And she did.
There are many bridal rituals in India, and every village performs them differently. In Barwa Sagar, the rituals begin the night before, when girls throughout the village arrive to help the bride prepare. By six in the evening, our house was filled with giggling children and neighboring women. As soon as Aunt arrived, we all helped Anu into a bath of scented oils, washing her hair in coconut oil and then rubbing her skin with turmeric. Four henna artists were summoned to decorate her hands and feet. They carefully applied the dark green paste, then instructed her not to move too much while she slept, or the dried paste would come off and ruin the elaborate designs underneath. As soon she woke the next morning, Anu scraped off the dried henna to see the final design.
“Look how dark!” one of our neighbors exclaimed. “You know what they say. The darker the bride’s henna, the happier the marriage.”
On my sister’s pale skin, the henna had taken on a deep maroon color.
Little silver bowls of different pastes were brought, and sandalwood was applied to my sister’s forehead, sindoor to the parting in her hair, and rouge to her lips. But despite her nervousness, it was impossible not to laugh. Weddings in India are joyous events, with singing, and eating, and dancing. We could hear the musicians playing in Shivaji’s courtyard across the field. In a few hours, they would accompany the bridegroom to collect his bride.
When the bridal dress was unveiled, everyone gasped. It was a sari of red silk that I had bought in Jhansi, embroidered with gold thread and encrusted with tiny beads that shimmered whenever they caught the light. Half a dozen women helped Anu dress, and when they were finished, the final vision was breathtaking. In her ivory bangles and heavy pearl necklace, she could have been the rani’s daughter.
“Am I pretty?” Anu asked.
“More than pretty,” I told her while the other women stood back to admire her. “Ishan is going to be very proud.”
Of course, he wouldn’t take her to his bed until she became a woman, but already her beauty was arresting.
After that, there was no time for talk. A dozen rites had to be performed, starting with the arrival of six girls bearing terra-cotta jars painted with symbols that have been lucky for Hindus for thousands of years: the alpana, the swastik, the feet of Buddha. The girls had filled these jars with Ganges water, and now they held them and circled my sister three times. A seventh girl blew a conch shell as they danced. There were more rites, then eating, then more rites still, all culminating with the shraddha, which is a ritual done to honor a person’s ancestors.
Then we heard the musicians coming closer and knew that the bridegroom must be on his way, surrounded by laughing, dancing relatives. When he arrived in our courtyard, I took Anu’s hand in mine and whispered, “Are you ready?”
She nodded, and I drew her dupatta over her face so that she was completely veiled. After the ceremony, Ishan would be able to look into her face and see the woman who would someday bear his children. For many men, this is the very first time they see their brides. Of course, Ishan had seen Anu before, but their situation was quite unusual.
I led my sister into the courtyard where Ishan was waiting, surrounded by all of his relatives. He was dressed in rich Benares silk and his brothers had covered him in garlands. His eyes went very wide when he saw us, and I thought I saw the faint traces of a smile. Then everyone seated themselves on the cushions we’d provided. It was the start of a very long day: anyone who has attended a Hindu wedding can tell you, the rites last for more than twenty-four hours, and even the priest must rest before the event is considered complete.
By dawn, the priest was finished, and the relatives who had stayed awake joined the tired but happy procession from our courtyard to Shivaji’s house. I told Anu to go inside and rest, since there would be more festivities come nightfall.
“Anu, tonight’s also Diwali,” I reminded her. She was married during the most auspicious time of the year. “I’ll be back before dinner and we’ll light diyas together.”
When I saw her again in the evening, Anu was laughing. There was so much joy in Shivaji’s house. She would have a very lucky life. I went outside with the men as they lit the diyas and placed them near the walls of the house. If you were a bird and could see our village from the sky during Diwali, you would look upon endless strings of glittering oil lamps.
Ishan had procured a chest full of fireworks, and that evening the bright explosions even made Grandmother smile. At the end of the night, it was strange, walking through the gate of Shivaji’s home without Anu. But Shivaji’s home was her home now. She’d never live with my father again.