Jhumru's Wedding

                                

 

 I put my foot down. ‘No dad, I am not going to that God forsaken village for wedding or whatsoever. Dad raised his eyebrows, waiting for my first salvo of excuses.

‘Dad, you know that the seminar on ‘gender inequality in rural India’ in the collage is just round the corner; and yes, Danny’s kitten’s birthday bash is planned in cats’ café next week! I am not going to miss all that fun dad!’ I whined.

‘Well, we have little choice; I will have to go and I am not leaving you behind,’ he snapped. ‘And Jhumru and his family did attend your sister’s wedding; didn’t he? It is our turn now.  It will be very    uncourteous on our part if we do not go.’

‘But dad, that was a destination wedding in Goa, and you sent their flight tickets! And did you forget the ruckus they had created there!’ I tried to reason out.

It had happened that an awestruck Jhumru was roaming on the Candolim beach in Goa where he spotted a ‘foreigner’ girl taking sun bath on the beach and wanted a selfie with her despite her refusal. To his misfortune, her muscular companion lying next to her did not like this idea  when Jhumru insisted! The furious guy got up and beat him black and blue; knocking him out. When Jhumru returned to the wedding venue with a swollen eye and bruised lips; his aghast father demanded a ‘tit for tat’ revenge on the preparator who had tormented his dear and ‘innocent’ son. It took quite an effort to pacify the agitated father who was ready to wage a war on the beach!

Dad was unmoved; he was not buying my story!

‘And dad, three days without wi fi?  You know how bad the connectivity in remote areas is!’ I tried my last weapon.

‘What connectivity you are talking of ! Don’t you think that connecting to your relatives is more important than your stupid social media!’ He retorted with this favourite winning expression of ‘After all I am your father!’

I had no choice left and surrendered.

 Three days later we flew to Patna from where we boarded a snail train to the nearest  railway station , from where a pick up was arranged for us to take us to my uncle’s home in the village which was  a few miles away. After a ride of some six hours in the stinking train coach; sharing space with milk canisters, bicycles, a few sacks of dried cow dung cakes, even a couple of bleating goats and curious onlookers who kept on ogling at my pair of ripped jeans and ‘extra’ long hair; the train arrived at our destination. As soon as the train stopped at, Jhumru jumped inside the coach with a dozen of his friends who had come to welcome the ‘Chote Chacha’ from Mumbai.

  I was worried that the train would start as the scheduled halt was for a minute only.

Jhumru greeted Dad while I smiled and shouted ‘Hi’, much to dad’s chagrin!

‘We have removed the hose pipe so take your time; the train would not start until we get down,’ He assured; trying to impress  us with his heroic act while I tried to make out what a ‘hose pipe’ could be.

‘Those chains are of no use,’ he gleefully pointed to the emergency stop handles painted in red on the compartment wall.  ‘We break the hose pipes connecting two wagons, so that it takes minimum fifteen minutes to fix that before the train can move again,’ he grinned with triumph.

I acknowledged his heroic act with a nod and picked up my suitcase.

“No, you don’t have to; he shouted at his accomplices who hurriedly snatched the luggage from us and escorted us out of the coach; on the cold gravelled platform. By this time, the hapless train guard and the motorman had arrived near our coach; trying to fix the vacuum hose; looking at us with helpless scorn. Jhumru threw a mocking smile at them and gestured to one of his cronies to give them the missing nut of the vacuum pipe they had been frantically searching! Then he led our little convoy out of the station where our ‘transport’ was waiting.

‘Do not worry babu; this is the only thing which can travel to our village; we do not have good roads like in Delhi and Mumbai’, he laughed at my bewildered face and threw our suitcases onto the rusted trailer of a tractor! 

I was aghast! I looked at Dad for support but he was too excited with the prospect of travelling onto a tractor; gleefully caressing the rickety vehicle which must have been salvaged from the scrap yard!

‘Eicher, 1964 model, all German, superb condition! I did not believe they still run these days! These machines were used by even our military in the Indo china war! Amazing!’ He was mesmerized; almost in a trance; marvelling at the piece of junk! He was an Automobile engineer and his heart melted at the sight of such medieval pieces retrieved from their graveyards!

Miles away from his fascination, I pondered over my option of travelling six kilometres in freezing cold on that war relic!

‘You two would be sitting here, Jhumru showed us our seats besides him while he jumped on to the driver’s saddle. Rest of the boys jumped on to the trailer. After many attempts and curses, the cold and sluggish engine began chugging; spewing black fumes from almost everywhere; exhaust pipe included. He grinned in victory and drove.

After going for a little over a mile, every single bone in my body was rattling! The narrow tar road which had  not seen repairs in decades was pockmarked with potholes; some as big as the size of my aquarium! Later I tweeted to my fiends, ‘Guys, postpone that dharna before the BMC office we had planned against the bad road condition. First come and see these; we have potholes in Mumbai and these roads have craters!’

‘The roads are very good here; just wait for the last mile, there is no road! That was washed away in last year’s rains; Jhumru revealed.

‘But you see, before the next election, all these roads would be smooth and shine like Hema Malini’s cheeks!’  He mimicked the infamous remarks of an ex Chief Minister of Bihar about the roads he had built in Patna before being jailed in a scam!

After almost an hour of horrendous drive, we reached the sleepy village amidst nowhere; a ghetto of some hundred odd houses of different shapes and sizes; a few made of bricks. Alerted by the sound of the tractor, a stray buffalo stopped in her tracks and bellowed loudly; announcing our arrival. The dusty streets were almost barren. A few men wrapped in blankets carrying water panes were lazily strolling to the lands to relieve themselves. But most of the villagers were cocooned inside in the warmth of their homes; they would come out when the sun shines. The men would later go to the farms to work or gather in the village square to discuss crops and politics over the fumes of hookah and bidis till dawn, while women would cook, attend to cattle or gossip! Navigating our way through the narrow spiral streets which were full of muck and dazed goats and buffaloes, we arrived at Jhumru’s home.

Compared to the other houses in the village, it  was bigger; made of bricks and mud, a part of which was covered  with a concrete roof; complete with a veranda in the front, where a huge buffalo sat among her filth. It did not pay much attention as I counted my odds of spoiling my expensive snickers before entering the house. Vishnu uncle, Dad’s elder cousin, had come out of the house to greet us. I could not make much out of him as he had wrapped himself in a blanket from head to toe; leaving only his nostrils and eyes visible. By this time, a bunch of half naked kids had gathered around us to get a glimpse of ‘shahari babus’!.

‘Welcome to Chatarpur! He gave a loud shout in heavily accented English; which I suspected was well practised for this moment. I got down from the tractor; nursing my sore bums! Dad coaxed me to touch his feet before I could utter ‘Hi’. Vishnu uncle stretched his arms covered in blanket. He looked like a giant bat, ready to fly with open wings while he embraced Dad. I pretended to touch his knees and stood at a safe distance. After almost choking dad, he turned to me; looking at the tears of my ragged jeans and said with a genuine concern, ‘Did you fall somewhere?’

I ignored his scorn and went to the boys who were unloading our stuff from the trailer while dad apologetically explained the trend of ragged jeans to him which was popular among youths in cities.  Vishnu uncle nodded pensively and blabbered how the values of youth in cities had deteriorated while the villages still preserved the ‘Indian culture’.

‘You can feel the difference in air here when you breath here’ he boasted, standing near a huge methane emitting mound of cow dung.

‘Here everything is pure, organic as you guys say in cities;’ he claimed and led us to our room inside the house which was dark and smelt of mould. There was no electricity.

 ‘Lights would come back by evening; in any case it is not necessary in the day time,’ He said casually while I frantically jostled with my cell phone, searching for network. There was none.

This was the first of the three days of the wedding ceremony which was to begin with ‘Tilak’ in the evening. At the breakfast table, Dad explained the ritual to me. ‘This evening, the guys from the bride side would come with the dowry and present to the groom, and there will be puja and the feast.’

‘These youth of today hardly know about our ‘grand’ traditions; the cities have spoiled them! You just wait for this generation to grow and see the rot,’ Vishnu uncle lamented; looking at my long curls with a contemptuous glance.

Back in our room which stank of cow dung and hey, I confronted dad, ‘Dowry! Why dowry? We did not give anything as such on didi’s wedding, did we?’  

‘That was different,’ He meant to say it was a love marriage, so no dowry.

‘Well, here if you are arranging a groom, you must give dowry; jewellery, a car or two wheeler depending on the groom’s status, household goods and cash. It all depends on the job and antecedents of the groom and family assets etc.’ He explained!

‘What does Jhumru do? A good job?’ I was not sure whether he was well educated!

Dad laughed and said, ‘Well, he is jobless; failed in his higher secondary examinations. Your uncle supports him; but he is lucky to get this girl as wife. She is a post graduate!’ Her father could not afford a better groom as that would mean very high dowry! Dad explained.

‘So what dowry Jhumru is getting?' I was curious.

‘No idea, we can see that in the evening itself when their people come with the presents.’ Dad assured me.

After a while we freshened up and had our ‘organic’ meal. On the table, Vishnu uncle went on explaining what a ‘swindler’ the bride’s father was who had been haggling over ‘small’ items in dowry.

‘Can you believe that they had agreed for a Bajaj scooter and now  they are sending a cheap moped! This fraudster has also reduced the amount of cash we had initially agreed upon. On top of that, he has also gone back on his promise of serving mutton and fish for the wedding party!’ He rued.

 ‘What a miser! If he could not afford things as simple as mutton, he could have looked for another groom, no? You just see what they bring today! Jhumru is also very upset about the scooter which I had promised him and now they are bringing a moped! What a loot? He looked at Dad for affirmation.

In the evening, relatives and almost the entire village gathered under a large multicolour marquee and  sat in separate groups of men and women. While the elders blew out acrid smoke from their hookahs, children ran around in excitement around the table where soft drinks were being served. Women in their colourful sarees and glittering jewellery gossiped in hushed tone about Jhumru’s  bride and his dowry while Vishnu uncle went around the crowd; greeting people and explaining the ‘deceit’ of the bride’s family.

Suddenly the band began blaring at the entrance to the marquee. The entourage from the bride’s side had arrived. The bride’s father and a few male relatives got down from a white SUV; carrying a few boxes, bags and brand new suitcases. Soon after, a small truck followed on which a two wheeler was loaded, covered in tarpaulin. The excited bunch of Jhumru’s friends unloaded the two wheeler and removed the tarpaulin. It was a brand new Bajaj scooter. Jhumru gasped with disbelief !

The bride’s father, an old and haggard man in his seventies boasted with pride and came forward; wrapping his hand around  Jhumru’s shoulder who was flabbergasted by the sight of the scooter!

‘Damadji, how can we displease our son in law!’ believe me, I had to mortgage my last piece of land for this,’ He pointed out to the gleaming blue scooter, wrapped in cellophane. Jhumru looked at his would be father in law with gratitude and whispered, ‘Papa was telling me that you have halved the cash we had agreed upon!’

The old man hung his head in shame and pleaded helplessly, ‘son, this is the best I could do; I am almost broke, all for the sake of my daughter.’

The ceremony began; led by a pundit who kept each item of the dowry; pieces of jewellery, cash and the keys of the scooter one by one on the palms of Jhumru who sat on the ground, clad in traditional attire; seeking divine approval to the extortion.  A relative of the bride gave a brief commentary explaining each item of dowry and cash including the scooter’s brand and price to the audience who were in awe as no groom in the village had secured this much of dowry!  After the pundit had chanted mantras and completed the puja, he invited the guys from the bride side to put sandal paste on Jhumru’s forehead; thus sealing the alliance. Once this was over, the dinner followed where Vishnu uncle had arranged to serve fish and mutton.

‘We will show them that we are not narrow minded  like they are,’ He said to my father. ‘They have no class, you see,’ He boasted, pointing to the cauldron of mutton curry.

Once the ceremony had ended and the guests departed, the lights went out again, leaving the entire village in dark. Tired and frustrated by the bone breaking tractor ride and the erratic mobile network, I hit the bed and pulled my blanket over my head and fell asleep almost iinstantly. Dad who was invited to the ‘exclusive’ group of elders which had gathered in an ante room; drinking ‘English wine’ before the dinner, snored loudly besides me.

We woke up in the morning by the sounds of the wailing of Jhumru’s mother and frantic shouts of Vishnu uncle. Still dazed, I shook dad who was happily snoring, unaware of the storm in the house. When he woke up, we ran out to the courtyard where my aunt was beating her chest while Jhumru and Vishnu uncle sat on the floor; heads hung on their chests.

 ‘What happened?’ My father shouted.

Without raising his head, a distraught Jhumru pointed to a room along the courtyard, with doors ajar.

Fearing the worst, we ran inside the windowless room and saw a big gaping hole in the wall which opened onto the backyard, filling the room with sunshine. Puzzled, we came back to Jhumru.

‘There is nothing but a big hole,’ I was confused.

‘Everything is gone, the scooter, and the cash , Benarasi sarees and all the jewellery , Vishnu uncle lamented; beating his forehead. Apparently, the thieves had burgled in; removing the bricks in the aged wall and fled with the booty which was widely publicised last evening in the ‘tilak’ ceremony.  Suddenly, the entire house had plunged into gloom. The women beat their chests and the groom’s blissful life plunged into darkness; even before it began! The family mourned the loss of assets which it had never earned!

Somewhere deep in my heart, I was greatly relieved by this theft. I even wished I could help the burglars if possible! Dad and other male relatives went into a brain storming session with Jhumru  and Vishnu uncle to decide what to do next! In the afternoon, after a half heartedly eaten lunch, Vishnu uncle declared. “We would cancel the wedding unless we get the dowry back; either from the thieves or from them.’ He meant the bride’s family. The pundit who had doubled up as the matrimonial agent was summoned and given the verdict; to convey to the bride’s father.

He returned in the evening with the ‘sad’ news that the bride’s father had sent his sympathies but expressed his helplessness to do anything

This brought more heartache for the family; Jhumru in particular, who had been dreaming of romantic rides on the scooter with his new bride; her arms wrapped around his waist, while he would take her to the city to see movies and shop her gifts with the booty from the dowry.

 That day the house remained abuzz with police men and sympathetic villagers who speculated about the theft and the lawlessness in the area while the family elders brooded over the prospects of wedding. Somehow my father and other elders convinced Vishnu uncle to go ahead with the wedding as cancellation would bring ‘bad’ name to the family.

‘The matter of dowry can be sorted latter; after all their girl will have to live in this house.’ The village sarpanch asserted with a menacing threat directed at the would be bride!

So next day in the evening, the wedding procession started. Vishnu uncle had cancelled the lights men and the band since the money to be paid to them was gone. Dad had forced me to replace my favourite ragged jeans and hoody with traditional ensemble which I hated. Obviously it was Vishnu uncle who had objected at my ‘torn’ clothes which could tarnish his ‘reputation’!

The procession of a hundred odd men and boys travelled in a convoy of tractors and a lone car wherein the groom and select family members sat; literally jumping our way to the bride’s place, some ten miles away on non existent roads. Everyone remained silent; drowned in melancholy. After almost an hour of negotiating the terrain, we arrived in the bride’s village and stopped at a  decrepit building of a school; which was arranged as our ‘guest house. I was aghast at the prospect of spending the night in that wreck. The building could crash any moment; window panes were missing and there were gaping holes in the tiled roof. The place stunk of cow dung and moist hey which was strewn everywhere; in fact our beds were made of the mattresses of hey and foul smelling blankets. Apparently, either the bitter remarks flying out of the war of the words had trickled down to the bride’s family; or the broke father could not afford any place better. I could see the bitterness and animosity on the faces of ‘baratis’ who were ‘horrified at the show of poor hospitality’ by the bride’s side. Vishnu uncle and Jhumru were almost at the breaking point; burning with anger and frustration!

After an hour or so while everyone freshened up and readied themselves for the wedding ritual at the bride’s house which was nearby, I enthusiastically tweeted about the situation and posted photographs of our ‘accommodation’. Like others, I too was unhappy but there was a silver line! The mobile data network here was excellent!

We walked to the bride’s house, led by a band arranged by the bride’s father which played out of tune Hindi film songs. Jhumru’s friends almost dug the dirt road with their heals; dancing frantically. The bride’s house was decked up for the occasion with lights and colourful flags. A large marquee stood in the front of the house where a loudspeaker blared the popular Hindi songs, ‘Bambai se aaya mera dost….’ and ‘Baharon phool barsao…..’ as our procession arrived. Ladies in bright attires rushed to the car and performed aarti of the groom. However, Jhumru remained morose and kept his head hung. Thereafter the buoyant women escorted him to the wedding altar set up on a small dais; singing folk songs while we sat on plastic chairs under the marquee, braving the chilling wind and million of insects which thronged at the bright neon lights. After a while, the bride arrived; escorted by her giggling friends and sat beside the groom but Jhumru did not look at her; maintaining his pensive mood.  The priest began the rituals and after an hour of chanting mantras, he announced the beginning of the ‘pheras.  But just before it was to begin, Vishnu uncle got up dramatically and went to the jubilant father of the bride and told him that the pheras would happen only after he promises to replenish the dowry.

As his words spread, a pin drop silence swept over the place followed by hushed up murmurs and then to shouts and exchange of angry words from both the sides which reached a crescendo! I hurriedly hid behind dad who remained neutral; probably in dilemma of which side he should take! The situation was palpitating as the war of words escalated. The hapless mother of the bride began crying; embracing her daughter who had gotten up at the altar and was crying too. Suddenly everyone froze with the sound of a gunshot; probably fired in air, outside the marquee. While everyone looked with fear, a burly ferocious looking man entered  the marquee with a double barrel gun which was still oozing smoke. He was the Mamaji, the bride’s maternal uncle, whom I had seen in the ‘tilak’ ceremony. He walked menacingly to the altar and stood near the terror stricken Jhumru who had also gotten up; his legs shaking with fear! Mamaji put his massive hand on his shoulder, gesturing him to sit down. Jhumru promptly obeyed his command without bothering to seek approval of his father and hurriedly completed the pheras around the sacred fire with the bride in tow. After that, the pundit prompted Jhumru  to put vermilion on the bride’s head who was now his legal wife; which he obeyed with a forced smile on his face. The emboldened women immediately resumed singing wedding songs with renewed gusto while all of us; including Vishnu uncle stood frozen inhaling the insult and smoke from the altar.

 While all this was happening, Vishnu uncle tottered to dad and whispered, “Bhushan, enough is enough! This is goondagardi! We are not going to take this insult lying down, are we?”

Dad looked at him with uncertainty. It was not the time to show valour, that too in the face of a gun and hundreds of hostile villagers!

“We will boycott their food and not touch even a single drop of their water!’ He had found the solution in Gandhiji’s ‘satyagrah.’

I hurriedly hid the bottle of coke behind my back while Vishnu uncle went around and whispered his verdict to the hungry folks on our side who had been waiting for the fill. Then he walked to the bride’s father and conveyed his decision who immediately passed it onto his brother in law with the gun who was apparently calling the shots then. 

This dictate of Vishnu uncle further enraged Mamaji. He cocked his gun and fired again in the air, making a hole in the roof of the marquee while we scrambled to take cover.

‘So you want to insult us more by refusing to eat?’ He went to the dais and roared. ‘And what would happen to all this food which is prepared for you; throw them down the drain?’ Then he walked to Vishnu uncle and threatened him with his blood shot eyes; tapping his gun!

The verdict was clear. The baratis, who were more worried for their hungry bellies than for self esteem, heard this and rushed to the tables where a cold dinner waited for them; without seeking Vishnu uncle’s approval. Gulping the chilled dal, I tweeted to my friends, ‘Folks, this is unreal! We all see food being snatched on gunpoint but ever been  forced to eat with a gun on your head!’ However, Vishnu uncle had found a way out to salvage his ‘honor’ and refused to eat; citing his fasting for this ‘pious’ occasion. Meanwhile, the buoyant friends of the bride had stolen Jhumru’s shoes and refused to return unless he gave them five thousand rupees. Once the deal was settled at one thousand, they filled his mouth with poories and sweets before returning the shoes.

Humiliated and defeated, we prepared to leave the venue; leaving Jhumru behind to complete the rest of rituals and walked to our ‘guesthouse’ which was dark and cold. It was well past midnight. I tried to catch  some sleep but the frantic conversation of the elders and mosquitoes kept me awake.

Early morning a few of us went to the bride’s home to take the bride and Jhumru  who was almost a dignified hostage. The burly Mamaji, sans his gun; was much somber by now and welcomed us. They offered us tea and snacks which pacified Vishnu uncle to some extent who was piqued by hunger and  his insolent behavior last night. Mamaji came forward with a wide grin and held Vishnu uncle in a rib breaking embrace and whispered in a voice which sounded as request and threat at the same time. ‘We are really sorry for what happened last night Samdhiji. But Priya is our dearest girl, so please take good care of her.’ Vishnu uncle digested the sugar coated threat and forced an awkward smile on his face.

 The bride and an upbeat Jhumru appeared from the door; followed by the women who began wailing in pain of parting away from their girl. The band waiting outside began howling the tune of ‘Babul ki duayen leti jaa, ja tujhko sukhi sasnsar mile…….’ while we along with the newly wed couple got inside the vehicle and drove to the school. A while later. We began our journey back to our village. The wedding had ended.

Next morning, we took the train to the city and subsequently our flight to Mumbai where I kept on nursing the mosquito bites for days while savoring the hilarious experience of the wedding.

 It was not before a couple of years while we braved the pandemic; dad told me that Vishnu uncle was gravely sick and was being flown to Mumbai for treatment.

Next day, we went to the airport to pick them up from where Vishnu uncle was taken to the hospital and admitted. Jhumru and his wife; Priya bhabhi had accompanied him. After he was taken inside the ICU, we waited in the hospital corridor and chatted.

I was dying to know what might have happened to Priya bhabhi in Jhumru’s home after the showdown. Was she tortured or maltreated for dowry? I decided to talk to Jhumru in private about the last two years of their lives.

‘Initially Papa and Mummy both were bitter; and somewhat hostile to her but as time went by, we realized that she was not responsible for what happened at the wedding. We never got back the stuff which was stolen but just six months after the wedding, Priya gave me money to buy the scooter! At first I suspected that her father had sent the money but I was wrong! During the pandemic, she had taken up an online teaching job. And she was the one who coaxed me to work with Papa at the court so that I could learn work and stand on my own feet. We all realized her true worth last month when Papa became ill and we needed money for the treatment. When we had lost all hopes, she came to me and gave me two lakhs rupees which she had been saving from her on line teaching job.’ Jhumru narrated; stealing fondly glances at her wife.

By this time, Priya Bhabhi had joined us .

“I was saving that money to repay my father’s debt and help him buy back the land he had sold. I only wanted to see his head high and not hung in shame. But right now our top priority is Papa’s health.” She said softly.

 ‘If papa lives, the credit would go to her,’ Jhumru asserted fondly; in a voice choking with emotions and love for his wife.

A week later, Vishnu uncle was discharged and came to our home where he recuperated for a few more days while Priya bhabhi tirelessly attended to his needs, spoon feeding him and giving his medicines, even washing his soiled clothes!  In another week, he was back on his feet; ready to go home. Before leaving, he called everyone in the living room where we all sat; while Priya bhabhi served us tea and snacks.

‘Priya, come here,’ the old man called her and patted her head affectionately.

“I am indebted to you with my life my child, and now, in front of everyone, I beg forgiveness for how we treated you and your father for dowry! I have now understood that you are my true wealth. You had always been my daughter and not daughter in law,’ Vishnu uncle uttered lovingly as tears rolled down his eyes.