Tag Archives: Rural Rajasthan

All in the Family

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Shaikh and Shamim

The Mukaram family

Rusda, Me, Tayba and Shamim

Yes, do buy a gown for the marriage, it’ll be so much fun! We’ll go shopping together.

Don’t buy a gown, you’ll only want it for one day, yes? I can bring you some to try on and see what you like.

You’ll be needing help with getting ready for the wedding, ma’am?

I can lend you jewelry and shoes if you like, ma’am. No worries.

Since arriving in India we have been “adopted” by numerous people and treated like members of the family. We are often asked, with a look of surprise, why we have not brought our children and their spouses with us. “Next time,” we reply sheepishly. Indians tend to travel in large family groups of eight or more, except when they go on a honeymoon. Grandparents on both sides as well as aunties,cousins and children go on vacation together. Two lone travelers are an unusual sight.

We were thrilled when our friend Shaikh Mukaram invited us to his niece’s marriage and that we would be part of the wedding party. Although we have attended many Hindu weddings, this would be our first Muslim one.

She is very poor, my sister, but there will be over 1500 people at the wedding.

Shaikh’s father has eleven brothers and three sisters and his mother has seven brothers and six sisters. He has one brother and four sisters and his wife has three brothers and three sisters. Ubed, his son, estimated that he has three hundred cousins!

Nilam, one of the teachers at Manav Gulzar Community Center,offered to find a dress for me to borrow.

I have so many sarees but no gowns, I don’t know if you’ll like what I have.

Nilam

After teaching the workshops with the children I am usually exhausted so the thought of going to shop for a dress, no matter how much fun it might be, seemed overwhelming. I said that I was sure anything she had for me would be fine.

You need jewelry too, right?

The next day a big bag with three beautiful gowns and masses of costume jewelry arrived.

How to decide? Ask my friends on Facebook of course and have a vote! With opinions pouring in from India, Cambodia,Italy, France, Germany, England and the USA, the festivities started off with a bang.

The red is more striking

Quello in alto a destra,oro (Italy)

No need to choose,because you always beautiful (Cambodia)

Even pink is gorgeous…but I would suggest U go in Red it has a festive look in my opinion Best for the occasion. (India)

When the tally came in with more than one hundred and fifty votes counted, Red was the surefire winner. I felt like a princess with all the gold and sequins and glitter. Rusda, one of Shaikh’s daughters, agreed to come shopping with me for shoes and go together for the Heena hand painting the day before the wedding.

When Dhairya, one of the front desk managers at my hotel found out that I had no shoes she quickly piped in. “I have some shoes I can lend you. No worries. My Mummy and me have some pairs that we share for weddings. I’ll bring them by and you can see if they fit. “

Things were coming together quickly and it was the Friday before the wedding.

gown-check

earrings and bangles- check

gold sandal heels- check

Now it was time for the Heena.

Name and place where I will meet you tomorrow Rusda?

General hardas ngav nav lakhaa malek shaban ki dargah

Huh? Even with the Google map pinpoint I could tell it was complicated and I’d never find it.

I think maybe I won’t come. I’m afraid of getting lost.

Yaa it’s too far From your hotel.

I had resigned myself to not getting my hands painted and was commiserating with Jagat who runs the Earn and Learn program at Manav Sadhna.

Don’t worry. Nita can do it for you. I just have to send Kasturbhai to the market to get some Heena. Wait here.

I waited for forty five minutes until he returned from the market, as the first market had no more Heena. It is wedding season and there is a big rush for the Heena coloring. It is a tradition for women friends and family members to get their hands painted . Nita is an artist and in twenty minutes she had finished two beautiful traditional designs on both my hands while Jagat sang songs extolling the love between Gerald and I. Don’t ask me why he decided to do this, but he was enjoying himself so much I didn’t ask.

Before

After

Jagat Bhai

Saturday arrived and Dhairya arranged her schedule to free up some time to help me get ready. She insisted on calling me ma’am and although it bothered me at first, like most things in India, I got used to it.

Ma’am you must wear the diamond earrings, more Indian, others too Western. And yes, the diamond jewels draped on your forehead.

I left everything for her to decide and reveled in the pampering-make-up, jewelry, perfumes, the works.Gerald didn’t have anything special to wear, especially on his feet, but he had a Kurta. No chance of borrowing anything his size from anyone here in India.

When I made my grand entrance in the lobby of the hotel, you would think a movie star had arrived. The Indians gave their thumbs up approval and insisted on taking endless selfies with me.

Since we had no idea what a Muslim wedding would be like, but had been told that it was a more restrained affair-without the exuberant music and dancing of the Hindus, we had no expectations.

The evening started off by going to the home of the bride’s mother to watch the last minute make-up preparation. It was in a poor section of town where in 2002 Hindu Nationalist riots were responsible for the burning of many homes in the Muslim quarter. Shaikh’s sister’s home was among those that were destroyed. The Indian government did nothing to quell the riots and did not pay to rebuild. It was the Muslim community that helped her.

A type of canopy had been set up in the small courtyard of the quarter, and many neighbors were milling around as well as young cousins who were already dressed for the wedding. The housing quarters were tiny, barely enough room for three women to dress the bride. We stayed outside near the mosque.

Cousins

We then piled into Shaikhs car, leaving Rusda and her mother to come with the relatives. “It wouldn’t be nice if we didn’t stay with the family and go together with them. We will see you there.”

The earthen courtyard outside the mosque was dimly lit when we arrived, and it certainly did not look like a wedding venue. There was a stage set up with a throne, set against a blue and white striped curtain as back drop. The groom’s family (only about thirty five male members) sat below, looking glum and not talking to one another.We clabbered over the uneven dirt path with me holding my gown by the hem, trying not to trip over my heels while we crossed the courtyard into the bride’s section.

SPLAT! All of a sudden I felt the sole of one shoe detach from the heel. I limped awkwardly while lifting my gown off the ground in the futile hope of keeping it clean.

Shaikh’s brother to the rescue! When hearing of my dilemma he quickly appeared holding a tube of heavy duty glue. It just so happens he owns a clothing and shoe shop and was prepared for such emergencies.

The bride’s section was a dazzling display of kitsch and bling, with women wearing earrings that looked like metal chandeliers , or sculptures that you might see hanging decoratively on a wall.

The bride arrived in a car, veil covering her face,and was immediately escorted by Rusda onto the stage where she remained for the next two hours. We were ushered onstage to sit next to her and have our photos taken, along with other relatives. At one point she started crying and her auntie leaned over and spoke soothing words and gave her a hankie. In India, after marriage the bride goes to live with the husband’s family and does not return to her family. It is a very emotional moment.

The groom arrived and took his place, far away from the bride.

Food was served on large platters to be shared communally- rice, dal and a mutton curry.

There was no Imam (priest). Shaikh’s brother brought the marriage contract onstage first to the bride and then to the groom, still seated in different parts of the courtyard. The “ceremony” was now complete. The couple, officially married,would see each other for the first time only well after midnight at the groom’s house,when a mirror would be placed between them and the veil removed.

The wedding, rather than an elaborate celebration was more a large family reunion. As Westerners it is difficult for us to fully comprehend the complicated role that family plays in Indian society. It encompasses a strong sense of duty, devotion to tradition, and is an enormous source of happiness.

Behind the Curtain/India Exposed

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You won’t be able to take photos or watch the make up preparation, but to see the Theyyam Bagavathi Muttilotu is an experience not to be missed. She is one of the most powerful goddesses and the performer cannot eat meat, drink alcohol or have sex for forty one days beforehand. She stays behind a curtain and doesn’t come out until ready to receive the headdress. For some people it is scary because she can be unpredictable and start yelling and gesturing aggressively.

Kurian, my Theyyam authority, and owner of Costa Malabari Guest House in Kannur, explained this to me in an earnest tone. I have been coming here ever since I was first exposed to Theyyam in 2014.

Theyyam is an ancient ritual practiced in the Malabar region of southern India and is performed exclusively by men who manifest the deities and goddesses while in a trance-like state. The ritual started out as a practice of the lower castes and later became absorbed into Hindu culture as a way of communicating directly with deities.

Malabar village shrines are dedicated to a particular deity and an annual ritual or festival is sponsored either by a family or the priests, and is open to the greater community at large.Theyyam season is between November and May. The more powerful Theyyam deities can attract thousands of worshippers to the ceremonies.

At nine in the morning we started out for the first village. It was later than usual because the ceremonies, which usually start at sunrise, had been going on all night. Plastic tarps were set up as booths , carnival style, to sell the various trinkets- plastic toys, balloons,bangles and other assorted useful objects which the attendees would inevitably buy. Bollywood music, interspersed with adverts for travel agencies, hair growth clinics and “fancy dress” shops, bellowed out of two loudspeakers positioned just outside the kavu ( sacred area around the shrine). It was early and we were among the first to arrive. I always like to have time for the villagers to become comfortable with our presence.

My flip flops, already muddied with the moist red dirt, and traces of the many people who had trampled over them, were placed outside the entrance to the shrine, and I hoped I would be able to find them again after the crowds stormed through. I attempted (vainly) to sparkle as much as the Rajasthani women and wore my best gold dangly earrings, bangles and mangal sutra ( Rajasthani marriage necklace).

Gerald and Richard had set their backpacks on the red plastic chairs in the front row to save the best seats. It wasn’t until later, when an old lady snarled at him did he realize they were in the women’s section, and had to move.

I immediately rushed over to the costume/make up preparation area. Each one of the eight deities that would be represented has a unique costume and intricate face painting design which can take hours to complete. After four hours in the tropical heat,watching the six drummers feverishly lead the deities into trance, and the mesmerizing dancing of the Theyyam, I was exhausted. We had seen four deities and there were four more getting ready. As the sun baked into my skin, even with the sensory overload of these rituals I knew that I absolutely had to go to the next village where Bhagavati would be the grand finale.

As we arrived at the next shrine- a much bigger venue with hundreds of people already milling about in the temple grounds, the anticipation was palpable. As in the other village we were the only non-Indians and were given a place of honor so that we could to see better.

An old man with bloodshot eyes- probably from too much toddy-approached me.

Bagavathi is a powerful goddess, coming soon. She will make you cry, I do.

I was anxious for the finale after waiting almost two hours .We had rushed to get there by 2 pm and my eyes were glued to the curtain covering the place where Bagavathi was preparing, waiting to see some movement that would indicate an appearance. The only food I had eaten was a packaged ice cream bought from a vendor. Although we were invited to share the feast that was prepared for the masses at each shrine, I had politely refrained from eating and drinking, knowing that the toilet facilities would be suspect. But there was no way that I would even think of leaving before seeing what I had come for.

A bonfire had been smoldering for hours. Suddenly the temple priests and attendants started running over the hot coals and encircling the shrine. A swell of women and men charged across the temple grounds to the corner where Bagavathi was ready to receive her headdress. I didn’t know whether I should join them or stay put in my prime viewing position. The women next to me kept on squeezing me in in order to make room for a badly misshapen young man, lying on a mat behind me. They pointed to a woman standing nearby who I assumed was his mother, and she motioned that she wanted him to be blessed when Bagavahti passed by. I knew if I left there would be no returning.

Fearful that if I stayed I might miss the action, I ran over, just in time to see Bagavathi, in brilliant red headdress and huge skirt,flaming torches in both hands. Worshippers were pushing and shoving to get close enough to pass their arms through the flames, a sign of receiving her blessings.

And then just like that it was all over.

The car was quiet on the way back to our guesthouse. A small window had been opened , exposing one of the many sides of Incredible India.

Return to the Village-Part II

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November 9

It is our last night in Udaipur and  I am going to Noya Guda, where six years ago I witnessed a  hair-cutting ceremony of seven year old  Iswah, and stayed in the village for two days. (If you want to see some highlights from that ritual you can go on YouTube and look up “BHERU-haircutting Ceremony” by tembigirl)

Iswah, in the front, left, now 13 yrs old

Iswah, in the front, left, now 13 yrs old

Preparations have to be made well in advance after my previous adventure.  I have a large lunch, knowing that  dinner in the village will be eaten very late, at 10 pm.  Liquids must be consumed hours ahead of our departure, because there is no toilet,not even an Indian squatter. (Last time I visited, the headman drove me to his village where he had a toilet.  Then someone waited outside the door until I finished!).

At 4:30 I go downstairs to Prem and Kesar and we load into the car.  It wouldn’t be a proper Indian outing if there were only three people, so their 19 yr. old son, 13 yr. old nephew, and giant dog, Donny, come along as well.

It is only a forty five  minute drive from Udaipur, but centuries away .  We stop first at Prem’s village, where his family compound has an elaborate Bheru shrine, and with the help of the village priest, prepare offerings.  The family joins in gathering wood branches for a small fire, pours ghee into a vessel, places incense and marigolds, and prostrate themselves in front of the god .

Priest doing puja in front of Bheru Shrine

Priest doing puja in front of Bheru Shrine

Bheru Shrine

Bheru Shrine

Meanwhile a camel, carrying a load of grasses passes by, led by a wizened, turbaned man.  I feel as if I have been transported to another time zone a thousand years ago.

When we arrive at Noya Guda, I notice that nothing has changed  since my last visit.  There is no paved road, cattle roam in and out of stone houses, and the entry into Iswah’s home is inhabited by a water buffalo and some cows.

The two sisters, now 22 yrs and 19 yrs, are married and the eldest has a one year old son.  They are here visiting the family for a week.  One lives far away in Gujarat, and the other a few hours away.  It is the custom for girls to live with their husband’s family.  Prem tells me that the younger one, (who married at 16), is now  six months pregnant, and asks if I can look at the medical record she got from her  last doctor visit.  I am not surprised to see that her hemoglobin is low, but the size of her fetus is only 11 weeks, and she is supposedly 24 weeks pregnant.  I tell them that she needs to eat more and gain some weight.  The daily diet of dal and chapattis is not enough for a healthy baby.

Making the roti for our dinner on a clay stove at the village

Making the roti for our dinner on a clay stove at the village

Dinner with Kesar and Prem and the family in the village

Dinner with Kesar and Prem and the family in the village

What concerns me more is a notation on her record.  Last year she had a “voluntary termination of pregnancy”.  India has 914 females to 1000 males.  Although female infanticide has decreased, female fetuscide exists unofficially.  The government has banned “sex determination” tests, but for baksheesh they are still available.  I discreetly ask Prem about boy and girl babies, and he insists that it is illegal to abort and is considered a crime.  I do not mention what I read.  Girls are considered undesirable because their families must pay a considerable dowry at marriage, and since the bride always lives with the groom’s family, a valuable helper is also lost.