So I am delighted to have super talented and lovely photographer & blogger Kismet from Indian wedding blog Unreal Bride share a bit more about Indian wedding traditions and ceremonies, peppered with her stunning photography of Sam and Richie's Sikh wedding. I love the vintage feel to Kismet's photography, to me she shows Indian weddings in a whole new light.
For all you readers, the line above could just be gibberish, a Hindu chant or a string of meaningless words at first glance but they are all related to weddings in one way or the other except of course for Om Shanti Om (a Bollywood movie) which was an impulsive addition to the list. What Indian wedding is complete without some blaringly loud Bollywood tunes?!
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I thank Elizabeth for inviting me over to her blog and also for forcing me to do some research on the various ceremonies and rituals that make up an Indian wedding! I am far away from being an expert when it comes to weddings. In fact, before I started photographing weddings, I only knew about two kinds of Indian weddings:
I could be possibly biased since out of all the weddings I have attended in this lifetime, 90% have been Sikh weddings. Not to mention, I have hardly attended weddings in south, east or central India. I am sure we have as many kinds of wedding types as we do languages (200+!).
After the ceremony, there is another mini ceremony when the bride officially leaves her home for the grooms. That whole ritual of leaving has a lot of mini rituals around it as well, which if I told you briefly includes throwing rice, tears, and brothers pushing the car out of the gate.
I seriously would have to write a thesis if I went into all the details so I am going to leave it at that for now! The combinations and permutations are endless where more rituals are added or subtracted or the same ritual is done in different ways in different homes. It is very subjective and that adds the personal touch to our weddings.
When I turned on my microphone, they were courteous, if curt. They told me truncated versions of their love stories, glossing over the violence they'd escaped and emphasizing the relief they felt at reaching relative safety.
Founder of the Love Commandos Sanjoy Sachdev speaks at one of the shelters his group runs for couples who have left home to have "love marriages" in New Delhi in 2014. Rebecca Conway/AFP via Getty Images hide caption
The couples I met there are outliers. More than 90% of Indians have arranged marriages, and polls show most are happy with that system. Of those who rebel against tradition, a tiny fraction face physical threats. These couples were among them. Over the years, we've kept in touch by text message and phone, and I've watched them become survivors many times over, as a consequence of going against the norms of 1.4 billion people.
Their love story in particular resonates with me, even though our backgrounds and circumstances are so different. In the five years I lived in India, Saumil and I each navigated guilt over the loss of a beloved parent we'd chosen to live far away from. His commitment to his family, and to Zarina, has helped me understand love and marriage in my adopted country more than any news story could.
Zarina, 32, and Saumil, who is 34, grew up only a couple of miles apart, in separate communities with little crossover. She's Muslim; he follows the Jain religion. What brought them together was work.
India has one of the fastest-growing economies in the world. As it gets richer, more women are going to college, joining the formal workforce (though I've reported on some irregularities with that) and mixing with people outside their families and faiths. It feels inevitable that lots of them will also fall in love.
At Vijay Sales, Saumil was a store manager, fresh from getting his MBA in England. He was ambitious and mild-mannered, a hard worker with combed hair and a collared shirt. Zarina was a customer service rep with a computer science degree, almond eyes and a soothing voice.
This was in Gujarat, Prime Minister Narendra Modi's home state. It's famous for a model of economic growth that Modi promised the whole nation. But also for deadly riots against minority Muslims in the early 2000s, when Saumil and Zarina were still children.
And while arranged marriage is definitely the norm, both sets of parents had raised their children to be outliers in other ways: Saumil's family sent him to study abroad. Zarina also went to college, and she worked outside the home. Neither family insisted their children get married young. (By contrast, most Indians, on average, wed before their 23rd birthday.)
"It's not like [my parents] follow religion so much. My mother doesn't wear a [Muslim] veil. We were always allowed to be friends with people of other faiths," Zarina says of herself and her brothers.
The last step before revealing their relationship to their parents was to register for a marriage license. They got advice from a lawyer and planned to present all of this as a nearly done deal: a match, a home, plans for the future. Their parents would be proud of how responsible and organized their kids had been, Saumil and Zarina hoped.
In India, to have a civil marriage rather than a religious one, you can register under the Special Marriage Act, or SMA. You fill out paperwork declaring your intention to marry, and basic information gets posted in public for 30 days. (It used to be on a bulletin board at town hall; now it's all online.)
The 30-day waiting period allows time for authorities to verify the bride and groom's identities and for field objections from the public. But it's currently under scrutiny by India's Supreme Court, because of allegations that it leaves interfaith couples vulnerable to public harassment, which is exactly what happened to Saumil and Zarina.
Three days after Zarina filed her paperwork to marry Saumil, an anonymous WhatsApp message started spreading. It was a regular old rant condemning interfaith marriage. But this one included screenshots of SMA paperwork and a list of names. Zarina's was on it.
"They were saying, 'Dear girl, if you'd just waited, and not done it like this, we would have agreed to your marriage.' But now look at this pressure we're facing from outside," Zarina recalls. (All of the plot points I've described here are from Zarina and Saumil's own recollection. Their version of events was also confirmed by Saumil's family and the Love Commandos; parts of it appear in police records as well. But I didn't reach out to Zarina's parents for confirmation, out of concern for her safety and well-being; five years later, they're still estranged.)
Outside, the mob was baying, Zarina recalls. "He's trapped her with gifts! Maybe he'll sell her. Marriage shouldn't happen like this," she says they yelled. Two male neighbors threatened to hunt down Saumil and to douse Zarina with acid. The whole community's honor is at stake, they told her.
"I was just doing everything that was being asked of me. Prospective grooms were coming to meet me, even though they knew that I loved someone else," Zarina explains. "Then one day, my mom said a match had been made. They're coming on Sunday."
On the outside, Saumil is doing everything he can to free her. He calls the police but gets the runaround. He has such faith in the system that he writes letters to Prime Minister Modi himself. Saumil knows the Indian Constitution protects an individual's right to choose their partner, even if it's not the norm. Modi's office replies, but with a referral right back to the same police who were useless.
Across town, Saumil slips out of his parents' house, grabs a backpack with their new clothes, and hops on the motorbike. He cuts the engine at the end of Zarina's road, rolls up silently and texts back: "I'm here."
"In the beginning, I used to feel like maybe I'm being selfish, for loving Saumil and pursuing my own happiness. But at that moment, I thought, this is not selfish. This is my dream and this is my right," she recalls. "I am no one else's property. I am old enough to understand what is right and wrong for me. I suddenly felt this power."
By then, they were married. The Love Commandos handled everything: a quick religious conversion for Zarina and then a rushed wedding. They circled the sacred fire several times, anointed each other's foreheads with vermilion paste and draped borrowed garlands on each other's necks. (With a religious wedding, rather than a civil one, they could get married right away, avoiding the 30-day waiting period required by the SMA.)
But when Zarina told me her future looks "very bright," she spoke in a whisper, clinging to Saumil's arm. The woman who'd suddenly felt power had been broken. They'd had no contact with their families.
After several weeks in the safehouse, Saumil and Zarina decided to settle in Mumbai, India's commercial capital. That happened to be where I was living, and I was thrilled to meet up with them there, in such different circumstances than the grimy safehouse where we first met.
At this point, he wants to let his father know that he's safe and that he and Zarina are married. He hopes his father will forgive him for running away without notice. He's sure his parents will love Zarina, once they get to know her. He wants that to happen soon. He won't wait three years.
Saumil tells himself he'll just wait until the Indian festival of Diwali, a few weeks away. Then he'll return his father's calls. By then, they'll probably have new jobs and happy news to report, he reasons.
"I never wanted to leave the family home. I'm just not that kind of person," Saumil explains. "But I found myself in a situation where I would have had to abandon someone I love. I didn't want to choose."
For me, this is Saumil's own leaping-over-the-gate moment. It's when he rejects the unfair choice the universe tried to force him to make. Instead, he takes a running start and goes for extreme compromise. He's determined not to choose. He grabs at both his love and his family.
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