Getting Married: Haldi, Fire Hazards, and Family Chaos (1)

Right, it’s done. I’m officially a married man. I have a wife.

On February 5th, exactly eleven months after taking the same flight to Delhi to get engaged, I flew over again to join my family in preparation for the wedding. We rented out a house where anyone from the family was welcome to stay. The ones who opted to join me were two of my cousin sisters, both of my mum’s sisters, and my dad’s sister and her husband. Including my parents and me — and later on my brother — that made nine people in total, with plenty of room to spare. Other family members stayed in hotels because they knew that if their kids made a mess at home, my mum would go mental… on top of already going mental. Unfortunately, some of the cousins who stayed in hotels would’ve made my time a little more fun. But they have responsibilities now — responsibilities I was warned about many, many… many times.

Over the course of the first week, I spent most of my time trying to keep myself safe and healthy. The only times I went outside were to visit my fiancée for dance practice. We spent two days practising a dance with a whole story act to a song — something I eventually admitted I just couldn’t do. She was upset with me, but I told her it was better we didn’t do something I’d forget halfway through and end up going viral for all the wrong reasons. Instead, we spent a day practising our slow dance for the reception, which I recorded and watched repeatedly over the following week so I wouldn’t forget it.
My issues, however, were very different from my parents’, who were running around everywhere preparing for all the other events before the big day. First was my Haldi — I got all dressed up at home, guests arrived, and they applied turmeric paste to my face and hands. The turmeric is meant to purify and bless the bride and groom before the wedding, and supposedly give you a nice glow… although mostly it just leaves you looking like you lost a fight with a highlighter. Then came my Sagan, where the bride’s family visits the groom to present gifts and sweets and, in Sikh traditions, symbols of faith such as a kirpan or a kada. This took place at the Gurdwara. Later that evening, I met my — now — wife at the banquet hall for our cocktail party.

Those few days were full of chaos.
At one point, one of my cousin sisters and I decided to boil eggs for breakfast — mainly to give the chole bhature a break for one morning. She took one of the gas knobs that wasn’t attached to the stove, fitted it in, and turned on the gas. One thing led to another — I still don’t know how — but somehow she started a fire. A giant flame shot out, and she started screaming, “Abi, stop it!”
I panicked. I’m getting married. I can’t die, I thought. So naturally, I went running around screaming, “Mummy! There’s a fire!” like a terrified five-year-old. Actually, I didn’t even run — I sort of wobbled.
My mum came running in, shouting and confused. Mostly panicking, she didn’t know how to stop it either. But instinct kicked in, and she reached for the main gas supply and shut it off. Now, keeping in mind that my cousin sister is in her 50s, has three kids, and a full-time job, we both still got an absolute earful from my mum — which ended with, “You both could have died!”
From behind us, my aunt quietly added, “I was here too.”
That didn’t help. She had apparently just been standing there the whole time, witnessing the near-disaster. My mum then told her off as well for not doing anything. It was one of those moments that’s only funny because no one actually died.

Every time I saw my wife dressed up in one of her beautiful outfits, it was stomach-butterfly inducing. I’d just stand there thinking, Damn… this woman is going to be stuck with me for the rest of her life. I’m so lucky. Her smile would make me go completely numb — goosebumps and everything. And whenever she caught me staring with my eyes wide open in awe of her, she’d just smile back, which somehow made it even worse. My own mother had been dreaming about my wedding for years, and when the time finally came she spent days planning what I would wear. So much so that the compliments I received for my outfits at the Haldi and my wife’s Choora ceremony were pretty significant. Everyone loved what I wore, and my mum taking credit — and pride — in it was very evident from her smile. And mine. Everything was going well. But then came the day of actually getting married.