The Big Fat Indian Wedding

I have had two weeks of unadulterated fun. The turn of events which surprisingly led to this, is what this post is about.
Since my exams got over, and there was a wedding in the family, I have been caught up in the mania they call the great Indian wedding. Before I go on, let me reveal that my family is probably the most boring family on earth, when it comes to weddings. To put it in a nutshell, we don’t believe in going over the top, or celebrating like there is no tomorrow, both of which, as I see it, are essential ingredients for any hungama. They are, what my brother, would call ‘hygiene factors’ in his management lingo. Things which have to be there if you want a proper Indian shaadi. We, as a family, are not into this Punjabi style of celebration; we celebrate but in moderation.
I think the idea that excess if crass, got into our family, through years of living in Bengal. I have heard stories, of how an uncle of my mother’s nana flew kites, which had banknotes attached to it, to celebrate his nephew’s birth. He raised a din over it, quite literally when he organized a walking music band to tour the entire city. For everyday celebrations, he played host to theatre companies, staging shows at his own cost, in his own house, for his coterie of friends. Even in those days, such extravagance was looked upon as superfluous. Later, through my nana’s marriage into the family, the interaction with a family of hufaaz[1] took its toll and the family began to pay more attention to the Islamic tenet of moderation. I think, at this point, decades of living in Calcutta also helped; we imbibed Bengali values, and ended up rejecting excess, and embracing moderation. Rooftops of our numerous houses in Calcutta didn’t play hosts to patang-baazis any more, they looked like gentler and maybe even austere shadows of their former selves. This did not mean that we didn’t celebrate, but there was none of the extravagance of old. My aunts and uncles got married in this style and were content with it. The youngest of them however, has , for the good of the next generation of the family, turned out to be an aberrant. It has him, who got married last week. It was a extravagant week long celebration, starting with the haldi, and ending with the walima, the grand finale. Everyone enjoyed themselves to the hilt; me and my cousins more so. It was though no where near Punjabi weddings, and neither crass, nor in poor taste , as opulent celebrations like those, sometimes turn out to be. The difference between the two can be grasped, if you compare the Bachchan wedding to the Chatwal or the Mittal. While the Bachchans celebrated in style , but with good taste, the Chatwals hosted a month long celebration, playing host to drunk firangis. As much as I have come to cringe at dad Bachchan’s popping-out-of-a-hat act in each and every film, and tear my hair at beta Bachchan’s political correctness, I must admit they did get this wedding right. It suited their stature, and looked like simple, good fun; just the right mix for a wedding. It’s another story, that the money Bachchan saved at the wedding, was poured onto the deity’s feet at Tirupati, and sealed up in the temple’s coffers; it could have, perhaps, been put to more immediate and effective use, for the good of mankind.
[1] Plural of hafiz, a person who has learnt the Quran by heart.