Bibaho Boishakh

I have always criticized my mother for having got married in the sultry, uncomfortable month of Boishakh. One of the lesser important reasons why I chose Ashaadh (the monsoon) to show my rebellion and disapproval.

I remember leafing through my mother's huge, red, wedding album when I was a child. I remember it all the more because (A) handling it was always allowed under very tight supervision and (B) that's precisely how I learnt to carefully turn the pages of a book by their corners without forming a crack. Those were the 20th century days of black chart-paper like fragile album pages with golden or silver triangles for bearing the corners of Kodak moments.

By the time I was bordering teenage, my sister and I self attested our respective "Miss Know-it-all" certificates, given that we knew all my theorems and all her spellings, knew the newest BSB songs in spite of NOT having cable TV, and could sing My Heart Will Go On by heart. We instantly searched out some humor out of the grave old red book : the outrageous flowers in the maidens' hair, the totally overdone eyes and the Benaroshi-s, the modest wedding décor sometimes giving into a peeping "gamchha" from an open window or an array of unarranged utensils from the corner of a half closed door. Yes, those were the days when weddings mostly took place at the very own home of the bride.

And then the predictable happened. The much-made-fun-of "Behenji" stole the heart of "swanky flamboyance". The more we made fun of the photos, we I actually started stealthily loving the concept of it. Genes, maybe, you see.

It has been a (unwritten and coincidental) tradition from my maternal side, that the daughters get married in white/off-white and red Benarasis. Maa did, so did my Didibhai (maternal grand mother). And at 17, when life and tuition classes were opening up a panorama of prospective grooms, I decided I would too.

 I stuck to my promise for the next five years. After much eyebrow raising by the salesmen on a "white&red wedding saree" for not the mother of the bride but the bride, Mrs. Swarnali Kanjilal personally helped me pick a suitably gorgeous trousseau for my D-Day.

My mother was "decorated" by an aunt of hers. In those days, weddings at home called for some Ranga-mashi's designer khnopa-s (bun) and or a Phool-pishi's drawing of the forehead chandan, alongside the flash of bouty-s and Baluchori-s. It is the only colored photograph of hers I have seen where she's wearing red lipstick. Red. The only one. Maybe that's why it remains embedded within, an inch deeper than Shah Rukh Khan's "Palatt.".

One thing I "crushed on" from the album was their phoolshojjya décor. I hear it was ordered from some florist at Hogg Market. It was a rich jasmine upholstery with dollops of red rose buds, while curtains of tuberoses lined the room . But the show stealer stands out with the floor. They had created a marvelous spread of assorted flower petals, kucho-phool as we call it. Predominantly it was fuschia, white and orange dopaati, whose English name I am unaware of, hence the internet photograph for a sketchy reference :



Dopaati (Courtsey : Internet)

I promise putting up some pictures, if the lady allows me to do so. Only the room décor part. (I promise to spare ourselves the cameraman-cum-friend directed onscreen, icebreaker mush!)

(P.S : I explained a similar décor for my own. I shared snaps with the man in charge. Efforts were made, but then the result was nowhere close. I was a wee bit disappointed, but I'm happy that some things are rare. That's what makes them special.)

The ever-hungry soul I am, we often concentrated on the tit-bits of details on unfinished plates of our parents, on the post-wedding photos. I could figure out the Radhabollobhi, aaloor domm, chholar daal on Maa's platter. Baba had a couple of perfectly fat, rectangular fish fries (Not to be confused with the tapering shape of Beckti Fry of Peter Cat) and maachher kalia, with the sinful orange gravy seeping down the hill of pulao. I remember the amount of pitiful drama we created for having missed this biyer khawa! And Maa meekly had to compensate with pulao-mangsho on the upcoming Sunday, with absolutely no fault of hers!

I have called her at least thrice this morning. It was about picking up my daughter from school, a second one about altering of a blouse cuff gone long (and wrong) and lastly, a lifesaving opinion on the phoron we Ghoti-s put in our shukto.

 And then I wished her on the fourth one. My husband is already a point ahead with some white lilies at her doorstep. I plan to buy her a book. And a plant. Preferably, dopaati. Of all the things I miss about our old Howrah home, this terrace garden beauty almost tops the list.

My parents' 31st wedding anniversary it is. How at times I thank them for getting married to each other!