A Touch Too Much

“Hurry up, son! We are already running an hour late! The baraat must have arrived by now!”

“Chill mom! He’s coming on a horse; it has to take some time.” I cried back tying my laces for the third time now.

It wasn’t that I disliked going to weddings. I mean why wouldn’t I be excited to attend my mom’s cousin’s brother-in-law’s sister’s son’s marriage whom I’ve apparently met once in all of my sixteen years on this planet? Or so I’ve been told.

But the thing that especially repels me from the nuptial celebrations is the whole plethora of relatives, friends, and acquaintances — coming from far and wide — that we have to meet and greet. And it does not stop at a “Hi” or a “Hello” with a shake of the hands. There is a certain specific procedure to greet the elderly in Indian traditions, especially if you’re a boy.

First, we join our palms together in a “Namaste”. Well, that’s the easy part. Second, we have to go all the way down and touch their feet. The feet, mind you, not the leg or the knee as some (read “most”) people do. The amount of length you traverse down the leg is proportional to the respect you give to the person. Accordingly, the receiver is satisfied by your service and radiates their blessings from their hands straight into your head, and wishes you immortality.

It does sound simple, right? Well, it is okay for the first ten to fifteen individuals. But let me reemphasize: an Indian wedding comprises of five-hundred plus of such honorable beings, combined with the fact that I’m on the taller side of the human spectrum, and so bending down for….

My thoughts were interrupted by another shriek of a scolding, “Still tying your laces! Come on now, tie them in the car; Dad is waiting. It’s 9 o’clock. The baraat has reached there!”

I tottered hurriedly towards the car and got in.

Did I explain what a baraat is? Well, it is a wedding procession that announces the inevitable and obvious arrival of the groom to the wedding ceremony. The groom sits on top of a poor horse surrounded by his drunk-dancing relatives showing off their floor-work to a dangerously loud band. And it isn’t your regular type of band also — it is highly accomplished in the sense that it has been covering exactly three songs since half a century… on trumpets… on a loop.

We reached the wedding palace. There were so few people around that I had to check my watch to see if we were an hour late or an hour early. With the former being the case, we continued towards the entrance where the bride’s parents were the first ones to welcome us. I knew what I had to do and immediately fell to their feet. They transferred their blessings and said that the baraat would arrive shortly and that we should attack the snacks till then.

Next, we went to the sitting hall where circular tables sat with chairs running along the perimeter. On one such table, there were fantastic dresses on display, some of them accompanied by gold and diamonds, and with familiar countenances sticking out from the top. There were about twelve human figures there right up until the knee as I could see because the rest lay beyond the linen tablecloth which dangled down to the floor.

As we were approaching towards them, I thought to myself that surely I can do away with part one of the greeting routine here because it would be clearly inconvenient to perform part two for all of them. Hence when we reached the table, I held my hands into a Namaste and didn’t make another move.

I could sense an air of surprise going around the table. Their eyes opened just a little bit more than what was comfortable for me to look into. Their lips sketched a deceptive border between a smile and a smirk. I looked at my mother in the hope of an explanation just when she cried out, “Why now, son, won’t you touch the feet of your great grandmother?”

I knew this was a trap. Anyway, I obliged and went on to feel for great grandma’s feet under the sheets.

I went counter-clockwise around the table. It was alright I guess, except that I would grope for an awkward amount of time for a human leg, occasionally grabbing the leg of a chair or a half-eaten samosa, or would bang my head against the table while getting up, spilling the uncle’s whiskey into the chutney. But apart from that, it went fine.

As always, it was crazy scenes at the wedding. I was literally going at the rate of around five bends per minute. There was no age bar either. Anyone above sixteen seemed equally eligible. And I didn’t even know more than half of the lot. I’m sure I greeted some lucky winners twice or thrice that evening. Even if I’d rest for a while, sipping on my cold drink in a deserted corner, someone would be sneaking up on me from behind, tapping on my shoulder, and ‘humbly’ telling me to touch their feet.

As Mom, Dad, and I were having snacks at our table, a big bubbly woman in her forties came up to us and exclaimed enthusiastically, “Oh hi y’all! Long time, right! See here now, you’ve grown up so much, son! What’s with the look? Seems like you didn’t recognize Aunt Mandy, is it? You came over to my house when you were two, remember?”

Wow! Of course, how could I forget? It was just around the time I started walking and speaking. I should have remembered; my bad.

She continued as color flowed into her chubby cheeks, “Oho, it’s okay dear. Come now, won’t you come and take your Aunt’s blessings?”

Next, we went to the dinner section. It was amazing to see small hills of food piled skillfully up to the edge of the plates. Well, we did the same. I did not take the gulaab-jamun in the fear that it's nice hot ‘chaashni’ (sweet syrup) might get cold. I’d take it after the main course.

Since all the seats were occupied, we had to stand while eating. Just then an old friend of Dad’s came up from nowhere and looked tremendously happy to see us all.

“Hi, brother! Namaste bhabhi ji! Didn’t know you guys were going to come. Hello son! So good to see you!”

A “Namaste” made its way from in between the dal and rice in my mouth and I held the plate in front with both my hands as if it were an offering. As he continued talking with Dad, my mom shot me a quick glance that indicated that I should score the “touchdown”. I breathed a heavy sigh, bent down and touched the feet.

I wasn’t expecting to be blessed in such a unique way this time around. All the contents in the uncle’s plate were on top of my head and some were making their way to my back, seeping through the shirt. Apparently, the uncle was so engrossed in his talks that he didn’t realize I was beneath him and gave a start when he did. Even I didn’t know up till then how hot was the chaashni from the gulaab-jamun, but sure I wasn’t going to forget that ever after.

I sat quietly away from everyone; just came out of the washroom and now cleaning my coat using a wet handkerchief, while my head smelled of cheese. I could see the baraat had finally arrived three hours later than the scheduled time. I was in no mood to meet and greet any more relatives, not the ones alive at least.

Anyway, Dad came over and coaxed me to come and greet the baraat. I gave in. It seemed more like a mob than a procession. Judging by the density, it was impressive that people could even stand in that space, let alone dance mindlessly.

A compulsive change seemed to have a hold on me by now. The formal greeting became quite an involuntary response from my side. Anytime I see a relative, I automatically went for the feet. And there were a lot of close relatives in the newly arrived baraat whom I hadn’t greeted yet.

I was swallowed into the commotion as soon as I got inside a critical radius. Suddenly, I found myself completely surrounded by a ton of familiar faces. So the same impulse took hold of me as I started to greet everyone and touch their feet. I stayed low and squeezed my way through the legs.

I was maneuvering frantically at the ground level from one pair of feet to the other. But the people above me barely seemed to notice my gesture, which made me even more anxious and agitated.

And just then…. THUMP! One of the uncles stomped upon my right hand. “Aaahhh,” I gave a sharp cry which died into the music.

WHACK! Another knee came jostling right into my head and I fell to the floor. I never experienced drowning in my life but I think I won’t need to now. I was literally in a dancing stampede!

I saw the big bubbly aunt from earlier dancing dangerously close to where I had befallen. I tried to get up somehow but instead ended up positioning my leg perfectly in her path. She tripped and I could see her slant towards my direction in almost slow motion when….

WHAAM!!!

I gave a start. It was mother with one hand held in mid-air. I felt one of my cheeks get warm.

“Enough of this nonsense! Shame on you! How many times I’ve told you not to stay up late at night! That’s why you end up almost unconscious in the evenings. Come now! I told you a couple of hours ago. We don’t want to be late for the wedding!”

I was too dizzy to comprehend shame or embarrassment — just relieved that I was still in one piece.

Mom re-enters. “Here, take your shirt and coat. They’re dry-cleaned and ironed.”

“Umm…. wait…. I think I will just wear a Kurta instead!”