| October 15, 2008 | Wednesday | Shawwal 15, 1429 |
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Wedding traditions at home and abroad
I must confess that being forced to attend weddings is among my least favourite activities. I have been known to leave town to escape this social obligation, but there are times I have to show the flag. In Pakistan, I have worked out a technique that makes attendance relatively painless: I arrive at the time specified on the invitation, confident in the knowledge that even the hosts won’t be there that early. I leave my present there with a card to prove my presence, and the next day, I complain to the hosts before they can lodge a protest with me.
However, this technique only works for formal occasions; where close relatives and friends are concerned, it is more difficult to escape. And given the number of functions that mark such occasions, we are talking about several hours of meeting basically the same people. No matter how fond you are of them, one evening of song, dance and late dinners followed by another seems a bit much. I do my best to turn up, meet and greet all the offending parties and sundry guests, and beat a hasty retreat.
Alas, this hit-and-run method doesn’t work here in England. Once you have accepted (and the lady wife does it, with scant regard for my preference in the matter), you are automatically locked into a sequence of events over which you have no control. For one, a traditional wedding means that seats in the church, often ancient, small buildings in the country, are earmarked for special guests and the lady wife is often a godmother. Then, as the places for the sit-down dinner are designated with the names of the guests, you cannot create gaps in the seating, unless there is a dire family emergency.
Thus I found myself in the picturesque Saint Michael and All Angels Church in the village of Withington in Gloucester last Saturday. It was a lovely autumn day, and the afternoon sun streamed in through the stained glass windows. Like so many village churches, this was an exquisite old building with wooden pews and a splendid organ. We were handed beautifully printed service sheets that gave us the programme of the proceedings. Before the service, we heard Bach, Handel and Mozart on the organ.
At 4.30 on the dot, the bride, looking radiant in traditional white, was brought in by her father, and the Reverend John Beckett delivered his welcome address. Although a bit long-winded, the vicar was earnest and sincere in extolling the virtues of marriage. This was followed by a hymn sung by the congregation. Your intrepid correspondent kept his mouth firmly shut, under instructions from High Command. This has something to do with a charity effort my in-laws engage in every Christmas season when they and scores of friends gather to sing carols and collect donations from passers-by. After I was heard by my old friend Tom Stacey trying to add my voice to the chorus, he said to the lady wife: “I think Irfan is part of a Muslim plot to subvert Christmas.” Since then, I have ceased my attempts at singing in public, and a good thing too, say my friends.
Anyway, back to Withington. After several more hymns and readings from the Bible by family members (during which I was nudged repeatedly by the lady wife to stop me from dozing off), the bride and groom exchanged vows, and signed the register. We scattered rose petals on the couple as they emerged from the church, and then proceeded to the venue for the reception, dinner and dance. We drove across a long drive into a huge estate where we parked our cars in a large field next to the groom’s father’s private polo field.
The dress code called for morning suits; these are long coats, worn with waistcoats and striped trousers. To escape the expense of renting or buying this uniform, I have invested in a sherwani, and was pleasantly surprised to see one other similarly attired guest. This turned out to be an Indian polo-playing friend of the hosts called Khushwant. An amusing, articulate man, he was most concerned about the state of affairs in Pakistan. Earlier, the vicar had assumed me to be a man of the cloth because of my outfit.
The path to the clutch of large marquees (not dissimilar to our shamianas, only these were white) was marked with small lamps. In the first reception area, various kinds of nectar and a succession of tasty nibbles were offered. Cunningly, I had worked out a deal with my friend Kim, a close relative of the hosts: she would take me to a quiet room where I would be allowed to read and sit in peace. I found myself in a cosy room with a fire burning in the fireplace and stacks of magazines and newspapers on offer. A few others who had wanted to escape the festivities had already found refuge there.
Unfortunately, we were soon required to find our respective places on the tables that had names of all the guests above the plates. Now seating people for dinner at parties is an activity that demands considerable time and effort from the hosts. Over the years, I have picked up the basics: husbands and wives or partners are never seated anywhere close to each other. Men and women alternate around each table. From here on, it starts to get tricky. The hosts have to consider who would get along with whom, especially when seating total strangers next to each other when they may be spending a couple of hours together. Frankly, I lack the social skills to do this complicated calculus, and leave it entirely to the lady wife when we entertain.
Before we were served, the bride’s father made a long speech. This was followed by one from an old friend of the family, one by the groom, and finally one by the best man. By now, the spirits were starting to flag, and I was looking discreetly at my watch.
The problem with this formal seating system is that it is impossible to escape your neighbours if you have the misfortune of sitting next to bores. But whatever the luck of the draw, you are obliged to make conversation with the women on your right and left, making it a point not to ignore the less interesting person. For somebody who finds it excruciating to make conversation with strangers at the best of times, it takes all the lubrication I have received till this point to keep my end up.
Luckily, one car was headed home early, and I was able to make my escape while the younger crowd danced on till the early hours. Even luckier, there are no impending weddings on the social calendar for some time – in England people mostly marry in the summer. The downside is that the wedding season will begin soon in Pakistan, and I am headed for the homeland soon.
