We are well into the second week of June but the monsoon hasn’t arrived yet. The day is heavy, sweating profusely, waiting for relief. Every time a small curse is thrown to the skies, “Damn this heat” a dozen prayers are offered, “Please don’t let it rain before the wedding!”

In this static lull we are flitting about with an energy that defies the weather. The wedding frenzy has turned us into the Duracell bunnies; the day begins before the sun rises and ends in complete inky darkness (it won’t be pretty when the batteries dry out).The women rush about carrying food, silks and jewellery in their freshly henna painted hands. The men hurry about carrying heavy boxes, makeshift beds and other labour intensive objects. The bride floats around, a little nervous, but also excited, enjoying the rush of attention and affection coming her way.

The day runs out but there's still a lot to do. In the wee hours of the night I finally manage to match my sari with the right jewellery for the coming morning. The same is being done by every woman in the house. Through all the last minute preps, we chat, we laugh, we gossip. Someone is singing down the hall. Once we are done and the bags have been packed, we switch off the lights; we have only three hours to nap before D-day is upon us.

As soon as I shut my eyes the alarm rings. Today is the wedding. It’s no surprise that the house has been awake for much longer. Every room is flooded with intoxicating aromas of flowers, sweetmeat and filter coffee; a surprisingly pleasant mix. Coffee is passed along and the bathroom queue is serpentine. I’m not a morning person, but I’m wide awake; maybe it’s because it’s still dark.

We rush about playing our parts. Simultaneously, with clockwork precision, a dozen six yard saris get draped and make-up is meticulously applied. We don’t much care about the men, after all who’s going to look at them? Once we’re done, it’s time to dress the bride. The clock is ticking, we are told. We rush faster. The bride is dressed and dolled up. We gush and we coo, and we pat ourselves on the back for a job well done, and then we rush again.  

We leave home at six o’clock. The sun is peeping out from behind fat white clouds and wishing us a good morning. Please don’t let it rain, we pray as we head to the wedding hall. For the next three hours we move from one ritual to another. Marriage is a commitment and the ceremonies are where it all starts. The priest conducts this colourful and extravagant orchestra with the greatest of ease. He cracks a joke between every other hymn, easing the atmosphere. Flowers, fire, prayers and rice all make an appearance. Wide smiles shine over all the heavy ornaments and blessing are showered over the happy couple.

Amidst the ceremonies and the chaos, the photographer asks us to pose and pose again, annoying the priest in the process. But he asks the priest to pose in stead, which our man does with a crackling smile. The bride's parents shed a happy tear, the groom sports a toothy smile, and the bride looks like a dream, a vision in red. As the wedding ceremony draws to an end the first showers of the year pour out. We can hear the parched earth sizzle as the water hits it. First a soft pitter-patter, and then a monsoons crash. But for first time in days no one grudges the rain. No one cares about getting their expensive saris wet anymore. We have a brand new married couple in our midst and we are celebrating their monsoon wedding.