( continues...) bride's family came to feed him sweets.

After dinner, we stopped in a nearby relative's house for Mehulbhai and Ashabhabi to take some wedding pictures. None of that "bad luck to see the bride in her wedding dress" business here! Although, actually, that wasn't her wedding dress.

We went back to the hall to change. I had had a suit fitted in Surat. It was a color I can't figure out. It's purple, but not Crayola purple or Barney purple. It's between purple and brown. It feels like a deep, rich color. The shirt is salmony pink, and the jacket is buttonless. It's pretty damn sweet, really, but unfortunately, it was bloody fitted when I'm this fucking skinny. The pants were tight now; I wouldn't even be able to fit in them when I gained weight. And there was almost no breathing room in the crotch. I was suddenly glad there were no hot women in India.

Once we were all dressed, it was time for us to go to the wedding. Outside the hall waiting for Mehulbhai was, no fooling, a horse-drawn carriage, all decked out in flowers. On either side, women carried colored light fixtures on their heads, whereas men lamely carried them on their shoulders. It was dark now. Zankar Beats filled the air with drumming, keyboard, and singing. Boys lit firecrackers in the street and set off fireworks. Real, Fourth-of-July-style fireworks.

The procession began, with Mehulbhai and some relatives like his sister and my sister in the carriage. We moved slowly, as every few yards or so, we'd set off some fireworks. The lines of lights flanked us, creating our very own lane, signifying our procession as a no-through zone. Sorry, cars. Detour.

In the front, the boys of the village were dancing madly, jumping around in the streets like there was no tomorrow. Dancing in the streets. It was unlike anything I'd ever seen before, but it felt like it shouldn't be. People kept encouraging my brother and me to dance, but we resisted. Then a little boy pulled me in the fray. I tried to go crazy, but I merely confirmed that I can't dance, I can't talk, the only thing about me is the way I walk.

Mehulbhai came down at one point to dance with his friends. They hoisted him up on their shoulders like he'd scored the winning run in the World Series.

Sometimes the dance turned into a garba, where you travel in a circle, clapping to the beat. I couldn't figure out the steps, though. Something was throwing me off. A man asked me afterward, "Don't you know how to dance?" I told him I did, but they were doing it differently.

Firecrackers go boom! Fireworks make pretty colors in the sky!

I tried doing the crazy dancing a couple more times (where "tried" can be read "was pushed into"), and I began to get with it. Now the men and women whose names I did not know but knew who I was placed their hands on my shoulders in acceptance: I was truly one of them.

The next time the garba started, I watched the feet more closely, and I finally figured out what had been throwing me off. There were only four steps, and they did alternate feet. It was the directions that confused me. Forward with the right foot and a clap (right foot means clap). Back with the left foot in some fashion. Return with the right foot and a clap. Advance with the left foot. That was what threw me off. I wanted step one to be a clap, but it made me feel like you only advanced on the right foot. Now that I had programmed my body, I could move with the beat.

No one missed an opportunity to remind me I was next in line, and would I have my wedding in India?

Somewhere along the line, we picked up Ashabhabi, and she sat with Mehulbhai in the carriage for a spell.

Nearly an hour of fireworks and dancing later, we reached the wedding venue, whcih was erected right on the road outside her house in the village. As we arrived, our menfolk embraced their menfolk. Weddings are also about joining families. It was at about this time that I realized all these people would now be part of my family. Blood is thicker than (continued...)

( continues...) water, but Indian blood is thicker than crapshaite. I also had a small "Mota Bapa should be alive to see this" moment. Mota Bapa was my dad's older brother (and thus Mehulbhai's dad's older brother (he was the oldest of the three therefore Mehulbhai's Mota Bapa too)), killed last year in the stupidest car accident ever.

Inside, we filled the seats. Men on one side, women on the other. In the middle was a sort of gazebo. After a while, Mehulbhai took one of the seats. A sheet was held between him and the other chair. More blessings and prayers.

Ashabhabi had come out veiled, gone to the back of the venue, and then gone back into her house. We weren't sure what she was doing, but she finally did take her seat on the other side of the sheet. This was symbolism: first, you are separate.

When the sheet came down, both sides had relatives shooting Silly String at each other. This was symbolism: marriage is silly. Okay, no, it's just a thing, because now, there was a string tied around them, and they clutched two handkerchiefs that had been tied together. Now they were one.

At this point, my brother and I got to take seats up there. There was now a lot of gift-giving and blessings from both families. And ice cream. This was my first major interaction with my new bhabi, as she asked if I wanted ice cream and offered me her own. I had given mine to my brother since I'd tried some but he hadn't had any. I was about to take hers when a fresh one came for me.

Okay, so the shoes. There's a fire pooja, and you have to take off your shoes, cause, you know, God. The tradition is, the bride's brother (leader of her male side) steals the groom's shoes and makes him pay to get them back. The countertradition then, of course, is for us to hide his shoes before they can be stolen. We had a whole plan worked out.

I stood behind the chair. When Mehulbhai took off his shoes, he would kick them back under the chair, and I would take them and hand them off to my brother, who would hide them. But our plan was foiled! For as soon as he began to remove his shoes, Ashabhabi's brother ran up and started to take them right off his feet! Mehulbhai got one off, and I kicked it back to Kiran. No one noticed, as my sister created a diversion by trying to wrestle the stolen shoe away. But alas. At least he only got one.

The fire pooja involves the couple walking around the fire several times, and there's a great deal of religious symbolism. It's the last ceremony of the wedding. But not next to near the last tradition. It was time for her brother to negotiate his fee for Mehulbhai's shoe. Word was his target had been two thousand rupees. He only had one shoe, though, and he only ended up with five hundred, which was almost certainly more than the shoe was worth.

Now the families lined up, and the bride and groom received blessings from their families both old and new. I got in line to shake their hands. "Hello!" I said to Mehulbhai in Gujarati. "What's your name?" "Shut up," he replied in English.

This is when the crying began, as the end was nigh. You can say you're not losing a daughter, you're gaining a son, but they're thinking, "We are losing a daughter, he's taking her away to bloody America!" Although by chance, he'd picked a wife whose older sister lived in Grand Prairie.

Then, Mehulbhai and Ashabhabi went into her house so they could leave it symbolically. They both paid their respects to her deceased elders. After they walked out the door, they left their handprints on her house in red powder. The couple walked to their decorated escort and drove off.

This wasn't the end, though. They were being taken to nearby relatives of ours, who would give them water, etc., as per Indian hospitality. Her brother would go steal her back. Finally, we would take her from her home once again. It was being done this way for convenience, but to be hardcore, we would have taken her all the way to Toli, and her brother would have to go there to get here, and we'd come all the way back to (continued...)

( continues...) retrieve her.

Another reason it'd be nice to find an Indian girl. There are all these things Natalie Portman's family just wouldn't know about, things they needed to do.

Vimalbhai and I walked to her house, where we were given water, ice cream, and 101 rupees. Then Ashabhabi came out without a fight. We didn't have to do anything, but our presence was symbolic. It's this whole push-pull dynamic to ensure their daughter's in good hands, and I can't decide whether it's sexist or all pretty and noble. Does it turn her into a prize ot be won, or does it give her power to be the center of the ceremony?

On the way home, I thought about how much I loved my brother and sister, and how I had to love my parents, because you can't not love your family, that's what they're there for, they're there to be loved.

When we reached Toli, there was one more shenanigan in store: Nishaben and Jigna wouldn't let Ashabhabi into the house until she gave them money. Her bank was her younger sister Nikky, who, incidentally, was one of the less than ten.

Once inside, Mehulbhai and Ashabhabi paid their respects to his deceased elders. There were some more prayers, and some blessings for the marriage bed, and some more prayers, etc., the next morning.

And that's how you get married in India.

Trudes, I didn't say all dildos and butt-plugs.

t goes back to read about how you get married in India

Wow. Now, THAT'S a wedding.

But seriously, P-C, not even one hot woman in the entire sub-continent? Exactly Zero Indian women of hottitude?

Cashmere, I'm thinking calming thoughts for you, and healthy thoughts for your mom.

Health-ma to your mom, Cashmere, and calm-ma to you.

I would like my Bible studies to have more snark and less sweetness, please.

That would make it more fun and memorable.

P-C, that is quite the wedding. Sounds like a lot of fun for everyone!

But seriously, P-C, not even one hot woman in the entire sub-continent? Exactly Zero Indian women of hottitude?

It was distressing. I wasn't really feeling the hotness so much. I think it's not so much Indian women but Indian women from India. The whole style and appearance is different from here, you know? And like I said before, I'm used to how we do it here.

Much -ma to you and your mom, Cash. {{Cash}}

Gah, Cash. How scary. I hope everything turns out fine.