Over spring break, my cousin got married. It was terrifying, really, because I’m at the point in my life where people come up to me at the wedding and go, “You’re next,” in their singsong old-people voices and smirk at me while I shove food into my face so I don’t have to respond.
Needless to say, none of these outfits involved any kind of sweatpants, so I was not able to achieve my goal of wearing nothing but sweatpants for all of spring break.
On the first day, we wake up early to go to the prayer meeting. My younger cousins and I sit in a row watching while the priest guy chants things in a language only our grandmother understands and then proceeds to throw symbolic things into a fire.
Then we get called up to the front to throw some kind of brown powder into the bowl but not in the fire. Of course, this is me we’re talking about, so where does it actually go? Smack in the middle of the fire. So guys, if you have bad luck during your marriage, learn your lesson. Never make me throw things within five feet of a fire.
That night was the sangeet, which is basically the excuse old Indian people use to party hard before the wedding day. Let’s just say I ended up sitting in a corner with my 87-year-old grandmother while we frowned at the antics of all of her children.
On separate occasions, people tried to drag the both of us out to the dance floor, and I used my falling-off-horse injury to dramatically hold my knee and say no while the Bollywood music thumped around me.
Somehow, the next morning, all these people made it out to the wedding. Before it started, my aunt came up to us and told us about this Indian tradition where if someone on the bride’s side (which we were) grabs the groom’s shoes, then we get to ask him for anything we want.
My broke college bank account said go for it, and so I did. Little groups of us formed, and I enlisted some of the bride’s sister’s friends to commit the great heist. The plan was set. We just had to wait for the groom.
So traditionally, the groom enters in a thing called a baaraat, which is him on a horse surrounded by a dancing throng of his family and friends, while the bride’s family waits to greet him at the entrance. Let’s not get me started on why the groom’s side gets to have all the fun.
It was just slightly impractical for them to get a horse, a fact for which I was thankful since I naturally now think all horses are the enemy (read: since I was thrown off a horse). Instead, the groom arrived on a motorcycle, and the bride’s family, rightfully salty that they didn’t get to dance, started dancing while waiting for him.
The two families met, and then we went into the wedding hall; All the while, my eyes were glued to the shoes. I had my eye on those hundred bucks I was going to ask for.
We tried jumping him while he was walking towards the mandap, which is the stage on which the actual wedding happens. His family was protecting the shoes so well, though, that we failed quite miserably.
By the time the actual wedding started, I was already quite crabby because I thought I’d lost my chance at $100. So throughout the ceremony, I had an endless snark-stream going through my head.
At some point, the priest guy’s making them repeat their vows after him, and to the bride he goes, “Promise you will always make him happy.” She says yes. Then to the groom he says, “Promise you will always try to make her happy. Because it’s the woman’s job to make the man happy; The man can only try.”
My head may have exploded a little bit, after which I dramatically self-promised that I would never have a traditional Indian wedding, so ha ha to all the “You’re next” people.
Right as the bride and groom were about to start taking wedding photos, we tripped the groom up and grabbed his shoes. I didn’t get $100, but I did get $20, which I will use to fuel my caffeine addiction.
Soon it was time for the last event of the wedding, the reception — where you mingle. Mingling involves being introduced to people I don’t know who go, “Oh wow you’ve grown.” Actually, random person, that is not true. I have not grown since the eighth grade, a fact I am quite resentful of.
Here’s one I hadn’t heard before, “So you’re studying medicine, I hope,” to which I grinned like a maniac, went “NOPE,” only to walk away in the direction of the food.
The food. There was a dessert room, which was a room with multiple dessert bars. I’m going to say nothing more. That, that made it all worth it.
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