Ring

A while back I did a post on my Indian hey-I’m-a-married-lady necklace, so today I’m giving my ring equal time.

To call it a ring is somewhat inaccurate -- it’s actually two rings fused together. Ring One, the engagement part, has the diamond in it, and as you can see, it's not a traditional engagement ring. That’s one reason I love it, and it’s also why the wedding band is a duplicate -- there was just no way to get a regular wedding band to go with it.

Ring Two was made by a talented local jeweler using the trusty and ancient lost-wax process. The sapphire was cut to match the diamond, but I selected the color of the stone, which was surprsingly dificult, as sapphires come in a wide range of blues as well as pinks, oranges, greens, violets, browns, and clear. A few days before the wedding, the jeweler fused them together, leaving me feeling disturbingly light-handed. Silver just can't match the reassuring heft of platinum.

Speaking of platinum, the majority of it comes from South Africa. The sapphire is most likely from Thailand, Sri Lanka or Madagascar; the diamond, again probably from South Africa. The origins of these materials are difficult to trace, however I can tell you that Mowgli made sure the diamond was not a blood diamond.

From various parts of the world, the ring was cobbled together, made its way to St. Louis, and was selected by my husband. With no help from me, I might add.

Ah, the symbolism, where do we start? Two becoming one, a meandering loop of metal joined to another meandering loop of metal, a light stone and a dark stone, the imperfection of the joint that’s only visible from the inside. Mowgli chose one part, I chose the other. I wasn't there when he selected it, but he had my guidelines in mind -- no huge stones, bezel or flush setting because I'm klutzy, white metal.

And we have me, born and raised in the United States, and my husband, born and raised in Southern India, and somehow meeting and melding. It’s as much of a mystery as exactly where the stones and metal of the ring originated, and I care much more about the fact that it all came together than the whys and hows. Now it’s on my hand, and he’s in my life, and he and it make me happy pretty much every time I look at either one.

Thali

Jewelry looms large in South Indian culture, and marriage is perhaps one of the easiest places to see exactly how large. Among the rituals that take place around betrothal is the groom’s family’s presentation of a thali (TALL-ee) to the bride. It’s a necklace, a long, thick gold chain connected to a string of beads and amulets that signifies the woman’s married status as well as the traditions of the family she’s marrying into. Mine has two discs imprinted with the image of Lakshmi, the goddess of material and spiritual wealth and prosperity.

Mowgli and I have done many things out of sequence, and so I received my thali from my in-laws three weeks after our Western wedding. On the other side of the world, my mother-in-law had purchased it, along with another necklace, several saris, bangles, earrings, and an outfit called a churidar, in anticipation of the wedding. These preparations were comforting; I had been worried about the family accepting me, but the moment I heard my Amma-to-be was going shopping for me, I realized I could relax.

Here in the U.S., a co-worker of Mowgli’s recommended a sari blouse seamstress. Because they are tight, they tend to be custom-made from fabric purchased at the same time as the nine yards that comprise the majority of the garment. Once the blouses were ready, I got a sari-wearing lesson, and the in-laws, Mowgli and I went to the local Hindu temple on a date that was selected for its auspiciousness, with me in an auspiciously yellow sari and Mowgli in new clothes.

As on any other temple visit, we removed our shoes, washed our feet (there’s a low shower for that), and went up to the main altar, where a priest said a special blessing over the thali and Mowgli put it around my neck. The whole process took perhaps five minutes, a far cry from the usual days of ceremonies around Indian weddings. But the brevity didn’t make it any less momentous for me; even without understanding everything about thalis, I know they symbolize commitment just as surely as my wedding ring does.

And just like a wedding ring, a thali is worn constantly. When I asked a masseuse in India if I should take mine off, she very excitedly said “no, no, no, don’t do that,” waving her hands around and looking horrified that I would suggest such a thing.


Recently I’ve been unable to wear my thali because of a (harmless, non-contagious) rash, and its absence has been unsettling after over a year of wearing it nearly 24-7. It has heft and presence and even sound (the two tiny-tiny Lakshmi, as my niece calls them, make a nice friendly jangle against the central bowl-like piece). The soft gold beads bear the marks of wear, just like my wedding ring. And similarly to my ring, I look at it and noodle with it throughout the day, often semi-consciously. It reminds me of my commitment to Mowgli and his family, and it takes me back to the moments in the temple just before he put it on me.

At the temple, I sometimes see women touching their thalis to the four sides of an altar as they walk around it, and that makes me want to know more about its religious functions. But for now, I’m content in the knowledge of what it means to me, and what it says about my mother- and father-in-law’s faith in their son’s choice.