1170 words A WEDDING IN A HIMACHAL VILLAGE
A small marching band of two trumpets, clarinet and two drummers, brought up the rear of a party walking along the lane to the waiting bus. At the head was the groom in a sedan chair carried by four strong men, wearing a multicoloured silk hat with long golden tinsel tassells and a garland of new rupee notes. This was a Hindu wedding party. We were going to a far off village and would return tomorrow evening with the bride, in a second sedan chair, and enough furniture, bedding, pots and pans to furnish their new home. My wife Joan, squashed between Rajan and me, was the only woman on that crowded bus. All the others had stayed behind to prepare for the triumphant return.
The bus bumped along for a few hours, through several small towns. Finally it turned into a narrow track clinging to the mountainside, winding its way above a river valley, ascending the Himalayan foothills. Soon the bus ground to a halt. A rock-fall had swept the track into the river far below. The groom got back into his sedan chair as the journey had to be completed on foot. Night had fallen, but there was a bright moon above and a clear starlit sky. Our spirits soared high above the valley and into the pine forest above the path. Whenever the party flagged someone would find a few rupees to persuade the band to burst into another number. At the top of the mountain the vista opened out onto a plateau. We headed towards an oil lamp glowing dimly in the far distance. An hour later the band struck up to announce our arrival.
The farmhouse was a linear two storey building, dimly lit with oil lamps. A rough stone tiled roof sloped over a full length verandah, which doubled the floor area and provided living space in the open air. Four rooms opened onto the verandah. It was a pleasantly warm evening. The village women were sitting cross legged in groups on the wooden floor, wearing the colourful cotton salwar-kameez trouser dresses of the Punjab. The largest group was quietly singing, not for the benefit of us new guests, but as a joyful release from a hard day's toil in the fields. Guests were intent on enjoying the occasion. Some older women were clustered around the wood fire in the kitchen. There was no electricity, no gas, no piped water, no television and no toilets. Next morning we were to learn how to wash under the hand operated water pump, before following the party departing for the toilet fields, conveniently sited just below the Shiva temple. Plastic water bottles gave a whole new meaning to the word, bidet.
Everyone enjoyed the moonlit wedding evening without alcohol, or other drugs. Our party was welcomed with the usual cup of sweet, cardamom flavoured, boiled tea, or chai. Rajan whispered excitedly,
'I think you're going to become the chief guests'.
He was right. The hosts found us a card table, chairs, stainless steel mugs, plates and forks, whilst everyone else sat cross legged on the ground, and ate with their fingers from banana leaf plates. It was a simple, deliciously spiced, vegetarian rice meal.
After the meal we became the centre of attraction with Rajan as intermediary. We learnt that the men and women tilled the fields with oxen and hand held wooden ploughs. The young men, soldiers in Kashmir, brought in a little cash. Then fifteen year old Manoj, son of Dalip Singh, started to question, nervously, in halting, quietly spoken, English.
'Where did you learn to speak English like that?', we asked.
'In the village we speak Phadi. I learn Hindi and English at school.'
'Where's school?
'In Shahpur, two hour's walk down the mountain side.'
We were the first English people he had ever met face to face. It was simply amazing that he should have such an instant command of his third language, English, and have gained that from a simple local school, in a class of one hundred pupils. His older brother also spoke English, but not with the same facility, no-one else tried.
Only the attentions of one better dressed man grate. He works away from the village, disgruntled, underpaid, in a foreign owned factory and incessantly repeats his welcome, 'Very sorry for hill walking. Very very sorry for hill walking'. He knows the ways of the city and feels, wrongly, that we are paying Rajan for taking us to the wedding and wants a share of our money. 'My father is dead. My mother is dead. I am a poor orphan. I don't have money for the return fare.' He insists on carrying the small rucksack which contains our valuables, passports and cameras, not even a toothbrush. We worry that he has taken it hostage.
A square bower had been built in the centre of the dirt farmyard, it arose from the floor like a huge four poster bed. Tinsel hung down from twine strung between the posts. It was around this bower that the couple would walk seven times, as required by the Hindu wedding ceremony. A young Brahmin, with a white scarf tied round his head, led them through the ceremony, frequently consulting a written text. His props were a big pile of rice on a banana leaf, earthenware pots full of oils, wood for a small fire, and fruit. The service lasted three hours. It had overtones of wishing prosperity for the couple, symbolised by rice; wishing them children, symbolised by fruit; aromatic oils, fire and religious mysticism. Red is the Hindu's auspicious colour for marriages, the groom wore a vivid headpiece to complement the bride's wedding dress. Mother wore green, symbolic of peace and happiness.
A Hindu marriage must be an ordeal for the bride. Next day she left her home village for good, to much wailing, with a man she had scarcely met. Perhaps to face a life of quarrels in her mother in law's house. She will return to her own mother's side in a year's time, for the birth of her first child, that's all. No wonder the participants all wore solemn faces. At the end of the service the family came over, beaming smiles of congratulation. Still the bride's emotions remained hidden behind her veil, I never did see her face though Joan was more fortunate.
Being privileged guests, we were given an Indian rope bed, a charpoy, on the verandah of a nearby house. 'Very sorry for hill walking' gets into bed alongside Joan, but even he can't spoil our evening. Gazing out at the moonlit sky, feeling the windless air waft over us, savouring the smell of the flowers in the garden and the meadow, recalling the colour of the dresses, the novelty of the ceremony, above all the friendliness. We mused in unspoken unison. Had it really started that very morning, as a chance encounter with Rajan, on the half hour service bus ride from McLeod Ganj to Dharamsala?
A small marching band of two trumpets, clarinet and two drummers, brought up the rear of a party walking along the lane to the waiting bus. At the head was the groom in a sedan chair carried by four strong men, wearing a multicoloured silk hat with long golden tinsel tassells and a garland of new rupee notes. This was a Hindu wedding party. We were going to a far off village and would return tomorrow evening with the bride, in a second sedan chair, and enough furniture, bedding, pots and pans to furnish their new home. My wife Joan, squashed between Rajan and me, was the only woman on that crowded bus. All the others had stayed behind to prepare for the triumphant return.
The bus bumped along for a few hours, through several small towns. Finally it turned into a narrow track clinging to the mountainside, winding its way above a river valley, ascending the Himalayan foothills. Soon the bus ground to a halt. A rock-fall had swept the track into the river far below. The groom got back into his sedan chair as the journey had to be completed on foot. Night had fallen, but there was a bright moon above and a clear starlit sky. Our spirits soared high above the valley and into the pine forest above the path. Whenever the party flagged someone would find a few rupees to persuade the band to burst into another number. At the top of the mountain the vista opened out onto a plateau. We headed towards an oil lamp glowing dimly in the far distance. An hour later the band struck up to announce our arrival.
The farmhouse was a linear two storey building, dimly lit with oil lamps. A rough stone tiled roof sloped over a full length verandah, which doubled the floor area and provided living space in the open air. Four rooms opened onto the verandah. It was a pleasantly warm evening. The village women were sitting cross legged in groups on the wooden floor, wearing the colourful cotton salwar-kameez trouser dresses of the Punjab. The largest group was quietly singing, not for the benefit of us new guests, but as a joyful release from a hard day's toil in the fields. Guests were intent on enjoying the occasion. Some older women were clustered around the wood fire in the kitchen. There was no electricity, no gas, no piped water, no television and no toilets. Next morning we were to learn how to wash under the hand operated water pump, before following the party departing for the toilet fields, conveniently sited just below the Shiva temple. Plastic water bottles gave a whole new meaning to the word, bidet.
Everyone enjoyed the moonlit wedding evening without alcohol, or other drugs. Our party was welcomed with the usual cup of sweet, cardamom flavoured, boiled tea, or chai. Rajan whispered excitedly,
'I think you're going to become the chief guests'.
He was right. The hosts found us a card table, chairs, stainless steel mugs, plates and forks, whilst everyone else sat cross legged on the ground, and ate with their fingers from banana leaf plates. It was a simple, deliciously spiced, vegetarian rice meal.
After the meal we became the centre of attraction with Rajan as intermediary. We learnt that the men and women tilled the fields with oxen and hand held wooden ploughs. The young men, soldiers in Kashmir, brought in a little cash. Then fifteen year old Manoj, son of Dalip Singh, started to question, nervously, in halting, quietly spoken, English.
'Where did you learn to speak English like that?', we asked.
'In the village we speak Phadi. I learn Hindi and English at school.'
'Where's school?
'In Shahpur, two hour's walk down the mountain side.'
We were the first English people he had ever met face to face. It was simply amazing that he should have such an instant command of his third language, English, and have gained that from a simple local school, in a class of one hundred pupils. His older brother also spoke English, but not with the same facility, no-one else tried.
Only the attentions of one better dressed man grate. He works away from the village, disgruntled, underpaid, in a foreign owned factory and incessantly repeats his welcome, 'Very sorry for hill walking. Very very sorry for hill walking'. He knows the ways of the city and feels, wrongly, that we are paying Rajan for taking us to the wedding and wants a share of our money. 'My father is dead. My mother is dead. I am a poor orphan. I don't have money for the return fare.' He insists on carrying the small rucksack which contains our valuables, passports and cameras, not even a toothbrush. We worry that he has taken it hostage.
A square bower had been built in the centre of the dirt farmyard, it arose from the floor like a huge four poster bed. Tinsel hung down from twine strung between the posts. It was around this bower that the couple would walk seven times, as required by the Hindu wedding ceremony. A young Brahmin, with a white scarf tied round his head, led them through the ceremony, frequently consulting a written text. His props were a big pile of rice on a banana leaf, earthenware pots full of oils, wood for a small fire, and fruit. The service lasted three hours. It had overtones of wishing prosperity for the couple, symbolised by rice; wishing them children, symbolised by fruit; aromatic oils, fire and religious mysticism. Red is the Hindu's auspicious colour for marriages, the groom wore a vivid headpiece to complement the bride's wedding dress. Mother wore green, symbolic of peace and happiness.
A Hindu marriage must be an ordeal for the bride. Next day she left her home village for good, to much wailing, with a man she had scarcely met. Perhaps to face a life of quarrels in her mother in law's house. She will return to her own mother's side in a year's time, for the birth of her first child, that's all. No wonder the participants all wore solemn faces. At the end of the service the family came over, beaming smiles of congratulation. Still the bride's emotions remained hidden behind her veil, I never did see her face though Joan was more fortunate.
Being privileged guests, we were given an Indian rope bed, a charpoy, on the verandah of a nearby house. 'Very sorry for hill walking' gets into bed alongside Joan, but even he can't spoil our evening. Gazing out at the moonlit sky, feeling the windless air waft over us, savouring the smell of the flowers in the garden and the meadow, recalling the colour of the dresses, the novelty of the ceremony, above all the friendliness. We mused in unspoken unison. Had it really started that very morning, as a chance encounter with Rajan, on the half hour service bus ride from McLeod Ganj to Dharamsala?
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