Traditionally, a wedding comes at the end of a story, a storywith a happy ending, that is; in fact, the wedding is the

happy ending. However it is not the end but the beginning: thebeginning of a new life for the couple, the creation of a newfamily—in fact, the beginning of life itself. Which is why,perhaps, the whole world loves a wedding; why it looks upon itwith the same fond indulgence with which it looks upon babiesand lovers.

This is a rather unusual wedding, a quiet and modest affairtaking place not in a lavish wedding hall, but at home. Theyoung banana plants on both sides of the rickety gate, (a gatethat has been hastily and badly painted as dribbles of paint andlarge blobs show) as well as the festoon of mango leaves andmarigolds strung above it, tell the world an auspicious event istaking place within. But it could as well be a baby’s namingceremony, a sixtieth birthday celebration, or a satyanarayanpuja; though, in fact, even these are celebrated with a greaterflamboyance. Here, even though it is the morning of the wedding,there is none of the frenzy of activity a wedding seems to callfor—no silk-clad women rustling up and down with platesheaped with flowers and puja articles. The house is quiet. A fewguests arrive at lunch time, but they are immediately swallowedup by the house and all is silent and peaceful once again.

The pace quickens by late afternoon. This is an eveningwedding, a rare godhuli muhurta has been chosen. The bride’sgrandmother was delighted by this. Such a beautiful time of theday, she said, such a beautiful word. Cow dust a beautiful word?

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Well, not the word itself, she tried to explain, but what it evokes:the serenity of the evening, the time of the day when the cowscome slowly back home, their bells ringing clear and sweet, thelast rays of the setting sun tinting the dust turned up by thecows’ hooves into a golden and orange haze. But for the family,the timing had caused some anxious moments, because today, asthe bride’s sister pointed out, it is not cows but cars that comehome; evening means peak hour traffic. Would people be able tocome on time? Ultimately, though, they are lucky and all thoseinvited—and unlike most weddings the guests are few—do getthere on time.

It has been a beautiful day, the kind of day only this city canprovide. It has drizzled a little during the night and the day iscool, lazily drifting clouds alternating with brief spells of brightsunshine. But suddenly, by late afternoon, it turns windy. Thesides of the shamiana billow in and out rhythmically, as if a giantbellows is at work. Once, the top rises to an alarming height andbecomes a giant bubble before gently and reluctantly subsiding.Faces look up fearfully—is it going to rain? If it does, it’s adisaster, because they have given no thought to the possibility ofrain, made no alternative arrangements. Later they will wonderhow they could have been so . . . so . . . So what? Foolhardy?Feckless? Optimistic? Whatever it is, luck is with them; it doesnot rain.

As evening approaches, there is a sudden spurt of activity.People can be seen moving from the house to the shamiana atthe back. Cars, two-wheelers and autorickshaws disgorge guests.There is a sudden buzz, not of excitement, but of consternation,when the bridegroom steps out of a car, followed by his mother,an uncle and an aunt. A delegation from the bride’s family hasgone to their house to escort them. What happened to them?Where are they? There is a sudden babble of talk, a flurry ofquestions, a medley of overlapping voices. This is the one momentof excitement, the single moment of drama that every weddingmust have. A few hurried phone calls are made before they

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realize all is well. The delegation is on its way back with thebridegroom’s father, brother and sister.

‘He wouldn’t let us wait, he made us hurry,’ the bridegroom’smother tells them with a smile, referring to her son. The smilespreads to other faces, jokes are made about the groom’simpatience, there is some laughter. The groom says nothing, hestands in silent composure until the women come to them withthe aarti plates to give him and his mother a ceremonial welcome.There is some awkwardness when they get to the house; thehosts don’t know what to do with this advance party. Bridegroomsare, strangely, often figures of fun, but a small twitch of thisman’s lips indicates that it is he who finds this, the unpreparednessof the bride’s family, slightly amusing. Finally, they are takeninto the house. Chairs and sofas are hurriedly cleared of stuffpiled on them so that the small group can sit down.

Someone, in deference to the bridegroom’s arrival, switcheson the fairy lights that are strung along the walls and hangingdown the sides of the house. The building suddenly takes on alook of dignified beauty. With the lights outlining it, theshamiana, hidden until now by the house, becomes suddenlyvisible. In a short while the groom and his immediate family aretaken to the wedding pandal. He is made to wait inside theflower decorated mandap, where the rituals will take place, withthe priests, his mother and other women from his family clusteringaround him. He cuts a striking figure as he stands in his spotlesswhite dhoti and kurta among the women in their colourful saris.There is a subdued whispering among the women as they waitfor the bride to arrive.

The bride enters, escorted, not as is traditionally done by hermother’s brother, but by her mother’s sister. There is a suddenhush. Even the chirping of birds, settling down noisily for thenight in the trees above them, is stilled, as if the birds know thattheir territory has been invaded. The bride comes preceded bythe fragrance of the pink-stemmed chameli bunched at the napeof her neck. To the bridegroom, this fragrance will forever beassociated with desire and delight.

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There is a dignity, a composure about the bride and thegroom as they stand facing each other, waiting for the rituals tobegin, a turmeric-daubed sheet held between them by the priests.This is a good moment to describe the two. They are both ratherserious young people. But in the groom’s face, in his eyes, thereis a hint of humour, as if he sees something which, if he wantedto, would make him smile. The bride on the other hand is moresolemn, a grave-faced young woman. But when she laughs, linesripple and scatter across her face, her eyes narrow, and hermouth opens wide in whole-hearted laughter. Her laughter isspontaneous, infectious. Brides are the cynosure of all eyes in awedding, their looks, or the lack of them, are eagerly taken noteof. This bride is good looking, though not startlingly so. She isnot very tall, though her slim figure and erect posture make herseem so. She is wearing a traditional Kanjivaram silk, a red andgold sari echoing the colours of the chrysanthemum and themarigold, blooms of the season. Unlike most brides, it is clearthat she has not gone to a beauty parlour. She is made-up, butthe make-up has been so skillfully applied that it scarcely shows.Her hair is in one long plait, as usual—the only concession tothe day being the flowers she is wearing in it. She looks, in fact,like herself, not like a glamorous stranger, which is what abeautician would have made of her. Even her jewellery is minimal,which is why the magnificent diamonds in her ears stand out,rays of white and blue light shooting out from the diamondseach time they catch the light.

Unusually, there are three priests standing by the bride andgroom, two on the bride’s side, one by the bridegroom. Theoldest of the three, (perhaps it will obviate confusion if we callhim Guruji, the way he is addressed by the bride’s family) startschanting the mantras, beginning in the traditional way withGanesha’s name. Svasti Shri Gananayakam GajamukhamMoreshwaram Siddhitam—the sonorous chant fills the pandal.The guests relax, enjoying the rhythmic rise and fall of the lines,the stately beauty of the Sanskrit words. The groom, who has

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waited a long time for this day, this moment, smiles at somethought of his own, whereas the bride listens in composure tothe priest’s chanting. In a while, Guruji stops and thebridegroom’s priest takes over. The two priests take turns, movingfrom one to the other with such precision, it is as if they haverehearsed this earlier. Suddenly there is a change. Guruji looksmeaningfully at the third priest, a young man who now beginssinging some verses. The young voice, rich and deep, is singingthe mangalashtaka, verses composed in honour of the bride andgroom and their families, the names of the couple skillfullywoven into the verses. Most guests are unfamiliar with thiscustom, a tradition in the bride’s family, and since the verses arein Marathi, they don’t understand the words, either. But theyoung man’s voice catches their attention; it is a voice that hasthe clarity and the resonance of a temple bell. His beautifulrendering makes this an unforgettable moment for everyonepresent. For years they will remember the enchantment of theyoung man’s voice, the way his music dyed the simple andaustere occasion with a deep and rich colour. When he comes toan end, Guruji looks at his watch, continues hurriedly with themantras, says the final words, Shubha mangala savadhan, and,bringing down his hand like the starter at the beginning of arace, whisks away the cloth held between the couple.

Whoever first thought of this ritual had a wonderful sense ofdrama. This young couple have known each other for years;nevertheless, when they look at one another now, it is as thoughthey are seeing different persons. The garlands are handed tothem by the priests and they garland each other. Immediatelyafter which, the guests and the priests shower the couple with theakshada, the rice grains making a gentle patter and looking liketiny stars on the bride’s dark hair. There is a sudden release oftension, a collective exhaling of breath and the women wipe thetears that this ceremony invariably seems to bring on. A babbleof sound fills the pandal as the guests settle down to talk amongthemselves and the rest of the rituals get under way. The smokers

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go out for a smoke and women move around with plates ofhaldi, kumkum and flowers. In a few moments the major ritualswill begin. But it’s not going to be a long drawn-out affair, thecouple have decided that only the minimum essential rituals willbe done.

The groom’s father had been aghast at the decision. Actually,nothing in the wedding arrangements had fitted into his idea ofhis family’s grandeur and importance. But he had protestedloudest at this shortening of the wedding rituals. ‘My father’swedding was celebrated for five days, mine went on for threedays. And now my son’s, my eldest son’s wedding is going to bea half-day affair? I won’t allow this.’

‘It’s too late to change, Appa.’‘It can never be too late.’ He would talk, he said, to the bride’s

father.‘He’s not in charge. You know his wife is dead and so . . .’‘Who’s doing the kanyadaan?’‘His nephew.’‘Give me his number, I’ll talk to him.’The nephew, however, is a busy cardiologist, and it’s almost

impossible to get him. (Or perhaps the groom is careful not toring him at the right time?)

‘Let me talk to her grandmother then.’She’s very ill, his son tells him, with a slightly accusing air.

Surely he knows that? Wasn’t that why they decided to have asimple wedding?

The father gave up after this, wresting, however, twoconcessions from his son. There would be a satyanarayan puja intheir house the day after the wedding followed by a lunch. Andhe, yes, he the groom’s father, would host a dinner that night fortheir family and friends.

Except for these two things, all the decisions about theirwedding have been taken by the couple themselves. They are notpuppets or pawns to be moved about; these are young peoplewho know their own minds. Time, therefore, to stop calling

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them bride and groom, (though this is better than calling them‘boy’ and ‘girl’) and to give them their names; after all, they havevery important roles to play in this story. And so their names:she is Aru, short for Arundhati and he is Rohit.

Aru will organize her own wedding: this had been a familyjoke, first made by her father and then brought out every timeAru, impatient with her family’s slapdash ways, took things intoher own hands, each time she tried to impose order on theircasual way of doing things. But now, there is a conspiracy tokeep Aru firmly in her bride’s place, at least on the day of thewedding. A bride, she has been firmly told, is not supposed to doanything on her wedding day but be a bride. And so her aunts,her sisters, even her father, are watchful, making sure that Arudoes not get up to do anything herself. Her younger sister Seemasits a little behind her throughout the rituals, attending to herevery need. But they need not have worried; Aru, once the ritualsbegin, concentrates on what is happening, on what the priestsare saying, on what they are telling the couple to do, scrupulouslyrepeating what she is told to say, doing what is needed. In fact,the three priests and the couple form a tight closed group of theirown, heads close together, concentrating on the rituals, obliviousto people outside the mandap. Once or twice there is somelaughter, which comes from the mixture of languages they areusing. The groom’s priest speaks to them in Kannada, Guruji,knowing that the couple knows no Marathi, speaks in Hindi,which his grandson, a stunningly handsome boy in spite of hisshaven head, as Aru and Rohit now notice, translates intoEnglish—perhaps to show off. He was the one who sang sowonderfully earlier. ‘By the time this boy takes my place, I amsure the whole ceremony will be in English,’ his grandfathersays. There is laughter at this, but the boy gives his grandfather alevel, consciously adult look, as if sharing some secret with him.

When the rituals are done and the priest gives them permissionto get up, Aru is on her feet in a moment and is moving awaywhen she is stopped with a jerk. She has forgotten that her sari

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pallu has been tied to Rohit’s upper garment. ‘Wait,’ the prieststops her. ‘Don’t forget you and your husband are now tiedtogether,’ he jokes. He calls for Seema, who unties the knot tothe accompaniment of some mantras from the priest. Aru, aftera few words to Rohit, goes swiftly out of the marriage pandaland into the house. The lights are on in all the rooms except theone Aru enters, in which only a small night light is burning. Hergrandmother, Kalyani, is sleeping. Goda, Kalyani’s sister, sittingby her side, puts her finger to her lips. Aru stands irresolute inthe doorway and then enters, trying to make no sound. Whenshe nears the bed, Kalyani immediately opens her eyes.

‘Not sleeping, Amma?’‘No, I was waiting for you. I knew you would come. Is it

over?’‘Yes.’‘I was there until the garlanding.’‘I know. I saw you leave. You and Godaajji.’‘Let me see you. Switch on the light, Aru, and come and stand

here. I want to see you as a bride. I never saw my Sumi’swedding, she and Gopal had a registered wedding. And Premi’s. . .’ Goda and she look at each other, then Kalyani says, ‘Let itgo . . . Where’s Rohit?’ she asks. ‘Go and call him.’

When he comes, Kalyani says, ‘Come, Rohit, stand by Aru.Let me fill my eyes with the sight of the two of you together.’

She struggles to get up and, with Goda’s help, sits at the edgeof the bed. Surprisingly, she is dry-eyed; instead, it is Goda whowipes her tears. Aru and Rohit stand before her for a moment,then, with a look at each other, they bend down and touch herfeet. She puts her two hands on their bowed heads and murmurssomething, a blessing, they guess, and lies down again.

‘Go, now,’ she tells them.Charu, Aru’s sister, enters carrying a plastic bag in her hands.

‘Aru, you have to change into this.’‘What’s that?’‘A sari. Rohit’s mother says you have to wear this and then go

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round taking the blessings of all the elders—from both thefamilies, mind you. It’ll take you at least an hour. I told you, youshould have eloped.’

‘Silly girl,’ Kalyani chides her.‘Let me see the sari,’ Goda says. The two older women look at

it, they touch the sari with gentle fingers and smile at each other.They are pleased, thinking not of the sari, but of Aru gettingmarried, of Aru being a bride.

Charu is getting impatient. ‘Come on, Aru,’ she says. ‘Seemais waiting to help you.’

‘I’m coming.’But Aru does not follow Charu. She goes back to Kalyani and

sits by her looking at her in silence. Kalyani takes her hand andstrokes it. Strangely, it is Aru who asks her grandmother, ‘Areyou happy, Amma?’

‘Yes, child. Very happy.’‘Go to sleep now. I’ll come and see you after dinner.’‘Don’t worry about me, Goda is with me.’‘And,’ Aru goes on, ‘if you’re sleeping, I won’t disturb you,

but you will know I had come.’‘Yes, Aru. Now, will you go?’‘And I’ll come to you tomorrow morning as early as possible.’‘I said don’t worry about me. Goda is with me,’ Kalyani

repeats, as if the name is a talisman. Goda is actually Kalyani’scousin, but both women would reject the English word. In fact,Kalyani does not call her a sister; she is, Kalyani always says,more-than-a-sister-to-me.

Aru suddenly thinks of something. ‘But Godaajji, when willyou have your dinner?’

‘Aru, Aru, don’t worry. It’s all arranged. Devi and Premi aretaking turns. And the nurse will come at nine. Rohit—where’sRohit? Will you take your wife away from here?’

Wife? Rohit and Aru look at each other, a little startled. ThenRohit smiles and says, ‘Come, Aru, you have to change. Wecan’t keep people waiting for too long. My appa must be alreadythrowing a tantrum.’

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‘Yes, yes, you better go, Aru.’‘Are you okay?’ Rohit asks her when they are out of the room.She nods and goes into her room where her sisters are waiting.

Charu is brisk and businesslike, clearly enjoying her role.‘What were you doing, Aru? I told you to hurry up. Here, take

off that sari. Do you want to have a wash before changing?’ Shelooks at her sister’s face, suddenly stops and asks, ‘Aru . . . whatis it, Aru? What’s wrong? Aru, don’t, don’t do this, Aru, don’t,stop it . . .’ But Aru, who has controlled herself all this while, issobbing, something she does so rarely that her sisters arefrightened. Charu goes to her and holds her, she, too, is cryingnow.

Gopal, who has come to check on Kalyani, hears his daughters’voices and looks into the room. He sees the two sisters holdingeach other and sobbing, while Seema sits on the bed, her shouldershunched, her face resolutely turned away from her sisters.

Gopal closes the door and goes out. He knows why they arecrying, he knows too that he has no right to intrude on theirgrief for their dying grandmother and for their dead mother, hiswife. He quietly walks away.