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Chapter Two

A flurry of activity overtook their household. Huge colanders of rice and lentils simmered on wood fires in the backyard. Small boxes filled with sweet laddoos, and smeared with turmeric and red kum-kum to mark the auspicious nature of the occasion, were sent to neighbours. Marquees were set up, palm leaf mats spread on the ground, and the guests were served food on washed banana leaves.

Mohan and Prasad were packed off to a neighbour’s house. Chuyia slept with Bhagya.

The day before the wedding, women gathered around the sweet tulsi bushes in their yard to sing songs. Chuyia was excited by all the activity centred on her, but some of the more doleful songs about the bride’s sorrow at leaving her parents’ house made her anxious. “I don’t want to leave you and baba,” she cried, clinging to Bhagya’s sari. “I don’t want to leave Mohan bhaiya and Prasad bhaiya or Tun-tun. I will have no one to play with,” she said, weeping bitterly.

This behaviour was not only expected of her, it was considered commendable.

Some of the women, remembering their own weddings, shed copious tears, saying, “Hai, poor little thing. It is never easy to leave your parents’ house. She has no idea of the troubles that lie ahead for her.”

Hearing them, Chuyia howled louder and clung closer to her mother. When this had gone on for some time and the women were suitably impressed, Bhagya took her hysterical and bewildered daughter to one side. Wiping her tears, she said, “Don’t worry. You won’t go to your husband’s house for a long, long time. You can play with your brothers all you want until then.”

“Can I take my brothers with me?” Chuyia asked.

Bhagya smiled. “No, you can’t take them.”

“Can I take Tun-tun?”

Bhagya pretended to mull over the question. “Okay. We will give him to you as part of your dowry,” she said. “We will also give you the cow so that you will have plenty of milk and mishti-doi in your husband’s house.”

THE DAY OF THE WEDDING BEGAN early for the bride with the Haldi Uptan ritual. Chuyia’s aunt rubbed the turmeric paste all over her niece’s firm little body. Chuyia looked down at her body askance. “I don’t want to turn yellow,” she cried, trying to wiggle out of her aunt’s grasp. “My friends will laugh at me. Wash it off!”

“You won’t turn yellow. You’ll turn golden, and your husband will be dazzled by your beauty.”

“I don’t want a husband!” Chuyia said petulantly. “I don’t want to get married.”

“Marriage and death are not in our hands. They are in Bhagwan’s hands,” her aunt said firmly. Then she laughed. “Don’t worry; the uptan has magical properties that will make you love your husband.” She looked at the naked, asexual little creature standing disconsolately in front of her, and her expression softened. “You don’t understand what I’m saying, do you? You will in a few years—when our mouse is ready to go to her husband’s house.” And before Chuyia could speak, she added, “You will understand a lot of things then—so shush now.”

After the beauty treatment, seven married women—relatives and favoured neighbours—in turn squeezed Chuyia’s supple hands in theirs to push tight red-and-green glass marriage bangles onto her wrists. Chuyia bore the ordeal happily and shook her arms to show off the jingling bangles to her envious friends. The seven women represented the seven forms of God, one for each day of the week. Since their village was situated on the Bengal–Bihar border, the rituals represented a mixture of Hindu customs from both provinces.

Chuyia was shown the presents the groom had sent her—jewellery, which included a gold mangal-sutra necklace, and several saris for her to change into on the wedding day. Elaborate makeup was applied to her face, with small white dots over the eyebrows, and her hair was decorated with flowers and stuck with the ornaments she asked for: sun, moon, stars made of tinsel. A gold chain was placed along the part in her hair and another around her neck.

The wedding took place in the village temple. Preparations were underway to feed the guests, and the entire village would receive a helping of sweet rice and milk kheer served in shallow earthenware dishes. Since the presence of menstruating women would defile the wedding and pollute the temple, food would be left for them at their doors.

Children ran around shouting and playing in the large compound, but the main attraction was the temple elephant and its year-old baby. They watched, enchanted, as the pujari fed the wrinkle-hided little elephant bananas. Later on, they would get to ride in the howda already strapped on to the big elephant’s back.

As the bride, borne in a palanquin, and the groom in elaborate head-gear (both preceded by ragged village bands) made their separate way to the wedding hall, the women from villages in Bengal ululated to draw attention to the wedding ceremony itself; a conch was blown to complement the “oolu-oolu,” in keeping with the tradition.

An admiring murmur rose among the onlookers, and Bhagya turned her head to gaze upon her son-in-law as he entered the temple. Hira Lal carried his forty-four years lightly, and he appeared to support the decorated cake-like headgear—rising almost a foot above his head—with ease. He looked at least a decade younger than Somnath. “Not bad-looking,” Somnath had said. With the deep cleft in his chin and the glow of health suffusing his features, yes, Hira Lal was not bad-looking.

Only Brahmins were allowed inside the temple. Since the temple hall had no walls—just the tall pillars that supported the roof—everyone could see the wedding ceremony as it took place. The guests nodded their heads and made approving sounds as Somnath presented Hira Lal with a gold ring, a new dhoti and a handsome new umbrella. It was a ritual they were familiar with and enjoyed.

Bhagya thought of her sons and wondered, would she be able to give them the quantity of milk and fat and fish that had nourished Hira Lal’s trim body? And even as she mutely appealed to Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth, to bless her household, her misgivings concerning her daughter’s betrothed quieted. The goddess had favoured her, but she had been too thick-headed to recognize it; it was plain to see that the connection with Hira Lal’s family would benefit her household.

Chuyia was made to sit in front of Agni, the sacred fire. The sari, pulled over her face, narrowed her vision like blinders.

Bhagya could barely recognize her daughter; seated next to the groom, she looked like a diminutive doll. Hira Lal sat cross-legged within the graceful folds of his white dhoti, the sacred thread prominent across his bare chest. A corner of Chuyia’s sari was tied to a long stole wrapped around Hira Lal’s neck and shoulders, and they were made to stand. With Agni, the Holy Fire as witness, the groom and his bride walked seven times around a pattern on the floor. Bhagya hid her smile in her sari; Hira Lal appeared linked to the ambulatory little bundle in red silk as to a pet. The purohit reverentially fed Agni with rarified butter and frankincense and, chanting mantras to invoke the blessings of the gods, solemnized the marriage.

Hira Lal’s eldest sister brought the traditional Sindoor Daan on a tray. The groom applied the red sindoor to the parting in the bride’s hair and to her forehead. As a Hindu woman, the bride would wear this symbol from the time of the Sindoor Daan until her death. Of all the ceremonial gifts, the kanya daan, or bride-gift, is considered to be the holiest. Just as the giver can no longer lay claim to an object that has once been donated, the parents of a traditional Hindu bride have no rights over their daughter once she has been gifted to the bridegroom. The groom then offered his bride a new sari with which to cover her head, and with this act the couple was considered officially married.