On Indian Weddings and Photography: Part II of a Comedy of Tragedies

To those impatient for the conclusion of my (somewhat) perilous odyssey:

My apologies. I have been extraordinarily busy sleeping in, exploring, hanging out with friends, reading, and, yes, even playing video games. I’m quite sure no one reading this could possibly have busier schedules. I mean, today for instance I woke up at nine o’clock! Can you even imagine being awoken by the sun streaming in through the window at such an ungodly hour? #thirdworldproblems

Regardless, I owe it to you, the masses of people clamoring for the thrilling Act II, to finish what I have started.

We pulled up to the venue at about six o’clock. There was a long plaster wall next to the road and an arched opening to a large yard and a building. Many cars were parked against the wall and people were everywhere outside just milling about. When we stopped I got out very quickly, eager to be rid of the deathtrap and scarcely able to believe my luck. I grabbed the expensive camera that had been entrusted to me and stretched my legs in weepy relief. My role in the wedding was to be the photographer. The organization I work for performs weddings in a Christian manner as opposed to the traditional Brahmin way. It was an inter-caste union, making it even less traditional. That said, do not take my observations to be the norm. Even some of the common Indian practices that were still present may not be the same everywhere. Having attended two American weddings and one Indian, my sample size is somewhat lacking for any meaningful extrapolation (Statistics shout-out, go Mr. Drozd!).

Upon arriving at the wedding that was scheduled to begin at 10:00 a.m., we quickly became aware that we were still somewhat early. We had at least beat the groom. Known for their hospitality if not for their punctuality, some of the Indians already there quickly came up to our party and offered us a fruity (nonalcoholic) beverage. We were ladled portions into paper cups. It was quite delicious and upon finishing we tossed the cups by the side of the road. Yes, I littered. No moral compass. Rebel. Also, I am convinced that public trash cans do not exist in India, and I have yet to see one outside of my home, the office, and relatively nice establishments. Regardless, one must either adapt to the culture of throwing trash every which way or be doomed to an existence of constantly crammed full and sticky pockets.

We went inside after a while, and sat around on plastic lawn chairs. They were very haphazardly set up, arranged in small groupings as people organically grabbed seats to sit with certain people.

I was sitting with the people from the office. The Indians that I work with seemed, again, perfectly fine, chatting in Hindi with people from the wedding. Grant and I just tried to sit still and recover. Eventually they brought out these little hors d’oeuvres, each a different bite sized Indian dish. They were all delicious, but I was a tad frustrated by the manner in which they were delivered. One man went around, one at a time, to each of the more than one hundred people sitting there, and gave each of us first a plate, then a napkin, and finally the first of several foods. All in all, it took 45 minutes to eat three morsels. Delicious morsels, yes, but I was ravenous and the wait in between each dish was almost monstrous in its unnecessary inefficiency. In reality, though, I was the only one who cared even slightly about the delay. India really is a mad contradiction between rushing around and lackadaisical disregard for punctuality.

I passed the time trying in vain to use my camera. I discovered what almost everyone else has probably assumed: taking pictures of strangers from a different country and who speak a different language is incredibly awkward. Also, photography is hard. Prior to what I had previously assumed, being a photographer is not simply a matter of buying a nice camera. Shocker.

Here are two people talking, and one boy walking:

Now, all of the people who were sitting around in the grassy area were men. The women and children were gathered on the porch of the building, and here is a picture of one such boy:

One might notice a consistent quality of average approaching poor with these pictures. However, at the time I was kind of getting into it. I had the camera around my neck, camera bag slung casually around my shoulder, and the artful attitude that I was capturing life in motion. My attempts were similar to someone attempting to write a novel after having recently been taught how to hold a pen.

Approaching the 9th hour after the planned starting time for the wedding, the groom arrived. Things began moving, if not very quickly. A majority of the people gradually made their way out to the road again, dutifully followed and photographed by yours truly. There the groom was exotically dressed in silks, a turban and pointy shoes, saddled upon a horse. He was preceded by a band of drummers and a clunky, brightly painted aluminum contraption that had speakers attached to it. They started to sing and play music, and meandered slowly back towards the wedding venue.

Now, one might imagine that at this point people would be getting a tad excited, they might think that a certain feeling of festivity based on the occasion may begin to liven and cheer. I certainly assumed such, which caused a fair amount of confusion when I observed the procession plod along rather matter-of-factly. Despite the loud music, the only ones who were cheery and dancing were the two drunk men from Part I and the drummers who were paid to perform. The groom was literally on his phone for the majority of the short trip to the building. More on this later.

So the wedding was finally underway, and people began to file inside the building. It was high-ceilinged, slightly dingy, and dim. There was a stage with chairs arranged in rows. The whole ceremony took place on the stage, with the bride and groom sitting in thrones. I moved all around trying to get pictures, with little success.

One thing I noticed while Pranjal was conducting the ceremony is that practically no one was paying attention. People were chatting to each other, standing up and moving around, and past the initial group of chairs, everyone was just standing and talking in the back of the room, not even facing the stage. In fact, only about sixty percent of the people in attendance were actually present in that room, and it was by no means for lack of space.

It was because to them, the event was just an event. It was a gathering of friends and family with free food. That was it. In fact, I learned that typical Indian weddings do not even have an exchanging of vows. I do not criticize nor judge, but just point out that while American weddings are often romanticized and seen as a symbol of love, this one was rather subdued.

In the middle of taking a photograph I felt a tapping on my shoulder. Now, I thought this was rather strange, as I seem to recall that such things only really happen in cartoons, shortly before the recipient of the shoulder tap receives an anvil to the face. I pulled my face from my camera (using the tiny viewing thing just feels more professional than the convenient LED screen) and turned to see a smiling Indian man standing uncomfortably close.

“Hello! You are photographer?”

Having been taken pictures for a couple of hours at this point, I had become aware that no, I am not a photographer.

“Well, not exactly, I’m just taking pictures for Truthseekers.”

“I am photographer!” (He says with no camera in sight.)

“Cool!” I respond in a relatively friendly manner. Then I go back to my camera, in an effort to politely yet definitively indicate that I do not wish to engage in further conversation. Honestly, I wasn’t being a jerk I just genuinely wanted to do a good job. Additionally, we were semi close to the stage and I didn’t want to contribute to the rude murmur of conversation while Pranjal was speaking, especially seeing as the man was speaking louder than normal in order to be heard. However, I cannot deny that it is difficult and awkward to try and communicate with a stranger who speaks very little English, especially when there are distracting little things like weddings to worry about.

Now, I will take a second here to go off on a tangent that I hope is relatable to most people. Maybe it’s just relatable to the anti-social introverts, as I can sometimes be.

You are in a situation where you have a lot of time. Maybe a car ride or a doctor’s office, maybe you are waiting for someone to finish an event or something. The point is, it is boring and suckish. Thankfully, you are a clever and well-prepared person. You brought a book or video game, something that is an individual activity that you may conduct with relative enjoyment whilst stuck in an otherwise unenjoyable place. You are completely engaged, reading a fast-paced scene or in the middle of a tricky level. Then, to your horror, some well-meaning and friendly person dares to intrude upon your peaceful solitude and inquire as to your activity.

“What are you reading,” they say, “what’s it about, are you winning, do you like it, how do you play,” innumerable questions that all amount to you awkwardly carrying on in a conversation with a third party when really you would give anything to be allowed to return to your own devices.

This, while different in many ways, was the general impression I was feeling from the interaction. Please, man, let me do what I’m supposed to be doing. Let me attempt to preserve the slightest shred of respect for the ceremony towards which everyone else (for the most part) seems to be completely apathetic. Unfortunately, my private torture and subtle hints were not enough for this man.

“What kind of camera is it!” in a tone that was not really inquisitive as much as enthusiastic.

“Um, I’m not sure,” as I made a big deal of pretending to be inconvenienced. I read the name off of the side of the camera, adding that I’m very new to this.

“You take pictures from here!” he said, gesturing to the front row directly in front of the stage. He went to make those people move, the people out of the whole place that care most about what is actually happening. Obviously, I prevent him from committing this atrociously misguided act, assuring him that I am, in fact, fine with taking pictures from the side and back. Moreover, I decided that this is enough, and I say that I have to go somewhere else to get a new angle. First I go around to the side of the stage, which is not really ideal. Then, because I was really running out of ideas at this point, I just went to the same spot on the other side. Coincidentally, I ran into the drunk drivers and they also cheerfully offered to make the people in the front move. Again I declined.

In the middle of me making another lackluster attempt at photography, I felt to my dismay another tapping.

“Hello! Come, come!” he says with no indication of offering a choice. He takes me by the arm and leads me to the back of the room. There stands a gaggle of his friends, giggling shyly and staring. He takes me over, and one man steps forward, extending his hand awkwardly as though performing a gesture he had only ever seen others do.

“Hello. My name is Amit,” he said haltingly, smiling triumphantly upon completion. I shook his hand, which was unpleasantly loose.

“My name is Tristen. Where are you from?” I said, resigned to the conversation and attempting at that point to be polite. Now, I’m not sure if he didn’t expect me to ask him a question or what, but he just stood there. No comprehension on his face. No attempt to ask me to repeat or to move on in the conversation. I began to realize that this man literally knew how to say that phrase and nothing else, and decided to test out his English on me.

Then this exact same scene repeated itself five more times with five different people.

I am all for people learning new languages, and if someone wants to practice English with me I am never one to be judgmental of less-than-stellar grammar. However, when you are in your home country and you see a foreigner, mob him with your friends and say the only four English words you know to him, I think that is very rude. I felt like I was a novelty to them, like they just wanted to show their friends that they could talk to me. They did not have any genuine interest in communication, in getting to know me. They were just surrounding me, staring, smiling, and talking to each other. Soon the photographer brought a new addition to the gaggle. The woman looked a bit odd, in a way I can’t quite explain.

“She wants picture!” he shouted, in what I’m coming to think is the only (enthusiastic) tone of voice in which he thinks English can be spoken. He then said something that I didn’t understand.

“What?”

He responds, and again I don’t understand.

“What?” I’m getting increasingly more desperate as the situation is becoming increasingly more awkward.

He eventually resorts to yelling, “Gay! Gay! She is gay! Impotent!”

Ah. Ok. At that point, I was confused at how this detail would matter. But, as I later discovered, “gay” was not really an appropriate descriptor for this particular person. “Eunuch” is more on point. India has the lovely tradition of eunuchs showing up to weddings and threatening to curse the newlyweds if they do not receive adequate monetary compensation. While the more modern areas do not have this problem, I was in a sufficiently rural area that the eunuch was, in fact, paid. What is curious about this is the fact that the groom had a cell phone, had lived in Delhi for a while, and it was a Christian wedding. Apparently that’s not enough.

So this eunuch, whom I thought was a woman, grabbed me firmly and had the others take pictures. After a second she actually forced me to hand over my camera and let them take a picture with it. No, I will not be posting that one.

This felt even more horrible, as everyone except for me was aware that the woman was actually a man when I just thought she was a barren lesbian. They were snickering and the eunuch was performing, making fun of me.

Finally, gloriously, Pranjal stopped mid speech, having glimpsed me being hounded in the back of the room, and called me up on stage. I shook free, as they actually were trying to hold me back, and made my way to the stage. I was not feeling so hot.

From here, though, I was able to take more pictures and see the ceremony up close. It was interesting, even though I couldn’t understand a word of the speech. Eventually Grant stepped up to pray for the groom.

I can sympathize when people let their phone go off during inappropriate moments- even though it’s completely obnoxious, it is usually an accident and I can forgive. However, this man took it to an entirely new level when, in the midst of a special guest specifically praying for him at his wedding, his phone rang and he answered it. Grant had to raise his voice to talk over him as he carried on his conversation. I was a bit horrified but also impressed at his level of bold disregard for social convention.

As you will see from this standard-quality photo, a thing that I learned about Indian weddings is that the woman is either supposed to look miserable or just genuinely is. I asked around and this one is true for the majority, though obviously I’m not saying it’s a universal truth. Apparently it has something to do with showing respect for the parents, the bride displaying sadness as an indication of being reluctant to leave her family.

This is her husband saying his vows. His presumably romantic vows that committed him to her for life (just guessing, as they were in Hindi). And she is standing there, staring into space, looking slightly sad and extremely uncomfortable. Outside of this picture, she looked absolutely miserable, not paying attention to anything around her. I really felt sorry for her, because her soon-to-be husband looked absolutely disinterested in her and everything, when not talking on the phone.

But here is where I must step back. I am a foreigner, who speaks a different language. Perhaps it was a shamble of a wedding with everyone miserable and jerkish towards me, or perhaps it was a wonderful party for all involved and I just couldn’t overcome the cultural differences. I pass no judgment, and can only say what I observed from my limited perspective. One last thing I will note, however, is that on our way to eat, I saw that the two drunk guys had managed to get a hold of a double barreled shot gun. You really can’t make this stuff up. They had just been shooting it into the air, and wanted me to do the same. I said no. They shoved the gun towards me, trying to force me. Thankfully, Grant took the gun and acquiesced to their drunken whims. He is a Texan, and apparently unafraid of handling suspect firearms in a foreign country under the urgings of two delinquents (see, I’m not bitter at all). So eventually we left, at around 9:30 p.m.

On the way home I rode with a different person driving, and was able to sit up front. We rode with the windows down and the wind was very strong. Eventually lightening started, and it was actually fun. With the storm and the bumps, it actually felt really cool. I think at this point I might have been a bit delirious from exhaustion, but still I must say that everything is a matter of perspective. The torturously bumpy ride out turned into a thrilling return journey.

Eventually it rained, and it rained hard. We slowed down greatly, and were passed at one point by some maniac tearing through the countryside at very unreasonable speeds. Some 15 minutes later we see the same car crashed into a tree. We think no one was hurt, as the car was empty and there didn’t appear to be blood. Needless to stay, we soon pulled over and waited it out.

There really isn’t much left to say. We spent the night at a friend’s house, and it felt great. Then we took the bus back to Delhi, and it felt bad. Not quite as bad, but a man did have to lean over me and throw up out of the window. At that point though, I was a little too far gone to care. Fortunately, we made it. We survived. I was able to avoid going mad from sleep deprivation. All was well with the world.

As I was writing this I thought about whether or not there was some grand life lesson to learn from the whole thing, but now to say so in a sort of concluding way would be a bit cliché. Draw your own conclusions. It’s what people tend to do anyway. What is important is that the food was good.

Existentially,

Tristen