Wrapping myself in the thick hotel bathrobe and clutching my cup of hot coffee, I ventured out onto the balcony in the chilly Colorado air. There was music and noise, quite a commotion, on the ground outside, one story down from my second floor room.
I was in Boulder for the wedding of my grandson; but, lo and behold, another wedding was taking place on the green just below my room. This groom entered on a white horse. The bride was brought in seated in — what was it? A cage?
No, it was a highly adorned palanquin. Other principals were gathered on a decorated covered platform. I never saw so many exquisitely patterned saris in all my life.
It was an Indian wedding, taking place right below my hotel balcony. I was an uninvited, and I hope unnoticed, guest at a scene of splendid pageantry.
To my astonishment I saw two westerners, members of the group of Mississippi guests at “our” wedding, enter and take a seat. I was perplexed. I would never have picked Martha and Jim Thomas of Jackson as wedding crashers. It turned out they were, instead, invited guests. Their daughter, Emily, was a bridesmaid. She and the bride had become friends at Brown University. Small world.
The bride wore red with gold threads woven in an intricate design on her sari. Similar garments worn by the guests created a colorful scene.
As far as I could tell from my vantage point, bride and groom sat side by side on throne-like chairs on the platform, facing the man who officiated. He chanted what was, I guess, the ceremony in a clear, musical voice.
Now, I cannot vouch for the accuracy of this information, but we were told later that part of the ceremony consisted in the bridesmaids stealing the groom’s shoes. Then they approach other guests, trying to extort a ransom for the shoes. Guests offer a certain amount of money, but the bridesmaids shake their heads, declining. It is not enough.
Finally a price is agreed upon, and the bridesmaids collect traditionally seven envelopes of money which go to the bride as a gift. Dowry or mad-money, I do not know which.
As the song says, “Everybody loves a lover.” I found myself smiling as I stood alone on my balcony. I wished sincerely that the unknown couple would have a happy life together and enjoy the many blessings life can offer to us, whatever our culture.
The Dispatch Editorial Board is made up of publisher Peter Imes, columnist Slim Smith, managing editor Zack Plair and senior newsroom staff.
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