Wedding Traditions Masala

Last night, we were happily included in the wedding celebration of a friend who is of Lebanese descent and was marrying a Turkish man with whom she operates a wonderful restaurant.

We were running late due to an unfortunate combination of scant sleep, a canine incident, and concern over our appearance (the event was at the Ritz, yikes). Fortunately, my on-the-way observation that I've never been to a wedding that started on time proved accurate, and we arrived just in time for the bride's entrance to Handel's "Entrance of the Queen of Sheba."

The ceremony was brief and power-packed with meaning and tradition. There was a reading from Kahlil Gibran -- the slightly counterintuitive one about don't stand in my shadow, you can't grow in the shade and so forth. Next, there was a repetition of traditional Western vows over the exchange of rings.

But then, in succession, was a pair of traditions that were moving in their depth and simplicity. First, a Turkish tradition: the red ribbon that was attached to the rings was cut into pieces by the bride and groom and given to the members of the wedding party. If there was an explanation, I didn't hear it, but I took it to be a literal binding of the couple to the support of their closest friends.

Just now, my husband Mowgli (not his real name) brought me the program, which thoughfully explains that the cutting of the red ribbon makes the marriage official.

Then, a Lebanese tradition: A call-and-response blessing involving the entire audience. The officiant told us that we should stand and raise our right hands, and repeat the phrase, "God bless you" when indicated. We the audience were called upon to say it three times, and each time, it felt both powerful and meaningful.

Whenever the assembled witnesses are asked to give their support of the couple being joined, I am profoundly moved, because I think couples need all the help and love they can get. Last night was no exception, and I think it may have been the most elegant occurence of such a tradition.

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.