My Indian Wedding (Part II)

The day of my wedding had been everything I dreamt of and nothing like I imagined. For the amount of time and effort and money that goes into planning and organizing a wedding, time seems to speed up on the day. I have spent the last two weeks examining every single picture taken at my wedding. I see myself smiling and laughing and in conversation and making all sorts of faces. Yet, I can't seem to associate many of these pictures to any of my memories. I can only remember the excitement and anticipation.

I vaguely remember the night before the wedding. It was close to midnight by the time my family and I returned home after a pre-wedding function. I remember not wanting to change out of my beautiful off white and pastel orange outfit or undo the elaborate bun my hair had been tied into. I remember people running up and down looking for clothes or jewelry or accessories they'd planned to wear to the wedding. I also remember seeing everyone wide awake at 1 in the morning, crossing off things on the to-do list. Somewhere deep inside my head, I also remember my mom looking for her phone. I barely slept for 4 hours. My last night's sleep as an unmarried woman was short and uneventful. I don't even remember anything from the first two hours of the morning of my wedding. I was woken up at 6 and sent to take a quick shower so that I'd be on time for the beautician who decided to show up early. There was only one thing on my mind - to shampoo my hair thrice, as per the beautician's instructions. I cheated and stopped after the second time. I enjoyed the dressing up part though, every moment of which is vivid in my memories. I had the red silk saree and jewelry of my dreams. I let the beautician get my face camera-ready and then tie my hair in a braid. I let her pin long strings of jasmine flowers onto the braid and then apply my favorite red lipstick on my lips, completing the look I had always hoped to achieve on my wedding day. Sometime before the lipstick, I remember being forced to drink a cup of warm milk and then my friend gave me a tiny Twix bar to calm down the nerves. Once the makeup and hair were in place, it was the jewelry's turn. My mom put a gorgeous choker around my neck, other pieces of jewelry followed and I watched myself being transformed into a bride. I would always try to imagine myself in bridal attire for years before my wedding, and watching that transformation happen is a truly surreal experience - one that would always be engraved in my mind. Makeup and photo sessions later, I suddenly found myself at the wedding hall, eyes following me as I walked to the stage, slightly nervous, extremely excited.

While I waited for my husband to arrive, I had ample time to catch up with friends I hadn't met in years and also to pose for a thousand pictures. I was nervous about a permanent artificial smile being plastered onto my face since I had been constantly posing for pictures. At one point the photographers told me not to look like I was being forced to smile. Hmph! Try posing for pictures for hours at a time. I enjoyed exclusive attention for about a couple of hours. As soon as word got out that the bride groom had arrived, my entire family, closest friends and cousins, the photographers who were making me hold props from the stage decor for pictures and all of my bridesmaids disappeared in a flash. I was left alone on the stage without any instructions or expert advice. What if I made a total fool of myself infront of a 1500 people? My little 9 year old cousin felt sorry for me, came up the stage and offered me some of his popcorn. Since my nervousness was beyond anything I could handle, I thought I might as well eat some popcorn. He and I patiently waited on the stage as my husband walked into the hall, followed by almost all the people at the wedding that I recognized, and surrounded by all the photographers. He was made to take one step at a time so that every step is captured in pictures and with every step, I became more of a nervous mess, unsure of how to while away time till he reaches the stage and how long I can look at him without making the gaze inappropriately long for an Indian bride, trying to decipher what color tie my husband finally decided to wear, while also keeping an eye at the guests. I don't think anyone cared about how long my gaze was, since they were all craning their heads to take a good look at the bride groom. The half minute that followed the bride groom party's arrival the stage were the longest half minute of my life. I remember looking at the wedding contract, my right hand and the pen I was holding in it shaking. I took a deep breath and signed on it. And it was done.

As my dad brought my husband forth to the place I was standing at and we were surrounded by family members taking pictures and feeding us sweets and conduct the ceremonies afterwards, I was still trying to come to terms with the fact that I was now married. I had a wide smile plastered onto my face, expressing my excitement and happiness and relief, while also masking the disbelief I was experiencing. Everything afterwards is a blur - a vibrant and happy blur, but a blur nevertheless. We were congratulated by a lot of people, most of whom we did not recognize. But, it was an absolute blessing to have had so many people turn up for us. As we moved on to lunch and posing for pictures together, reality began to hit; that the last couple of hours we spent at each other's side, without stepping away for a minute, was actually a metaphor for how marriage should be and how we should take life forward once we left that wedding hall. The relief on my husband's face mirrored mine. We were beyond relieved to have made it. Post-wedding is a whole different story. But we left that hall by each other's side, hoping for and starting on our happily ever after.

Home - Place, People or Emotion?

Over the last two weeks, every time someone asked me how I was doing, I told them I was homesick. Home is a word that I use way too often. It is one of those words that just make you feel good, feel warm. But I'm glad no one ever asks me where home is. I don't think I can give them one, straightforward answer. It's not that I can't think of any place to call home. It is just that there are too many places I could call home. Actually, I'm often confused about what home really means. This is something I often ponder upon. I recently came to know that this confusion is not just unique to me. Most third culture kids experience it. Third culture kids are people like me, who have grown in a different culture than their native one or their parents' culture. Our lives and memories are scattered in different places; different countries; amidst different people - in buildings that no longer stand, with a group of people that haven't met in a while, in countries that we cannot easily enter; and in cultures that we don't identify with. However, I don't think this is something unique only to third culture kids. Home might have different meanings for different people. It's that diverse of an idea. Maybe that's one of the reasons why I like the word so much.
 
The true beauty of the concept of home lies in the fact that the most unlikely of places can become so endearing and close to your heart that they become home. On 5th October 2000, when my mom and I joined my dad in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia where my dad lived and worked, I instantly knew that it’s not going to be that much fun. I left behind a large family, many cousins my age, a school where I was adored and the freedom to go outdoors to play whenever I wished; back in India. I found myself detesting the fact that as females, my mom and I were completely restricted to our home (in my case, also school) unless my dad could take us outdoors. However, time passed and I had spent the crucial adolescent years of my life in that country. I eventually found myself growing fond of the city, mostly because of the fact that some of my best memories were now made there. The last two wonderful years of high school, a bunch of great friends and loads of extra ordinary memories later, Jeddah was a different place for me. I realized that every street, every corner of Jeddah held memories for me, most of the people I knew lived there and (I didn’t admit to myself, but) the extravagant Arab life that was so evident all around, the brightly lit streets and the never-sleeping city life had begun to grow on me. I eventually moved to the US for college. When I left Jeddah that summer, knowing that I’m leaving my childhood behind forever, I was surprised at how heart wrenching the good bye was. In the years to come, every time I visited Jeddah, I felt like I’m home even though I refused to call anywhere but India, home. When I first arrived at the US, and on my first visit to my college campus, I'd doubted if I could ever feel at home there. Now that I've spent four years in the country and that the country has taught me to and seen me truly grow up, become independent, make my own decisions, make the transition from student to workingwoman and step into adulthood, I realize that without me noticing, this place has become home too. However, even though I've spent most of my life outside India, every time I fly back there, I feel like the place itself puts up a welcome party for me. That first glimpse of the Western Ghats (a mountain range) that stand guard at the entrance to my hometown Nagercoil, fills me with an emotion that I can't possibly put into words. It could be because India is the only place that I can return to, whenever I want without all the visa formalities that surround my trips to any other part of the world; it could be because that's where most of my family lives; or it could be because that's where I started my journey from. But, the joy that fills me when I enter Nagercoil is unparalleled.
 
Recently, I came across an interesting word, hiraeth. The dictionary defines it as “a homesickness for a home you cannot return to, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past." I like to believe that the word was created exclusively to explain my relationship with Jeddah, and the places of my childhood that are long gone. All this reflection led me to a simple realization that I'd always overlooked. It is the fact that home isn’t necessarily just one place. Home is not even just the place where your parents/family live and most importantly, home doesn't have to be the perfect place that has every possible comfort. Home is where a part of you lives, because it has seen you through your good and bad times; when you were at your best and when you were a mess; because it has shared your happiness with you and has given you some comfort in your sorrow; because it has seen you grow and mature; has imbibed a little bit of you in different walks of life; and loves you. Home is a place that will welcome you with warmth whenever you return, every time you return. Home is a place that will seem so familiar that the familiarity tugs at your heart, even if you’re visiting after ages and every physical thing about the place has changed. I had always had resentment at the fact that I hadn't lived in any place long enough to claim that my childhood/adolescent years lived there. But now I realize what a privilege and blessing it is to have bits and pieces of who I am and the memories that I so fondly cherish, scattered over different continents; almost like horcruxes from the Harry Potter series, objects that hold a part of your soul.