Religion
How I “arranged” my daughter’s marriage
Published 08 May 2008
In recent weeks, my house has been like an Indian railway station. Droves of people with excessively large suitcases descended on my modest abode to celebrate my daughter's marriage. A joyous occasion, of course, but while hiring castles and marquees is much in vogue for British weddings, that is as nothing, I can assure you, to the new British Asian variant.
I refer to a proper desi wedding. Desi literally means a person from the countryside, which sounds modest, but the usage is satirical or ironic and downright misleading. The term has been adopted by South Asians in Britain and America to confer a collective subcontinental identity with claims on the cultures of India, Pakistan and Bangladesh, on Islam as well as Hinduism. Combining tradition with modernity in a playful, eclectic mix, a desi wedding celebrates all these elements - and, naturally, costs a small fortune.
Desi-ness flourishes among globalised British Asians who move effortlessly between Bombay, Karachi, London and New York. My daughter's friends typify the breed: exceptionally intelligent, highly educated, high-earning professionals, cultured, urbane, elegant and with stunning looks to match. Quite frightening, really!
The desis are into tradition in a big way. So a desi wedding has to be an "arranged marriage", but with a postmodern twist. Desis find their own partners by any means from speed dating to internet sites, after which parents are instructed to "arrange" the marriage. I was handed a list of things to organise, first of which was an "arrangement visit" to her fiancé's parents. This turned into a series of occasions involving parents, grandparents, siblings, significant and insignificant relatives. Neither set of parents knew quite what to do, floundering in the reinvention of traditions before and beyond our time. So, being British, we chatted about the weather, much to our children's embarrassment.
Weddings have three components. First, the mehndi, a Hindu custom where the bride is decorated with henna, to singing and dancing. Next, the nikah, the Islamic marriage, a more solemn affair involving an imam, an embarrassing sermon, an elaborate sit-down dinner and classical entertainment. Finally, the valima, the reception given by the groom's parents.
I was an innocent abroad. My daughter made up tradition as she went along. Only her friends seemed to know what was going on. I was told what to wear, how to stand or sit, even what to say when it became necessary for me to talk.
Each event had a specific theme. At the mehndi, the spectacular routines performed by my daughter's friends eclipsed Bollywood's best. The nikah had a Mughal accent: we all looked like courtiers of the 16th-century Akbar the Great, and a classical singer was flown in to perform ghazals, Urdu love poems. The valima leaned towards the 1980s (when the desi generation was born), pulsating to incredibly loud soul music. I had to dress in sumptuous, colour-co-ordinated traditional garments, as did my wife and two sons. The bride's own three dresses, each with elaborate ornamental work, were made by her friends in Bombay and Karachi.
Tradition in this soft guise, I rationalised not withstanding mounting financial desperation, is a good thing. It enhances identity and secures heritage, while anchoring belonging by being thoroughly made in Britain. I did lose my cool when the golden birdcage arrived, however. It was to be the centrepiece of the wedding hall, a depository for wedding cards.
"Enough is enough," I exploded. "This has nothing to do with tradition." "But Dad," my daughter replied, "you always say tradition that doesn't reinvent itself isn't worthy of the name."
I should have kept my mouth shut.
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