Bonding with the Best Man

<div class="section1"><div class="Normal">No 2 Son and No 1 Daughter-in-law have been pronounced man and wife. The boy now has another, closer, personal bond. So be it. In relationships, as with waistlines, we must learn to give up if we want to keep.<br /><br />But these have been times only of indulgence, not renunciation. There''s nothing like a trousseau to trigger truces, and sugar up the bickering that spices any healthy clan.For now, only the gorgeous and the gorging have embellished the nights and days, like the icing on the bride-made cake. <br /><br />Tumbling gamely into serial celebration, I''ve realised that despite the excesses of Bollywood and billionaires, the great Indian <span style="" font-style:="" italic="">shaadi</span> remains the ultimate elevating experience. I''ve watched the multi-cultural proceedings with as much detachment as possible, and I''ve come away socked in the face by the much-dissed cliche of unity in diversity.<br /><br />We''ve stomped at a <span style="" font-style:="" italic="">sangeet</span> and bedecked ourselves in trendy <span style="" font-style:="" italic="">mehndi</span>, even if neither is part of the tradition of either groom or bride. What was once condemned as Punjabification has now been embraced as a trans-cultural enjoyment, binding communities - and generations - in a circle as symbolically indestructible as a glittery glass bangle. To its credit, our tiny Parsi contingent bravely broke the stranglehold of <span style="" font-style:="" italic="">bhangra</span> with no less energetic a jive. <br /><br />The couple has solemnly gone through the nuptial paces of two identity-zealous communities, to say nothing of the neutral prose of the marriage registrar''s minimalist declaration. They''ve abandoned themselves to a rainbow coalition of everybody else''s cultural markers, including those accented by the bride''s global <span style="" font-style:="" italic="">kutumb</span>. With heartening disbelief, I''ve seen the ethnic distinctions diffuse, like the chalk patterns at my doorstep blurred by scores of festive feet. The families have to-ed and fro-ed, laden with ceremonious trays - and tummies laden with more than ceremonial eating. Twice the cuisines is twice the fun, and gastronomic diversity makes for a unified need for antacids. <br /><br />The priests have chanted separately from two different faiths; the benediction is almost identical. The same sacred thread binds them in the prayer for a long life, well-lived with happiness and health, many successors and much success. The Parsi mobed cautions them as fervently as does the <span style="" font-style:="" italic="">pujari</span> to propitiate Saraswati to attain Lakshmi. Both enjoin them to bring honour to their community and to protect their faith. Where''s the clash when the two form so natural a confluence? Why, both even claim the same symbols - rice, coconuts, rose garlands, the mango sapling, the turmeric and vermilion. Though, as with our dinner <span style="" font-style:="" italic="">aloo</span> and <span style="" font-style:="" italic="">bhindi</span>, the Parsi contingent''s rituals too are topped with an egg.<br /><br />Memory races through a marathon millennium, and I think of another cliched story. A proud Persian race arriving on an alien Hindu shore, further up the coast from our bride''s Konkan homeland; its wise leader adding a handful of sugar to a full tumbler of milk to prove that the newcomers would merge and sweeten without causing disturbance. The anecdote is historically suspect but has been culturally endorsed, and I realise that it applies as much to every marriage. Two individualistic people seeking the refuge of one another for a whole lifetime can learn their own lesson from this tale. <br /><br />***<br />aAlec Smart said: "What has happened to brotherly love? It''s been Ambanished." </div> </div>