Mrs Rupa Mehra was wearing a beige chiffon sari with a beautiful gold border – a gift from her daughter-in-law that had made her entirely forget the incident of the lacquer box. She knew that He wouldn’t have wanted her to dress too much like a widow on their younger daughter’s wedding day.
The groom’s party was fifteen minutes late already. Mrs Rupa Mehra was starving: she was not meant to eat until she had given her daughter away, and she was glad that the astrologers had set the actual time of the wedding for eight o’clock, and not, say, eleven.
‘Where are they?’ she demanded of Maan, who happened to be standing nearby and was gazing in the direction of the gate.
‘I’m sorry, Ma,’ said Maan. ‘Who do you mean?’ He had been looking out for Firoz.
‘The baraat, of course.’
‘Oh, yes, the baraat – well, they should be coming at any minute. Shouldn’t they be here already?’
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra, as impatient and anxious as the Boy standing on the Burning Deck. ‘Yes, of course they should.’
The baraat was at last sighted, and everyone crowded towards the gate. A large, maroon, flower-adorned Chevrolet drove up. It narrowly avoided scratching Dr Kishen Chand Seth’s grey Buick, which was parked somewhat obstructively near the entrance. Haresh stepped out. He was accompanied by his parents and his brothers and was followed by, among others, a motley crowd of his college friends. Arun and Varun escorted him to the verandah. Lata emerged from inside the house, dressed in a red-and-gold sari, and with her eyes lowered, as befitted a bride. They exchanged garlands. Sunil Patwardhan broke into loud cheers, and the photographer clicked away.
They walked across the lawn to the wedding platform, decorated with roses and tuberoses, and sat down facing the young priest from the local Arya Samaj temple. He lit the fire and began the ceremony. Haresh’s foster-parents sat near Haresh, Mrs Rupa Mehra sat near Lata, and Arun and Varun sat behind her.
‘Sit up straight,’ said Arun to Varun.
‘I am sitting straight!’ retorted Varun Mehra, IAS, angrily. He noticed that Lata’s garland had slipped off her left shoulder. He helped rearrange it and glared at his brother.
The guests, unusually for a wedding, were quiet and attentive as the priest went through the rites. Mrs Rupa Mehra was sobbing through her Sanskrit, and Savita was sobbing too, and soon Lata was crying as well. When her mother took her hand, filled it with rose-petals and pronounced the words, ‘O bridegroom, accept this well-adorned bride called Lata,’ Haresh, prompted by the priest, took her hand firmly in his own and repeated the words: ‘I thank you, and accept her willingly.’
‘Cheer up,’ he added in English, ‘I hope you won’t have to go through this again.’ And Lata, whether at that thought or at his tone of voice, did indeed cheer up.
Everything went well. Her brothers poured puffed rice onto her hands and into the fire each time she and Haresh circled it. The knot between their scarves was tied, and bright red sindoor was applied to the parting of Lata’s hair with the gold ring that Haresh was to give her. This ring ceremony puzzled the priest (it didn’t fit in with his idea of Arya Samaji rituals), but because Mrs Rupa Mehra insisted on it, he went along with it.
One or two children squabbled tearfully over the possession of some rose-petals; and an insistent old woman tried without success to get the priest to mention Babe Lalu, the clan deity of the Khannas, in the course of his liturgy; other than that, everything went harmoniously.
But when the people who were gathered together recited the Gayatri Mantra three times before the witnessing fire, Pran, glancing at Maan, noticed that his head was bowed and his lips trembling as he mumbled the words. Like his elder brother, he could not forget the last time that the ancient words had been recited in his presence, and before a different fire.
19.11
IT WAS a warm evening, and there was less silk and more fine cotton than at Savita’s wedding. But the jewellery glittered just as gloriously. Meenakshi’s little pear-earrings, Veena’s navratan and Malati’s emeralds glinted across the garden, whispering to each other the stories of their owners.
The younger Chatterjis were out in full force, but there were very few politicians, and no children from Rudhia running wildly around. A couple of executives from the small Praha factory in Brahmpur were present, however, as were some of the middlemen from the Brahmpur Shoe Mart.
Jagat Ram too had come, but not his wife. He stood by himself for a while until Kedarnath noticed him and beckoned him to join them.
When he was introduced to old Mrs Tandon, she was unable to stifle her discomfiture. She looked at him as if he smelt, and gave him a weak namasté.