down the street to the sound of bells on his anklets. The girl will often play the weird sounding drum—I’m struck by her dirty salwar camis and her missing scarf. The boy often tags along with the drumming girl.

This Saturday afternoon we were standing at Gandhipuram waiting for the bus 96 to take us home when the family began. The man cracked his whip a few times in front of the waiting crowd. The young boy wandered through the mass with what looked like red paint splotches covering his chest. The girl started playing the weird drum while the boy and man emerged from the crowd and started stomping around with their bell covered feet, dancing on this makeshift stage--the road.

When he felt like enough of the apathetic crowd was watching, the man pulled out a knife turned so we could all see as he began cutting his forearm again and again—slicing it like the “cutters” I learned about in my psychology class. My stomach turned as I saw pink flesh. I tried to look away, but noticing the many scars on his arm I couldn’t stop staring. This was not the first time.

Like he had pulled a magic rabbit out of a hat he displayed his bleeding arm to the now fidgety group. He walked back and forth ignoring a bus as it pulled through past him and making a show of smearing some blood onto his own chest.

The drumming increased, but I didn’t appreciate the added dramatic flare. Horror came as I watched the boy lay down on his back, the man kneeled next to him and squeezed his fists over and over again so blood would drip onto the boy’s chest—making one more red splotch. The man then stood, cracked the whip a few times—intentionally hitting his arm with the tip as he wrapped it around himself.

The money collecting began. The girl, boy, and man wandered through the throng their hands out ready to collect spare rupees. The crowd was amazingly still and silent and a few reluctant people gave. The man stomped his feet in front of a group of well dressed Indian men, gestured to his bleeding arm, and stared with pleading in his eyes. It was a look that said, “I’m giving my sweat and blood here—can’t you spare a few rupees?” As I watched his face I could only think, “I didn’t ask you to do this to yourself. I’m not going to give you money, encouraging you to repeat this sadistic performance. There has to be a better way for you to provide. Your children should be in school, not taking part in this.”

I swallowed the bile in my mouth willing myself not to loose the contents of my breakfast. I tried to avoid counting the large drops of dried blood on the boy’s chest as he neared me, but I wondered how many times they’d done this “show” today. I hoped he wouldn’t get too close to me—the blood on his chest. I did what I normally do in India when I want to avoid contact: I gave that practiced blank stare and with it the tight control on my emotions. I have this smooth, apathetic look that helps me keep the tears from coming.

I watched as the family collected maybe 5 or 10 rupees for this little performance—20 cents for those drops of blood. There has to be another way. There has to be. I've thought quite a bit about that family since then, but I don't have any concluding thoughts. I'm still trying to figure out what this very vivid scene means to me.

Crowded Buses: India's Real Battleground

I meant to write about the wedding I went to this last weekend, but ended up writing more about the bus ride there, which spawned this blog entry. I promise an entry on the wedding will follow soon enough.

As we get near to bus stops women try and reposition themselves for an easier and quicker exit. It feels like when you try and put on that old pair of jeans that you know is just a little too tight for you. You inhale deeply and hold it, button, and then exhale and let the fat muffin over the top of your pants. First the inhale—women squeeze themselves into seemingly impossible walls of people. As I stand next to the seats my hip bones get pressed up against the seat as the women force their bodies pass me towards the door or further into the bus to their “spots.” It’s temporary pain as we collectively inhale, but once the bus starts up again we’ve all seemed to find more comfortable ways to bulge at the seams of the bus. Like the tight pair of jeans—it’s never completely comfortable, but it's livable.

Crowded buses are prime time for tempers to flare. With 3 women crammed in the spot near any one seat, when a woman stands to exit the tin can the battle for the empty seat begins. The oldest women are the dirtiest fighters—using elbows, bags, looks that could kill, and loud Tamil as weapons against you. You thought WWII was bad, you should see these women. The white haired ladies may look old, frail, and remind you a little of your sweet grandma at home, but baby all pretenses are off in a crowded bus.

Megan one time had a woman choke her with her own scarf, elbow her in the gut, and then use the strong arm block to claim the seat in front of them both. Creative tactics woman I have to give you that. I always get the sly ones who slip into my seat while my attention is focused on how to shift my weight and bag to get into the seated position while the bus is coming to a complete halt. Sneaky.

Now the buses sound like complete amoral ground, but every new student soon realizes that all is fair in bus wars, except one thing—pregnant women and women with infants always get a seat, so someone better cough it up before the old women start enforcing the rule.

With long hot days in the city and the reality of riding the whole hour home to Chavadi standing settling I sometimes find a bit of fight in me. But I’m not equipped enough for these battles. In general I wish I spoke a little Tamil, but when those women get to yelling at each other over bus seats the desire to know Tamil burns in me. At least I think the fight is over the seats, it could be an ongoing family feud over land—I’d believe it the women fight with enough passion.

I must say while some women see our white skin as easy targets for open seat stealing, others act as the country’s ambassadors. The ambassadors always try to ensure we get seats while the conniving seat thieves go in for the easy kill. I enjoy talking with the ambassadors and have varied reactions to the thieves. Sometimes I get outraged, other times aggressive, and in rare moments I react with a Christian spirit of “you probably need it more than I do.” Maybe all these bus rides are just tests of character. I wonder if I'll ever pass.