Chitra Ramaswamy: Pre-wedding nerves

I NEARLY went to an Indian wedding once. The year was 2003 and I was 23. I didn’t know who was getting married and, frankly, I didn’t care.

What mattered was that it was an Indian wedding, and I was going to it.

The closest I had come before this was looking through tiny monochrome photos of Ma and Pa Ramaswamy’s wedding (lots of sitting around cross-legged wearing garlands and eating rice, as far as I could see) and watching Monsoon Wedding. All our relatives were in Bangalore. We hardly knew any Indians in London, and the few we did were already married. I was ready to take my second-generation experience up a notch.

Tiny-but-Deadly and I got all dressed up (this was 2003 so I’m thinking kitten heels, giant hoops, poker-straight hair and a whole lotta Lycra). We even splashed out on a taxi to get there, which in London is the equivalent of hiring a helicopter. In the cab we talked about what it would be like. Would there be dancing? Meat? How many people? I asked Ma R if I could look at the invite again, just for the fun of it.

I looked. And then I looked again. Dear God, no. It couldn’t be. Why? Why us? The wedding, the date screamed with a flourish of shiny gold embossed letters, was yesterday. We were 24 hours too late. For a while I said nothing. I actually considered pretending I hadn’t seen it and that somehow this would mean there would still be an Indian wedding at the end of our journey. And we would go. And it would be amazing.

Eventually I told them. We all felt dreadful and for a while there was a flurry of pretend brightness – “ah, well ...” – then guilt – “if only ...” – then we told the driver to turn back and fell silent. There is something particularly awful about screwing up while wearing your wedding best. It’s like crying on Christmas Day while you’re wearing your tissue paper crown.

But we are Ramaswamys, purpose-built to roll with the punches and make light of all that life deals us. We went out for lunch, bought champagne, then went home for a party of four. Ma Ramaswamy, for the first time ever, dressed T-but-D and me up in saris and Pa Ramaswamy took photos. We all agreed it was the best of times.

Why am I telling you this? Because, people, now is your second-generation correspondent’s second chance. Think of it as like Steps reforming, but with better music, clothes, hair, dance moves and attitude.

We are going to an Indian wedding, but this time we really are going. It’s my cousin’s wedding and in a fortnight T-but-D, Ma R and I will touch down in Bangalore on the morning of the hen night. The wedding is two days later, will last three days and is a big affair – 900 and counting. I know ... WHAT?! Apparently, that’s only first cousins. And families. And friends of their families ... you can see how it happens.

I am beyond excited. Last time I went to India, in 2007, it was, shall we say, an emotional experience. It had been 20 years for T-but-D and me, and ten for Ma R. There were a lot of tears. Who knows what will happen this time. But one thing is for sure. There will be an Indian wedding, and I will be going to it. Oh, and in case you’re wondering I’ve checked the date. But I might just go and look one last time ...