Just in case you were interested why I was missing around the end of July and the beginning of August, I was in central Ohio (not necessarily the sticks) to attend and participate in the wedding of my cousin, the wine expert extraordinaire, Ms. DVR. When a colleague at work asked why I needed to take a week off for this wedding, I explained, “If you thought My Big Fat Greek Wedding was a trip, you should attend an Indian wedding, which is really a large family reunion posing as the ceremony dedicated to uniting two people in holy matrimony.” We have a dance party on the night before the wedding, a party to prepare for that party, and yet another party prior to that to get in the swing of things. The Olympics opening ceremonies pale in comparison to this wave that builds momentum, grows into high tide, and recedes just as quickly as it came. (Not minus at least two post-parties, of course.)
Without going into too many personal details, the week was splendid. A perfect opportunity for me to let my mother dote on her only daughter, I was dressed in glam, glitz, and other fine Indian riches and felt like royalty, not often experienced by a geologist who excels at wearing sensible clothing while looking at rocks and computers. Nicely enough, such dichotomy is what makes life interesting to me, and I lapped it all up. I haven’t worn such heavy and beautiful clothing, and eaten equally heavy and beautiful food in a long while. My cousin and her parents outdid themselves in the preparation department, with especially high marks for color coordination and timing. Reportedly, I was great as the narrator for said wedding, enlightening Hindus and non-Hindus alike on the large amount of symbolism behind the Vedic wedding tradition.
My have-to-sit-down-for-this moment: The extended family loves D. I was quite flummoxed by this unexpected turn of events, as I thought most of the stick-in-the-mud, old-world, opinionated Indian panjandrums would simply ignore the big white boy in the corner. However, D had a lot of fun meeting everyone and endeared himself to all of the family members he met (especially the key players, my grandma and nieces).
A special note about dancing at Indian events: it happens and it happens a lot. I am usually the dancing fiend at all functions that involve a dance floor and a bass beat, so various members of my family dropped their jaws to the ground in horror/amazement as my brother jammed with his wife and jumped up and down with me during every one of the pop/rock/hip-hop numbers. Why I never have my camcorder on me at the most opportune moments is beyond me. My mom danced for just one number because she was coerced into it by her friend. I saw her sneak off to the dessert table towards the end of the song when she thought no one was looking. (You want to hear something really funny? My mother and the daughter of my grandpa’s then best friend started Indian classical dance lessons on the same day when they were approximately 5 years old. Mother quit a week later and grew up to be, well, my intellectual and beautiful yet “she ain’t got no rhythm” mom while the other girl, Padma Subramaniam, is now the most celebrated and decorated classical dance artiste of India. That cracks me up every time I think about it.) Unexpected or not, the spirit of enjoyment permeated everything and everyone. As we watched my uncle break it down on the dance floor with my cousin’s new father-in-law, we beamed and felt good that, for once, my uncle just decided to cut loose and party. At that moment, I truly loved my family. It was worth the whole week of travel, frenzied preparation, lack of sleep and energy expenditure.
Sitting in my New Orleans office, as I listen to The Best of The Smiths and work on seismic data at my workstation, should be comforting, but it really isn’t. For I am on the go again – off to California for a week-long field trip that begins on Monday the 16th. “Itinerant” doesn’t even begin to cover my current state. When do I get to sit down again? May you live in interesting times, the wise man once said.
