20 January 2012

Disembarking into the unseasonably cold night air at Navsari station I felt an immediate sense of being on familiar ground. Geoff and I set off in 2 different rickshaws, perched next to our suitcases, with him reminding me again, with a sterner voice and gaze to make sure that I didn't lose him, as he had no idea at all where we were going. He was playing safe though, by taking the bag with the keys to the house with him! My rickshawwala was a friendly chap who interrogated me in the usual Indian way: where had we come from; did we have children; what job we did etc. As I got ready to deal with what would be to Western sensibilities personal questions like what did I earn, what properties we owned etc, I realised suddenly that I must be tired, or getting the early signs of Dementia. I had been answering his perfectly colloquial Gujarati questions in Hindi! That's my India, a mere 4 hour slow train journey and you need to switch languages: although most educated people do speak the national language Hindi, and a great many English as well as their Marta Bhlanguage other tongue). We arrived in tandem, despite Geoff's fears that I would leave him wandering round the city in his rickshaw, at the Radha Madhav complex where I had stayed in 2000 with Dani at her brother's house the last time I came to India. Behind the imposing gates a wizened old man perched on his sentry's chair muffled from head to toe in what looked like a coarse horse blanket. His limbs cracking like snapping firewood, the rheumatic eyes peered at me suspiciously as I told him who I was. Then he seemed to decide who I was quite independently of what I'd said: so now poor Dani's brother is lumbered with another sister in addition to the 5 he already has! It was all go the next morning for, wait for it: a wedding! The Yoga Gals' (from Nuffield Health Club) nickname for me is "Wedding Queen" because they think I go to so many of them, but actually compared to other Indians I lag far behind. This was moreover, it was explained to us again and again, not a PROPER wedding, only a CIVIL one with only around 600 guests ( and 2 additions from the UK) as a marriage certificate was needed with all other proof, of priests conducting the ceremony, including the couple going around Agni ((holy fire as immortal witness) to start the immigration process for the girl to join her spouse in Canada. The Real wedding, which they kept tying to make us promise to come to, was going to be next January, with over 2000 guests. I felt embarrassed to be given the seat of honour next to the Mandap ( wedding Dias) but was able to really enjoy the wedding ceremony chanted in Sanskrit (like Latin is for Roman Catholics) by no less than 3 priests.

Pray what was Geoff doing as I developed my understanding of wedding rituals? Apparently he'd been invited to someone's house nearby, where half a dozen men sat drinking beer and whiskey! Exhausted and absolutely stuffed full of beautiful wedding food we headed back to Navsari on the Mumbai to Rajasthan highway which became worse than the M25 at rush hour. That's when a 2 wheeler rickshaw scooter taxi comes into its own: Geoff and I just prayed and clung to the rails as our intrepid driver sneaked around lorries, braved big trucks as he cut across them, depositing us safe but shaken outside the house. A G & T with lime and soda has never tasted so good or been so needed! - Posted using BlogPress from my iPad lower cadre

Location:Movwa village 1 hour from Navsari