I
love a destination wedding.
I toasted friends in a Mid-century
house in Palm Springs, and joined
a party in a vineyard in Orange,
and yet another against the picturesque
backdrop of an old French hotel in
Vientiane. But I regret missing one in
Delhi which, judging by the photos,
featured massive buffets, all-night parties
and a groom on horseback. Always say
yes to a wedding that lasts three days.
I eventually made it to an Indian
wedding two years ago. There I was in
the Hyatt Regency Chennai, dressed
in a Rajasthani silk kurta and sick with
nerves. It wasn’t jet lag or culture shock.
I was the groom.
Our three-day wedding would begin
with a mehndi party where the women
would be painted with henna. Next day
was the formal engagement ceremony,
the nichayathartham, followed by a dawnceremony where we would walk around
a fire and make promises to each other
as prescribed by Hindu tradition. Finally,
we’d host a reception dinner back at the
hotel to thank our guests. I was vague on
the detail. “They don’t rehearse wedding
ceremonies in India,” my betrothed
assured me.
So we’re gathered in the hotel’s
function room, our guests dressed in
kurtas and saris and chatting furiously
while a team of artists begin painting
intricate patterns on the arms of the
women. I’m sweating in my kurta,
but I begin to relax.
Then the DJ announces it’s time for
some dancing. Everyone will gather in
a circle around the groom, he tells the
crowd, and watch him perform his
Bollywood dance moves.
Surely he jests. But, no, he’s quite
serious and everyone forms a circlearound us like it’s part of a script I’ve
never seen.
I panic. I’m a hopeless dancer–Ican
barely manage a swaying shuffle let alone
the exuberant choreography seen in
Indian movies. How will I perform in
front of my future in-laws? What if they
decide I’m unfit for their daughter – or
just plain unfit?
But our guests are waiting, smiling
but a little impatient. The bhangra beat
of Panjabi MC’s “Mundian To Bach Ke”
fills the room. It’s showtime.
I remember watching an Indian
comedian doing a routine about
Bollywood dance steps, and some of
her jokes come back to me: screwing a
lightbulb, patting a dog, picking fruit.
Our guests are polite and encouraging
as I screw the lightbulb, pat the dog and
pick the fruit, but after a minute I’ve run
out of moves. Desperate, I waggle my
arms like a broken wave machine. The
mood in the room chills. I’m losing them.
And that’s when my bride takes pity
on me. Raised on Bollywood movies, she
has an exhaustive repertoire. I copy her,
the guests copy us, and within a few
minutes the circle has dissolved into
frenzied dancing. By the end of the day
we’ve changed more lightbulbs than they
have in the entire hotel.
The religious ceremonies that follow
are conducted at a beautiful Kerala-style
courtyard house, festooned with
marigolds. My family and I arrive on a
bullock cart, which, for spectacle’s sake,
certainly beats an Uber.
The following day, after a few hours
of ceremonies, I walk out. With a parasol
and the Hindu scriptures and hard sandals
to represent my disdain for worldly
comforts, I stride off to abandon the
marriage and become a hermit.
But then, as is the tradition, my
father-in-law meets me at the gate,
“convinces” me otherwise, and presents
me with a gift of coconuts. So I turn
around and marry his daughter after all.
Next time I’m invited to a wedding
in India, I’m definitely going. And I’ll
warn the groom about the dancing.●
Dominic Knight is a co-founder ofThe
Chaser. His latest book isStrayapedia
(Allen & Unwin, $29.99). ILLUSTRATION LIZ ROWLAND/ILLUSTRATION ROOMNot strictly ballroom
UNPACKINGForget the India travel guide –DOMINIC KNIGHTinds
he should have packed his best Bollywood moves.
170 GOURMET TRAVELLER
Travel memoir