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Pawan Deol |
I’m in a van full of men from City Radio, on the way to my bosses’ house to get dressed.
For his big day.
I’m already dripping with sweat.
And it has nothing to do with the heat.
I feel one bead trickle from underneath my chin down my stomach.
‘Calm down Pawan, it’s not your wedding!’ I tell myself comfortingly, half-expecting my mother to jump out at any moment with a sparkly red lengha.
A bunch of people I don’t know sit around in the living room of the groom’s house, waiting to be dressed.
They relax on a large red, Italian-style lounger taking in hip-hop music videos that are playing on a flat screen TV.
I watch an old man; he’s not amused by the raunchiness.
I feel embarrassed.
Dan has disappeared into a back room to be dressed in traditional Rwandan attire.
I don’t know anybody else there, so I start bopping to the beat.
“Blame it on the a-a-a-a-a alcohol . . .”
“I expected you to be much more conservative.”
A man whose face I recognize from work sits down beside me.
He tells me that I come across as loose compared to most Indian girls.
He doesn’t know a thing about me.
My thoughts go into defense mode.
I can’t even blame it on the alcohol because I don’t drink!
He tells me that my religion should be my guide in life.
I brought a small ornament with a passage from the Sikh holy book with me to Rwanda as a reminder of home!
He tells me that I should never forget my culture, my language.
I am the one kid in the family that gets praised for my Punjabi-speaking skills!
He tells me a lot of things I don’t want to hear. About being good. About respecting parents.
I’m frustrated and so I try to focus on the music video without looking like I’m enjoying it.
He finally asks me my name.
And then tells me I should stay Indian.
I’m suddenly transported to a scene from The Outsiders.
A near-dead Johnny mumbles “Stay Gold, Ponyboy, stay gold.”
I hear, “Stay Indian, Pawan Deol, stay Indian.”
Several hours later, it is my turn to get dressed.
I go into the back bedroom, and the ‘dresser’ tells me to remove my clothes.
Door wide open, men coming in and out . . . I reluctantly begin to undress.
But my Indian guardian comes in and tells the man who is dressing me something in Kinyarwanda.
He then leaves, and closes the door firmly behind him.
The dresser says it’s okay if I don’t want to get undressed.
Phew.
He carefully wraps me in a dark brown fabric, over my tank top and leggings, which I have now put back on.
He drapes a cream sash across my shoulder and then safety pins the outfit together.
A large necklace is placed around my neck.
He tries to hand me earrings to match.
I tell him I don’t have my ears pierced.
He throws them back in the brown paper bag with the rest of the jewellery, shaking his head.
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 He later scolds me for not bringing a pair of high-heeled shoes.The outfit just doesn’t work without them, he says. I tell him I don’t even own a pair of heels. Shock. |
We pile back into the van at noon.
A hindi song blares on the radio.
I know the words.
I look back and my mother-as-a-Rwandan-man is already smiling at me.
When I travel, I try to leave behind all the pressure.
All the expectations.
Just for a moment, an instance.
But there is no escape.
No matter where I go, what I do, I’m always reminded of what it takes to become my mother’s good Indian daughter.
What’s worse is that everybody seems to have advice to offer.
We arrive at the bride’s house for the wedding.
There are two tented areas that face each other – one for the groom’s family and friends, one for the bride’s – held up by posts wrapped in leopard-printed fabric.
Lawn chairs await us.
We sit, and the negotiations between the families begin.
Or so that’s what it seems.
Expensive alcohol is exchanged.
There is talk about a cow that is being given by groom.
Dancers provide some entertainment.
Wide smiles.
Arms held straight out, twisting and turning with the drum beat.
The bride and groom eventually make their way out several hours later.
And the official ceremony begins . . .
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It is all in a language I don’t understand. But the feelings are the same. Two people, two families, joining together. In a moment of happiness. I try to picture it . . . my wedding . . . I try and imagine my mother’s reaction. |
