I have those periodic dissociations from the world—I detach, I detox, and then I come back, to find that the world has moved on, without waiting for me to catch up. RAM chips are smaller than I remember, garlic more expensive, and pants have gone through several length evolutions. But the big one has been weddings. Weddings are no longer a tricky contract between quasi willing parties, unaware of open liabilities, financial risks, and disclaimers hidden in fine print, they are now staged on a scale that is showbiz-y, obscenely grandiose, aimed to amuse, awe and upstage.
I remember the first desi wedding I ever attended. An uncle in the clanship was marrying a woman that his immediate family didn't approve of. She was quite cute, not unlike a Bollywood actress popular at that time (Roja), but there were some issues. If I am not mistaken, they didn't approve of the fact that she was a nurse (that was also my first experience of the subcontinental mindset called the professional profiling). Chachu’s family gave him days of drama and refused to attend his wedding. Chachu did what a man did in those days: he shed tears, attempted suicide and reached out to matriarchs that held muscle power and begged them to intervene. A lot of discussions and peace talks were held in living rooms spanning homes from the old town to the new. Weeks later, his family agreed but remained grumpy. Reluctantly, the wedding started. Dates were fixed, meetings with the bride’s family arranged. Everyone was scrutinized, from the uncles of the nieces to the family butcher, as were family recipes and the tips left for servants by the visiting family. Free market assessment, with no filter whatsoever! But Chachu stood by, adamant and strong. To be more accurate, he voiced his decision from behind the petticoat-wearing females of the family, but whatever!
Then the mood shifted; an aunt attempted to bring gaiety, so she brought dozens of handloom cotton saris whose colors were like the citrus fruits. And just like that, there was a pre-wedding haldi, where they basted the groom in turmeric paste to brighten and whiten him. Someone draped lights around the house, played some Bollywood songs, and called it a biye bari (the wedding house). Being old Dhaka, someone brought industrial grade glitter and played holi (the Hindu festival of smearing each other with colors) with it. It went up my nostrils and scratched my eyeball and alveoli. I cried. The more I cried, the more the family’s grandfather got amused and continued his assault. The grandmother superior, sitting on her hierarchical seat of honor, also laughed at my reaction.
After the turmeric smearing and glitter war, it was the wedding day. For a wedding that hadn’t even looked probable, it attracted a mile-long guest list. It was my first time in a sari, with a bun and scraggly gladioli strands (with stems attached). No orchids back then, only local flowers. I still remember the caterpillar that crawled out of my mom’s flowers, onto her shoulder. A green skinny thing, on her regal, bedecked shoulders.
There was not much to write home about, no decor, and the chairs were wooden and covered in what appeared to be white pillow cases. The bride didn’t look like she had orchestrated anything, no bouquets, no bridesmaid. Nobody made an entry. They just arrived, and sat. My newly minted aunt started bawling when it was time to say goodbye to her family. Maybe she had changed her mind. But nothing doing, the same people that had opposed her joining into the family went through an instantaneous mind-shift. They were determined to bring her home with them, whether she liked it or not, “teri choti ko pakad, tujhe launga main ghar, chahe chale chhuriyan” (I am dragging you home by your hair, even if there is blood shed). Back then, Bollywood songs were wrong on so many levels, it was not even funny! Non-consent, aggression, marital inequality in one beat, and no one even raised an eyebrow.
For his walima, I went to a Dhaka parlor for the first time. Without asking, the hairdressers back-combed my hair, did some French knot thing, and doused it with so much hair spray I felt a two-meter radius around my head was a fire hazard. I spent the evening maintaining distance from my Shibboo Abbu (my youngest uncle), who was a chain smoker. I wore a lehenga (long ornate skirt) for the first time. My cousins wore the same. They looked sensational, I felt like a kangaroo. They tried to remedy it with lipstick in the back of someone's van. I felt even more self-conscious, like a kangaroo wearing red lipstick. But along we went and gorged on wedding food (the best). It didn’t stop there; the new bride was welcomed in many ways. She acclimatized and accommodated, she even allowed girls in the family to put makeup on her, which they did with relish. Nobody seemed to care about the foundations that didn’t match her skin tone, contouring was not a thing, more was more. Less is more had not been invented yet. It was an uninhibited, loud, crazy affair. And it was fun. It was a wedding of firsts.
A few years later, a friend got married. His parents were religious and they opposed the newly emerging dating scene, so they made him marry the girl. They were both 16! A neighbor got married, another friend got married; more uncles and aunts got married. Bad make-ups, jewelry bought at Amin or Apon. The food was good, the music DJ not so much, but so loud that people had to scream to be heard. Throughout the years, there were a series of similar weddings, same menus, different venues, the same attendants, different agency uniforms, demanding tips for a hand wash with the same greasy Lux bar.
Then I left the country and marriages went from involved, emotional simple affairs to cinematic productions. Abstract decors, trained and tailed lehengas, cascading chandeliers, dramatized eyes, and the mandatory hopping of the groom on the dance floor to very bizarrely chosen music. At first, I couldn't figure out why someone had Victoria’s secret wings on her wedding dress, or why Bangali brides were wearing kalire (the dangly things on Punjabi bangles), or why and when did Bangladesh adopt Jaipuri jewelry? I am all for cultural adaptation and integration, but this is not cultural integration, it is cultural massacre and identity theft! Because I hadn’t witnessed a gradual progression, I found roka (I think it means calling the dibs) and sangeet (sing song) on Bangladeshi wedding agendas quite alien. I mean if I went to a Punjabi wedding that said bou bhat on the invite, without either of the couple being Bangali, I would tap them on the shoulder and say, “Excuse me, typo!” Likewise, it would be funny to find horses or elephants in an Alaskan wedding. But at this point, I would not be surprised if a Bangali groom pulled up in a husky-led sled, unless of course the Mrs was Alaskan! In that case, it would be a marriage of cultures, of palkies and huskies worth a million Instagram pictures. It would have to be ensured that the huskies didn't get trampled under bhangra dancers, or died of temperature shocks!
Fuse your music, definitely fuse your food, but some things just don’t fuse! I miss simpler times, and simpler weddings, and definitely miss the old scene of post-wedding dawats at Dhaka’s “Chinese” restaurants, where halud-morich versions of Pekingese, Mandarin or Cantonese were served! That was fusion, attempted, failed, achieved, ridiculed, but it was not upstaging!
Kausar Shahab occasionally contributes nonfiction pieces to Arts & Letters.