Tying the knot

If the season is right, as the train jogs from Marine Lines in Churchgate, you can take a sneak peak into how the other half ties the kno...

If the season is right, as the train jogs from Marine Lines in Churchgate, you can take a sneak peak into how the other half ties the knot. On various club grounds fantastic palaces, constructed of cloth, bamboo and some rich father’s money, trumpet the nuptials of a rich son or daughter. This side of Bombay, the weddings are lavish and loud. Working for a television company, I got involved in the production of one such affair which is best remembered for the news that the jootis that the groom wore were studded with real diamonds. A fact the income tax took note of — he was raided shortly afterward. The party, that the proud groom was throwing, was built around an Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom theme, complete with tigers and elephants. The tigers proved to be no problem, but on the day of the affair the elephant was yet to arrive. A frantic phone call yielded the information that he’d be getting there any minute — he had set off from Andheri four days earlier. It is a long way from the suburbs totown.

In the South side of Bombay all the weddings I’ve attended have been elegant affairs staged in places like the US Club and the Radio Club. At one such wedding we were the friends of the bride since she had spent time in the hostel with us. The entire hostel lent its best to make sure we were turned out in enough style. We were sternly warned to behave ourselves since the father-in-law was big news in the army and there was a touch of Rajasthani royalty thrown into the lineage somewhere. All the jewels in the turbans were real, and behind the long ghoonghats the women drank whisky and smoked sobranics. We were the last word in elegance. You should have heard us chatter gaily and light heartedly to cover the sound of one of the hostelites puking hideously into the bushes after eight straight rums.

Nothing could beat the elan with which we whisked her out and held her on a straight course to the door.

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Parsi weddings proved to be a rude shock. Everything is elegance and grace until dinner is served.Then all the guests suddenly stampede for the dining table in their chiffon and antique lace saris. You eat dinner with the next hopeful standing behind the chair. Ah! But by the third course you can understand the unseemly haste. The food is wonderful.

Across the great divide I’ve attended only one wedding. That was between a young actor and his long-time girlfriend. The reason for the wedding was making itself forcibly felt in the morning, and showing in nightclothes. I was given strict instructions to show myself at the family court in Bandra East at the right time. I got there, but the grumpy clerk at the door insisted that `vahan to divorce hota hai’. In the course of the search I learned where you can get a housing loan, a death certificate, a ration card renewed and a name change. The right place was Room Number 13, under the martial gaze of a very large statue of Shivaji. The corridor was full of the strangest collection of brides and grooms. The grooms ranged from men in nylon shirts and briefcases to one in sehra and sword. The brides ranged from those lurking behind the complete anonymity of a burkha, to those with seven-yard sarees and three kilos of flowers in the hair. The bride defiantly wore white, and the groom kept diving out of the corridor to grab a smoke. They had both been handed a token and told to wait in line. When their names were finally announced, the best man had disappeared to take a leak. The clerk shook his head and announced that the forms could not be amended now and if they didn’t get married immediately, they would have to go to the back of the queue again. After a hurried consultation, another friend offered to impersonate the missing best man and a highly nervous wedding party squeezed into Room No 13.

The tiny room had been divided further by large aluminium cupboards. Each desk was a clerk’s castle and he had taken care to fortify it with battlements built entirely of musty old files. There was just enough room for the wedding party to fit in sideways. The groomand bride were handed cyclostyled slips of papers that held their eternal vows, with blanks to fill in their names. A quick read through, an exchange of garlands, the signing that the fake best man did with a shaking hand — and it was over.

The officiating clerk held out an eager hand and as we handed over the packet of sweets we noticed that his particular castle was constructed of sweet packets. They were stacked under the chair, squeezed under the table, piled high until the only way the clerk could have got out from behind the table was by climbing over them. I quickly calculated just how many weddings a day the clerk solemnised, multiplied by four for the rest of the clerks. And just what happens to all those sweet packets? My advice to all those who live in Bandra East is when you buy sweets, inspect the packets closely for wear and tear.

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We celebrated with home-delivered biryani and beer. Not a jewelled jooti in sight.

Venita Coelho is a television scriptwriter.

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