” Whose wedding are you going to?”asked the young shop girl with a twinkle in her eye. I had already been asked the same question twice before as I scoured the shops of Agonda for a “wedding envelope”(used to place money as a gift for bride and groom). Agonda is a village in  southern Goa, which has managed to maintain its small town character and warm,family atmosphere, despite the influx of tourists to this wonderfully idyllic seaside. It is predominantly Catholic, which is evidence of the Portuguese occupation from the early 1600’s until as late as 1961. The church and its activities play a central role in the daily life.

At first glance one would think that the women are all pregnant – -a small “bump” protruding from their flowered, waisted house dresses. Upon further inspection it appears to be a body type rather than a condition. Their wavy, black hair is tied back into a bushy ponytail , and their smiles are broad and welcoming. Almost everyone has Fernandes as a surname and is somehow related to one another. The few Hindus that remain wear traditional saris  or salwar kameze(a long tunic top with pants), but for others this has been long ago  been replaced by western wear, due to prolonged contact with missionaries.

“My cousin’s daughter is getting married next week and the brides family is having a luncheon here on Sunday, do you want to come” asked Francis, our chef friend. (I wrote about him last year-The Sailor and the Saint). I’m always up for a wedding, but that also presents the challenge of finding clothes and shoes for the occasion. When you travel with only a carry on bag, there’s not much room for such luxuries. I did bring my “acceptable” wedding outfit, hoping  that I would get the opportunity to wear it, but I forgot my bling flip flops. I figure no one will look at my feet anyway.

Sunday arrives and Gerald asks if he has to wear long pants. It is hot and humid and he’d much rather wear shorts. I say that out of respect he should. I put on some make up, my best Indian costume jewelry, a blue paisley skirt and my clunky black Tevas.

We arrive early, hoping to get a good seat, Francis says they are expecting almost 200 guests. The night before, the restaurant was a flurry of activity as the “aunties” decorated the courtyard with sparkly,gauzy fabric and greenery and the men started setting up the chairs. Of course we are the first ones to arrive,in time to watch the last minute preparations.

As people start to trickle in, Gerald turns to me and says sadly “All the men are wearing shorts!” And yep, it’s true. There is a sprinkling of men in long pants, and women in satin dresses, but for the most part it’s casual. I’m told that the wedding party on Tuesday night will be a formal affair and despite the heat, the men will be wearing suits and ties.

A table has been set up where the westerners congregate, and the rest of the chairs have women and children in one section and men in another. There is a dj playing pop music and drinks are served. I decide to have a Feni, a local brew made from cashews, and quite potent. I meet the bride, who is an atypically thin young woman of thirty. The marrying age here is between twenty five and thirty-much later than the rest of India. Appetizers of marinated beef, roasted pork and chicken are passed around while we wait for the buffet.

At the right moment all the aunties and family members line up around the buffet table and we stand as prayers are recited.  When the time comes to start eating,I am amazed at the restraint and calm that follows.  After eating, people get up and leave immediately, until all that is left are a few western stragglers.

It’s been quite an un-Indian experience without the wildness and ritual of a Hindu engagement party .  Tomorrow night is the wedding in a village 35km from here and we will see what happens.