A wedding and a funeral

I like attending Syrian Orthodox weddings. I like the wedding songs in particular. I know most people - the bride and groom, and the guests included - would crib about the hour-long ceremony standing on foot through most of it. For a bride on stilted heels, it can be particularly hard. Many like my dad stand outside the church and chat with friends and relatives one gets to see only at weddings and funerals. The only thing that interest them is the sumptuous feast afterwards.

I thoroughly enjoyed attending the wedding of V's niece at the Vakathanam church on 18th. But not so much the traditional Kerala Syrian Christian lunch after that. The welcome drink was over by the time we reached the queue but I must say the food was quite good. The days of fried rice-chicken curry and mutton biriyanis at wedding feasts are over, people are reverting to traditional fare. The kids - Ash, Mira and their first cousin Minu - enjoyed the chicken legs and icecream sundaes. But we had chosen a part of the hall that had no fans on that hot, humid day. As V said, I looked like a kabaddi player after a match, sweating profusely but doggedly pursuing with my meal.

A week later, when I reached my parents' place, the first big news I heard was that an old neighbour nicknamed Kallakittu (Thief Kittu) had passed away. Mind you, he had a respectable Christian name but this was a name he had earned when his family was in hard times and he probably needed to pilfer things to eke out a living. I have memories of him going past my house in pouring rains with a banana leaf or a colocasia leaf in place of an umbrella. In those days, many people did that.

Well, Kittu ammavan's fortunes changed when his handsome son managed to marry a nurse working in the US. Doesnt matter if he tricked her into it or the fact that he was some 8 years younger to her. Kittu ammavan became David muthalali, and even made a couple of trips to the US with his wife to see his son and family. A palatial bungalow came in the place of the old, crumbling house and Kittu ammavan's wife stopped going to Balan's tea shop (now that is another rags-to-riches story - of how Balan the grocer-cum-tea wallah became Balan sir) for her morning and evening tea.

But Kittu ammavan's frail old mother continued to trek to the tea shop in the east of my village for her meals and murukkan (betel leaf-arecanut combo) until her death. For her daughter-in-law never liked her much and she had no option but to eat out. I am told the American son tried to change that but I dont know how successful his diktat was.

The families of Kittu ammavan and his brothers had another nickname too - sayippus (the Whites) because they were fairer than the fair. The men were all handsome while the women were quite beautiful.

Now, Kittu ammavan died and his body was kept in the mortuary for 3 days. His son, who had made a trip from Chicago only a week earlier, had to come.

Strains of samayamam rathathil njan ... (I make the journey to heaven on the chariot called time) wafted through the air as the ambulance brought the stiffened body on a Tuesday. What I hadnt bargained for was that the rest of the proceedings - funeral songs, prayers, tributes and directions to stand before the camera for a final shot with the dead man - would be blared on loudspeakers.

I did not go to pay my tributes - once you are married off you are not a citizen of your village - but I got to hear it all.

Nature cried too as Kittu ammavan made his final journey to the cemetery. The skies opened up in an unprecedented fury while the earth opened up to receive his cold, white body.