Indian Wedding: The Awkward Edition

November 2, 2009 — Canada, Family, Funny, Humor, India, Indian Wedding, Life, Love, Marriage, Romi Moondi, Sarcasm

Four months ago, on a perfect sunny day, my sister had a big fat Indian wedding.

(you knew I’d write this post eventually, right?)

Like most weddings, the day began at 4am (at least for my sister it did. I “slept in” for another hour). By five o’ clock she was already being transformed from whatever she is on a regular day (bleh), to a Bollywood bridal princess.  After I brushed my teeth, I snuck inside her room to check out the work-in-progress. The hair had been put into a lovely up-do, but the make-up was still underway. In other words the eyeshadow was finished, but the furry fake lashes had yet to be glued on (sorry, but you CANNOT get married “Indian style” without fake lashes, it’s a disgrace to our culture if you don’t).

I smiled in approval since it WAS her special day after all, but my mother who was standing in the room as well, was a little bit more on the bolder side.

“Why are you putting so much eye makeup on? You’re making her eyes look pointy and long.”

Poor stylist, poor sister.

I didn’t have time to enjoy the motherly insults, because I had to get ready too. I originally thought I’d be getting professional hair and make-up for the morning ceremony, but I quickly realized my sister wanted me to look uglier than her, so it would have to be a self-service job.

My first choice of hairstyles would always involve kick-ass curls, but for Sikh wedding ceremonies, you had to cover your head and tie your hair back.

So ponytail it is!

I still looked pretty good with my sea foam-coloured eyeshadow and matching sea foam outfit (sounds ugly but it wasn’t I swear), so by 7am I went downstairs to help out. This involved putting fresh rose boutonnieres on all the men, who apparently can’t pin a simple flower to their jackets. I didn’t like this job, mostly because we Indians aren’t very “touchy feely” people (except for awkward hugs with distant relatives). So to go through man after man, whether uncles, cousins or brothers, and stand mere inches away while I pinned on the flowers?

Eww.

Once that was done my sister came down and the photographer hi-jacked her. For like over an hour. Yawn.

So I caught up on some TV (not that I didn’t have TONS to do later…just wait until I get to the reception).

By the time the photographer released her, it was time for the videographer to have his fun. He envisioned this heartwarming story, where every one of us, including my brothers, would smile and hug my sister. After which he’d put on a lovely soundtrack. I found this to be the most amusing part of the day. Thing is, any display of affection between my siblings and I is like kryptonite. Sure a hug is not a glowing green rock, but it will cripple us and make us beg for mercy just the same.

For MY “video hug”, I pulled her in from the shoulders and supplied my best glowing fake-ass smile (what? I want to be Hollywood some day, this is my test-screening). For my brothers, they tried to get away with a one-handed shoulder pat plus a nod of acknowledgement. But our director wasn’t having it. So my parents and I waited through take after take, until they finally acted out some semblance of a hug.

We ain’t no Brady Bunch.

Once that was finished, people started filling our house, and we went through a TON of family photos. The only awkward part was when the not-so close relatives wanted the photographer to do special shots just for them and the bride.  This happens all the time, and you can say you’re running late, but they persist and persist. So the photographer finally gave in, but whatever…AS IF we ever sent them the pictures…

At last (and already a half an hour behind for the ceremony—or right on time according to Indian punctuality) we made our way out of the house. And into the SUV limo!

This was another awkward moment. Only fifteen people would fit into the limo, with the original assignment being our six family members, our gran, two aunts and uncles and some cousins.

But then some “Indian moms” had a melt down. The funny thing was, they were my MOM’s friends, not my sister’s. But these forty to fifty something women were intent on being front and centre.

Which means the limo ride quickly became: bride, mom, me, cousins, aunts…and miscallenous Indian women who think they’re the shit.

I’d never been inside a limo before (please refer to Appendix: “girl who was dateless for the prom”), but within a moment, I felt like a ballin’ rap star.  All I could think was “Where  are my ‘ho’s, where’s the Cristal, and where is my bling?!”

We had the bling alright, but as for ‘ho’s and alcohol, did I mention the limo was full of middle-aged Indian women? Right.

That’s all for now, as the wedding day purge will continue in my follow-up post (’cause no one can stomach more than 800 words of Romi in a single shot…too bad I wrote an 84,000-word novel).