Tying The Knot - Village Style

A village wedding is an unforgettable experience for a city person. Chaos, crowds, confusion, flies, commotion and dust add to the fun and festivity of the occasion. The nuptials are conducted on a grand scale and the whole village is invited, so are people from the nearby villages and anyone living within a five-mile radius. The baraat itself could range between 500-3000 people. Asking the exact number is considered an insult. No logistics can be planned under such confused circumstances.

Only special guests or the delicate shaher-wallahs can expect undivided attention, even the luxury of toilets. Other common village folk have to make do with a charpai and a sirhana (pillow) and they sleep peacefully under the trees. They shower in the village mosque and use fields for other needs. In fact, they prefer it that way, enclosed toilets make them claustrophobic. The hosts have to make sure that there are enormous quantities of chicken and mutton roasts and other rich, greasy food and an abundance of milk and drinks. Their reputation depends on it. There are other favorites too like halwa, firnee and zarda. Then there are several hookahs for those wanting a taste of bitter tobacco. And last but not least, there is the glorious jahez.

Today, Laila is getting married to Murad Khan at village Kot Sher Khan, on the green fertile banks of river Chenab in Sargodha. It is springtime. The snows on the Himalayas have begun to melt and the Chenab is beginning to look more like a river rather than a lazy floating lake. Chaudhry Sher Khan, Laila’s father, has cleverly chosen this season for the ceremony because the guests would need neither a fan nor a quilt. Laila is from that class of zamindars who only two generations ago were completely illiterate. Most elders and mothers still are. The children have been to places like Aitchison, Queen Mary or Harvard and are a unique mix of sophistication and rusticity. But those places never do permanent damage to them. The moment they return to their village, they fall back into their hereditary moulds, the girls laze away the whole day getting massaged, oiled and pampered by scores of maids, The boys are idle and relaxed, and remain unshaven. They spend most of their time at the dara (the congregation area outside), listening to idle gossip about village scandals. They go on an eating binge and keep adding on to the layers of fat. Occasionally, they have a fling or two with a cooperative village girl. And now the big event is going to interrupt this lethargic pace of life.

An army of specialists is at hand to lend a helping hand - tenants, carpenters, iron smiths, tailors, oil extractors, bakers, cobblers, butchers and mirasis to name but a few. These people are all always paid in kind - a specified part from each crop.

Back to Laila, who has been busy for the past many months putting her jahez in order. She is tired of the ‘comings and goings’ of her in-laws. Their frequent visits force her to get herself and the house ready all the time. Her jahez has everything under the sky including buffaloes and horses. As in most arranged marriages, Laila has not met Murad Khan, her future husband, a young chaudhry from a nearby village. He is tall, educated and whiskered. She would like to meet him but the Chaudhries, because of high visibility, are compelled to put up a conservative face in front of their rayaya (work force). The rayaya, on the other hand, is far from conservative. Laila is envious of her maids who can conveniently meet their boyfriends. The sprawling fields of tall crops provide ample cover for any fooling around. Rural folk are refreshingly liberal. They suffer from no inhibitions and do not have frenzied religious streaks like urban middle-classes.

The last few miles to the village are lined with old shady trees where signs of life begin to appear. The village chuppher, a small lake, can be seen first with its dark green water, sea-weeds and large ’kawanal’ leaves floating on top The duck with little chicks in tow scurries away on the sound of the car. Some house-men trot past and a cyclist carrying a large cage wobbles by. The buffaloes poke inquisitive snouts from the water. By now, one can hear the ’hook,hook’ of flour mill grinding the atta. Mud houses appear next and, over the wall, one can see women sitting on chaarpoys, smoking, their hair spread out, getting lice removed.

The big gates of the Chaudhries rise imperiously ahead and there sits Chaudhry Sher Khan lounging on a big pillow surrounded by his people. The entire haveli is humming with activity. The zenana is full of relatives who have descended days before the marriage. Everyone has his own whims and preferences: bed tea, a hot water bottle, an aspirin. Someone can go to sleep only after drinking chilled milk. Grand gossip sessions abound.

Laila thinks only of her wedding day. The bathrooms are under pressure too and messy, forcing Laila to reserve one for her sophisticated college friends from the city. The evening sees Kot Sher Khan come alive with lights burning bright and colourful tents rising up for the occasion. Loudspeakers blare out ’Babel da Ghar’. The cooking yard has its own assembly line of ’degs’ with several varieties of foods are in different stages of preparations. Hillocks of onion have been chopped up. The goats are having a rough day, getting slaughtered like the chicken. A stream of blood runs through the fields. Vultures and dogs have a field day. Fresh naans straight from the tandoor are stacked in several piles. Happy and giggling little village girls make their shy appearance in crimson. As the time of the baraat’s arrival nears, Laila starts getting ready. The jahez has been displayed for the benefit of all. The village maulvi has dutifully dusted his nikah register.

A messenger comes in panting with the information that the baraat is just two miles away and is getting ready to make a spectacular entrance. Under the shamianas outside, sher Khan’s guests sit and gossip, waiting for the baraat to appear. Two bhaands are in the center, cracking jokes, sometimes naughty, at the expense of politicians, the police and Chaudhries. Everything is just about ready when the first pataakha heralding the groom’s arrival is heard.

The pataakha wallahs are in front, they are followed by the musicians, dancers, cars, vans and horses. Finally, come the buses carrying the poor relatives and servants. Other traffic includes tongas, cyclists and pedestrians. The music is loud and fireworks light up the sky and give off a pungent smell. The horses, startled, get out of control, raising dust; little babies cry. The bridegroom, Murad Khan, hidden behind the floral sehra, sweats in discomfort. The baraat plonks itself under the shamianas. Since no class distinction is in force, the gathering is a strange mix of people - from the well-dressed and suave who are worried about their shoe polish to rustics carrying dundaas. Similarly, the womenfolk range from manicured ladies to the pot-bellied, drooping mamas in gaudy attire. Village girls sing folk poetry. City girls join in with the latest Zee TV tunes on dholki. Eunuchs are also in full force wearing luscious shades of lipstick and clapping with gusto. The common folk of the nearby villages who have joined the festival uninvited are smoking hookas and are simply waiting for good food to pounce upon.

The bridegroom sits on a sofa. His friends cut jokes, happy that one of them has made it. The baraatis go through a couple of cokes each. Village urchins, wherever possible, pinch a drink for themselves. The maulvi goes through his duties quickly. Both parties say, ’Manzoor hai’, readily. Dried dates are distributed. The bridegroom goes into the zenana where Laila is waiting, shining in silk from head to foot. Murad Khan’s friends also tag along. A bit of harmless ogling does no harm, they think. Murad Khan changes into the clothes his in-laws have given him while Laila changes into the set that has been brought by the baraatis.

Foot is served. The village folk, not used to buffets, park themselves in front of meaty dishes and start eating. No one touches rice or bread for now. The roast is finished on their way to the tables. Sweet dishes come next. Everyone eats as if it was his last supper. The bride and the groom eat little - the excitement is too much. Those who have eaten, move towards their cars and zip away. For them the event is over.

Departure time has arrived. The father cries, the mother cries, the family cries, the bride cries. The bride sits with the bridegroom on the rear seat. Her maid sits in front with the driver. The bridegroom’s father tosses up coins over the car, which fall with a loud jingle. Village boys pounce on them. The car moves out slowly, out of the village and on to the lonely river road. There is a deathly stillness in the car. Laila and Murad Khan are engrossed in their own thoughts. What would happen next? Would they like each other? How are they to behave with each other?

In Murad Khan’s haveli, the bride is again put on display. Everyone comes and lifts her ghoongat and gives her money for ’moon dikhae’. For easy money, it has turned out to be a good day for both of them. Then older women finally begin to prompt very meaningfully, "they are tired. Let them rest."

It is around midnight when Laila is taken to her room where she adopts the familiar filmi pose. Murad Khan sits close by. The village butcher comes and places a blunt knife under the pillow of Murad Khan, another village custom. Aunts and cousins move out. Finally Murad Khan breaks the ice. "I am tired. I am going to sleep," he says. He then gets up and shuts the door latch with a click. It is the loudest sound that Laila has ever heard in her young life. The moon outside is now fully up and the night is till young.....