Do Hers Look Bigger Than MINE?

In last week’s installment I discussed the unpleasant work of decorating madness, or in other words the intricate task that is much better suited to children and tiny fingers.

Well before I even had a chance to repair my back and callused hands, it was time for a party that you’d almost confuse as my sister’s wedding for its size, catering, and giant white tent.

The purpose of this pre-fesitivity was multiple in nature. A “mayian” or pre-wedding tradition in laymen’s terms, with a batna ceremony for the cleansing of the bride’s soul, and a jaggo fest (which quickly translates into dancing and chanting straight into the night).

I could carry on about the details of these Indian traditions, but that’s what Wikipedia’s for (I even made you a link up there that explains it all!). What I’M here for is the details, the tiny little moments that you never really get from the “How to be an Indian” professional handbook.

First things first, when your aunt and cousins are staying at your house, and when an Indian party is on the brink, you HAVE TO bust out the fancy embroidered textiles. While they’re flashy and full of colour combos you could never pull off in the white man’s world, these clothes are enjoyed and revered across the culture .

And like any fancy clothes, they require special prep:

-ironing.

Anyone who knows me like a “BFF” (hey girls!),  knows that I would rather clean a toilet than iron a shirt. But what about ironing fancy layers of fabric, with jewel-encrusted designs at every few inches, making it nearly impossible to navigate through the vast expanse of fabric?

The heat, the sweat, the steam, the frustration, it was just enough to drive me to murder, making it all the more lucky that the ironing board was stationed in a dead-end corner of the house.

This never ending ironing was made worse by the fact that my aunt, mother and cousin all needed their clothing ironed. Plus me, plus my sister.

But when  did I become an ironing whore?

First the decorating slavery, now the ironing, I was beginning to feel like Cinderella without the happy ending. Although I couldn’t really complain, since it’s not like they were beating me (and I KNOW that Cinderella got the beats, even if it wasn’t in the Disney version).

Looking like a sweaty hag by the time I was finished, it was already 4pm, and the guests were scheduled to arrive in an hour.  This left me just enough time to change, make my eyes look awesome (with multiple shades of ”ho shadow), and curl my hair for the visual delight of all.

A third of the way through the curls (with only fifteen minutes to go), I heard a light tap on the door. It was my aunt.

“Can you please help your cousin with her hair and makeup? I have to go and work in the kitchen!”

When I opened the door my aunt was already walking away, with my cousin now deposited in her place. I grudgingly let her in, confused at how a teenage girl couldn’t even handle her own hair and make-up. Wasn’t she supposed to be obsessed with this stuff?

I quickly remembered that the girl was a part of  MY family. My own teenage years had been absent of disposable income much like hers, leaving zero opportunity for stocking up on eyeshadow or buying hair appliances.

So in a heartwarming act of charity, I decided to help her out.

Fifteen minutes later her eyelids were adorned with sparkly blue shades. Her hair however had been harder to curl, since the hair of the young is a little too soft and healthy for the grasp of the iron. Aww, poor you and your silky mane!

Even so I managed to give her some bouncy ends, so she left to go put on all her jewelry.

Seconds later the doorbell rang. I teased whatever curls I had and pinned it wherever I could.

The quick ‘n dirty look.

With the guests now in place I made my way outside with sister and mother, we who were starring in tonight’s festivities.  I didn’t make it far into the yard, when I was blinded by a glint of light.

It was my cousin and her chandelier earrings.

Which were three times the size of mine.

Bitch!

It may not seem like a big deal to do you, but in Indian party-land, earring size is equivalent to men and being naked in the locker room.

Sucks to be the little guy!

And to think that I’d been helping my socially retarded  cousin with a charity makeover…only to be trumped by her “danglers”.

I survived the rest of the party by gorging myself with appetizers the size of a dinner, and a dinner the size of three dinners.

It was fabulous, but still I had to squeeze into the wedding day attire, which despite CLEAR measurements, had been tailored to the specs of me minus ten percent.

Bring on the laxatives!

Big Sis’s Indian Wedding: Decorate ‘Till You Drop

As I take a big stretch and ease back into the blog, my next several posts will be zeroing in on the seven-day period preceding, including, and following my sister’s big fat Indian wedding. I call it “family fun for all”, and besides, pouring out some memories is the perfect cure for my writer’s block relating to the novel.

And off we go…

***

…Eight days before the wedding, I waved my goodbye to the office. Despite the joy of a week-long vacation, I was worried about all the wedding “suck in”: would my sister become bridezilla? How many tasks would await me? How many distant relatives would I have to entertain or even acknowledge?

For that very first weekend, it was easy as pie. No wedding jobs, no sign of a single relative, and I even had time for the gym.  The gym being a crucial element to my fit-into-the-saree plan…

Then Monday came along, a time during which the instructions for “operation: decorate” landed at my feet.

Tulle? What in the hell is tulle? I’d never of it before, but my sister had rolls and rolls of it ordered from the Internet. This lacy material was meant to be hung wherever possible.

Well that doesn’t sound so hard.

Not at all, but throw in a pile of fake flowers that you twist-tie together, fake rose petals, multiple strings of indoor lights, and we have ourselves a party!

As I sat there in the basement knee-deep in decorations, my brain began to dig in with some questions:

-What is up with all these intricate, nicely-matched and hard-to-assemble decorations? Doesn’t this seem a bit too “classy” for an Indian wedding?

Maybe classy is the wrong word, and perhaps I’m being offensive to “my kind” (call the cops!), but anyone who knows their Indian will know what I’m talking about. It’s just the way that Indian culture is totally “in yo’ face”. Screaming colours, flashy sheen. In other words toss a bunch of stuff in the air, and if it looks really shiny with a rainbow of colours, you’re pretty much done. Kind of like our flashy Indian outfits, and also like our fifteen-item buffets.

But that’s not how it would be for madame bride. She grew up in Canada, so in addition to immersing herself in all the great things about an Indian wedding, she wanted the fairytale too. The magical-looking decorations, the four-tier cake made of chocolate and vanilla (without a trace of Indian flavour), and for the reception…the beautiful, sparkly, Disney-princess tiara.

I don’t judge her for any of this, and if I ever get married myself, I’d love to mix in the cultures too.

But the real question is, can’t we just hire some illegal foreigners to do all the work?

Well we could, buy why get cheap labour, when there’s free labour?

And that, of course, was me.

How did I do?

Well, by the third hour of sweatshop for dummies, I was taking special pills for my back.  By hour number six my fingertips were numb from twist-tying piles of flowers.

And then, after one whole day of work that had me begging for mercy (and the sort of work that a six-year old  in Malaysia could do in forty minutes), I was finally done.

But suddenly I remembered…the box.

This unassuming box, no larger than a briefcase, included all the parts that I would need to build an outdoor archway. A ten-foot tall, four-foot wide frickin’ archway.

It seemed impossible, but somehow, through sweat, tears (yes I cry when things aren’t easy), and starting over three times, I put the hundreds of pieces together. AND I even decorated the goddamn thing.

As I piled up all of the leftover mess from the job, I could see my sister approaching so I started beaming.

She simply stared at it. I beamed some more and said “I did it! I built it out of this tiny box!”

And her reply?

“Maybe you should add more flowers.”

Right, and maybe your husband-to-be will smarten up and call the whole thing off, PSYCHO!

I would never say a thing like that.

So that’s one angle. I’ve got about twenty more, so join me in a week…we’ll talk.

Oh, and I joined this Twitter thingy yesterday. You guys ever heard of it? Follow along if you dare: Romi on Twitter

Way Too Much Naan, But I’m Back…

A funny thing happened this Summer.

My sister’s wedding came and went in its grandiose, over-the-top Indian fashion, but then there was a series of ripple effects.

These came in the form of subsequent invites to other weddings, engagement parties, and just plain Indian parties. It was endless.

Yet another Indian wedding reception awaits me this Saturday. Do I know anyone at this wedding?

No.

Could I pick out the bride and groom in a lineup?

No.

Do I even have the slightest idea what the bride and groom’s names are?

Absolutely not.

And so, today I put my foot down. I explained to father dearest that if I have to put on one more saree this summer, if I have to line my stomach with one more piece of naan, or drench my intestines with one more tablespoon of butter chicken…heads…will…roll.

I can’t take it anymore. Just give me a fucking hot dog and a stroll along the breezy harbour front…this is Canada for goodness sake!

Of course, I say this with affection. Pretty soon I’ll be back to my usual love for the Indo-Canadian life.

I simply need some official de-tox. De-tox that I couldn’t find in the last four weeks that followed my sister’s wedding.

So that explains why it took me all this time to return.

Well, almost.

My other explanation is that damn “Year of the Chick” novel-in-progress. It’s August 9th, and it occurs to me that writing a novel is a hell of a lot of work. Like who has time to work a full-time job and write eighty thousand words? Seriously. But it’ll all be worth it in the end, right? Even if I don’t make millions off my “fictional” story?

Well no, it won’t be worth it at all.

I kid, I kid, it’s all about artistic expression, not the money! Blah-blah, so on and so forth. You know, I still  ask myself sometimes: “Self, what happens if you publish this explosive tale of shunning the arranged marriage concept (and falling for a sexy white cyber-dude), and it doesn’t even sell? Will the alienation of your entire family and Indian friends be worth it?”

Huh, what a question. I’ll let you know when I have an answer. In the meantime, I’ll keep my eye focused on finishing the tale, and convincing myself that it’s entirely fictitious.

But that’s not all, I’m also coming back to the blog! (that’s important to you, right? Essential to your happiness? Okay then, good.)

The truth is I need to come back, because between all the slave work of forcing myself to write seven thousand words a week for the rest of August (and then the psycho editing), I need another outlet. A few hundred words once a week just for fun…doesn’t that sound nice?

So I’ll be back for Sunday visits, because come on, my sister’s giant wedding and the weeks of my life it stole, has to be worth a few posts…at least.

And finally, for those who are still around, thanks for stayin’.

I’ll be back,

Blogger Disappearing Act…

So here I am. Been blogging since July 2007, and for the first time ever…it’s time to step away.

Not step away for “good”, but for a while.

This inevitable decision was caused by the following things:

-Seven weeks remain until my sister’s wedding, but with family flying in before the big occasion (and three full days of events prior-to), let’s call it six weeks shall we?  This wedding means it’s time to have a lot more sessions at the gym, which means far less discretionary time in the evening.  And the other big thing is that I’m pouring any word count that I DO have left into a novel, the one that is based on my blog from 2008 (Year of the Chick…remember that?).

So it’s time for a bit of a break.  I’ll miss hanging around but I’ll try to come and visit all your blogs when I can.

And what about you? Will you be able to survive my absence?

I’m pretty sure YES, and when I do return sometime in July, it might be the perfect time, to describe what was certainly a big fat Indian wedding.

Until then, have a samosa for me won’t you?

Farewell ’til we meet again,

Voyage to India: Sunsets in Bombay…

As the sun began to set on our five-week vacation to India, it was time for some excitement in Bombay (it was still called “Bombay” in 1995, so that’s what we’re sticking with).

Our cousins lived in Delhi, so we dropped in for a visit on the way to the airport. It was my cousin’s birthday that day, which meant a cake had been arranged, along with a plethora of Indian sweets.

I quickly discovered that the cake was neither moist nor decadent as cakes should be, so I turned my attention to the gulab jamuns. After twenty minutes of behaviour that I cannot recall, I’d supposedly eaten five or six of them. For those of you who don’t know a lot about gulab jamuns, let’s just say: sugary syrup, milk solids, double cream, and they’re fried.

It was a bad idea but I hadn’t eaten lunch.

My bad idea followed me to the driveway as we said goodbye to make our way to the airport.  Seconds later, my bad idea unleashed itself in a three-foot radius covering half of the driveway. It was my greatest performance of projectile vomit to-date.

I vomited again when we arrived at the airport, and once more when I found the nearest bathroom. About a half an hour later we discovered that our flight would be delayed until the following morning.

As the news set in to the weary travelers, we found ourselves a spot on the floor that we could sleep on.

In the next few hours I puked five or six more times.  At last I was sent to the airport “doctor”, who had set up his practice beyond a bunch of darkened corridors, in what looked to be a glorified closet. He didn’t say much, but approached me with a big-ass smile and an even bigger needle.

By the time I returned our flight had moved ahead a couple of hours. It was time to go.

So that flight to Bombay…hmm. It was ninety minutes, and that’s all I really know, since I spent the ninety minutes passed out and drooling on my sister’s shoulder.  I think I still owe her for that one.

With my body weakened and my belly fragile, I took in what I could of the bustling city. Bombay offered the first I’d seen of beaches and ocean waves. Now THIS was a vacation.

For our first afternoon we squeezed our way through a crowded bazaar, realizing very quickly that Bombay was indeed a “tourist” spot. In other words everything was over-priced, times ten. For example, where you’d normally buy any clothes and shoes for a fraction of the price that you’d see in North America, everything here was…equal. The audacity.

For some odd reason I found myself entranced by a shoe store. I couldn’t explain the feeling at the time, but something about the modern look of the store, and its contrast to everything else that felt traditional was intriguing. It also had all the latest “Western” styles of boots and shoes. Could it be that I was feeling homesick?

My parents decided to enter the store and try to find some shoes for my dad. Knowing right away from the product selection and the rude-looking staff that the place was over-priced, I cringed in preparation for my parents to make a scene.

“How much are these shoes?” asked my dad.

“Two thousand rupees”

“Two thousand rupees?!?! I could go back home and buy three pair of shoes at a price like that!” he lied.

Awkward silence, sales staff rolling their eyes. Sigh.

Once we had firmly established our middle-class lot in life, we stuck to the food stalls and stuffed our hungry faces as the sun began to set. Everyone except for ME, that is. I was stuck with a bowl of chicken noodle soup, except there wasn’t any chicken or a single noodle. Just a bowl of hot yellow water, salted to the extreme. Nice try, India.

The following day was much of the same, but in our last evening  in Bombay, we hit the beaches.

Now don’t get confused with your typical concept of hitting the beaches. This means something very different for an Indian family of twelve. For me it meant a bright red t-shirt tucked into my jeans, with sandaled feet so I could get a little wild and feel the sand. So wild.

I had come to this place for an adventure, so when I saw the big white horse and the man with the sign saying  “Forty Rupees”, I wanted in.

Forty rupees later I was striding across the beach atop this beautiful steed. I looked like those chicks on the romance novel covers, minus the shred of silk that was supposed to be a dress (and plus  a red t-shirt and a pair of jeans).  For forty rupees I was allocated two whole laps across the beach. It lasted five minutes and I felt like a girl who’d been finally released of her over-protective life. This feeling only lasted as long as I didn’t look down, since the horse was on a leash with its master on the other end, running along to keep up.

A horse on leash? Yes. But it was Bombay baby, and at last I had my very own Indian adventure…

[This concludes my back-track of my family's trip to India, circa 1995.  I visited India once again in 2006.  I will post about that trip at a later time, since it involved a whole different set of recollections, mostly surrounding: perverts, the Dalai Lama, propositions, gold, a magnificent look at textiles, and being followed by more perverts in an air-conditioned mall. And of course, here's the very first post on the Voyage to India, if you feel like starting from the top...]