It’s taken about a week for me to be able to write again somewhat productively without wanting to vent about wanting to bang my head against the wall in utter despair and frustration until I pass out and wake up safe, sound, sickness-free, and in an electrically-sound home far away from whatever new hurdle Bangalore has thrown at us that we are trying to crawl our way up and over with only our fingernails to keep us from slipping from the rock into the abyss. A bit dramatic? Maybe. Probably. Which is why I didn’t write. I wanted to be in a better place emotionally and physically when I wrote again. I am sure my 3 readers are getting as tired of the drama as I am. So instead of writing in the past week I have tried to rest, recover, and slow down. I have tried to be okay with the boring day-to-day, and to even be grateful and embrace the down-time. Because down-time doesn’t last around here and one has to be fully rested for the next adventure. The best part of relaxing is that I have allowed myself to be sucked in by my latest Netflix addiction ‘The Get Down’ (thank you Courtney and Chris for your suggestion, and Dan, of course I’m not watching it without you).

A quick update without going into too much gory detail: Last weekend we were in Jaipur for a few days to take a break from the electrical issues at the house and all the emotional and logistical energy which was required to try to get it all fixed (even with the amazing help of the relocation company trying so hard to help us to feel comfortable in our home again). Anyway, the Jaipur heritage hotel we stayed in was gorgeous, and from what I hear, the city itself was chock full of culture and history. Apparently there were beautifully ornate city gates, palaces, forts on hills, elephants to ride on, tons of gorgeous handcrafts, jewelry and carpets. Unfortunately, we did not see any of this. As soon as we arrived, the stomach flu hit hard and the rest of the trip was spent looking at the intricate tiles on the hotel bathroom floor and the hand-painted bedroom ceiling for me, and the hotel pool for the girls and Dan.

On a normal day I can handle and mostly embrace all that is India. The masala and curry-heavy spicy food, the smell of burning sulfur in the air, the crowds, the traffic, the hundreds of large and small cultural differences all appeal to me when I am feeling well—well, except for the sulfur smell. But when I am sick, I just want the familiar. No adventure, no excitement, just the boring. And unfortunately, India doesn’t do boring very well. Not that NYC does it well either, but at least there’s the familiar – you know where to order your favorite chicken noodle soup from on Court Street. Even the grilled cheese I ordered at the hotel once I could finally eat was unfamiliar – a strange cream cheese was used rather than the highly processed orange American cheese that my body NEEDED at that moment.

The doctor we called to the hotel said that my symptoms as well as my extremely low blood pressure indicated dengue fever, but that it could also be another type of mosquito carried sickness called chikungunya. Huh? That’s one I haven’t heard of before. Fortunately, the tests I had when we returned to  Bangalore indicated bacterial gastroenteritis. Unbelievable. A stomach flu was the cause of the horror that was the last 4 days?

Just when I was getting used to the cows on the streets of Bangalore…

The hotel pool.

Sassy at the hotel pool.

A gate, not sure of which one, that we passed through on our way to a market.

Mia being cute.

Mia’s own swimming pool AKA the bathroom floor.

My view of the girls’ bed and the ceiling from my vacation spot, the sick bed.

My trooper of a husband on the plane ride home with all 3 girls so that I could have the freedom to rush to the restroom whenever the mood struck. Earlier in the evening Dan was afraid I was going to be arrested when I screamed at the airport security officer who would not let me into the airport to use the restroom when I was going to be sick. He wanted me to wait in a huge line or use the outdoor toilets. I may have screamed, “I have Dengue Fever! You suck and I f—ing hate this country.” It’s amazing what not eating in 4 days and going to the restroom every 5 minutes will do to a person.

The good news is that India hasn’t beaten us. (And this is not an invitation for it to do so). But as enticing as it can be to be an expat with all the luxuries this position comes with, India is not a place for the weak. It’s not going to just let you be and do your own thing. It’s going to get into your cells, into your very being and change you in ways that at this moment seem daunting, but will inevitably turn out to be profoundly life changing (in a good way). If nothing else we will have amazing immune systems.

When we found out we were moving to Bangalore, besides having the burden of my domestic chains lifted, and before I knew all of the drama that would come right along with that, I was most excited about 2 things: 1) Participating in Indian festivals, like Diwali and Holi, and 2) attending an Indian wedding in India. I had been told by people who know these things that while we were living in Bangalore we would definitely be invited to Indian weddings. How were these people in the know so sure? In the US weddings are typically reserved for the closest friends and relatives of the bride or groom. How were we going to become close enough friends with a couple of marrying age in the 2 years we live in India? After all, friends our age in the US are ending marriages, not starting them. Fortunately, in India it’s not about inviting only your closest friends and relatives to a wedding. It’s more like, “Well, we are already inviting 10,000 people, so what’s a few more?” The guest list is typically in the thousands for south Indian weddings. I figured in this case, our chances of being invited were pretty good, especially given that we live in a predominantly Indian neighborhood and almost every single one of Dan’s colleagues is Indian.

I have had the pleasure of previously attending 3 North Indian weddings – 2 in the US, and 1 in the UK. These weddings were all lavish festivities and feasts for the senses, with gorgeous, heavy gold and silk saris, intricate and involved wedding ceremonies and traditions, free flowing drinks, all the most fattening and delectable Indian foods imaginable, and even nose rings. My favorite part of one of the weddings was when the groom rode up to the bride’s parents’ home on a white horse surrounded by his cheering friends and family. I should point out that he was an American of non-Indian decent. Besides the horse, what took some getting used to for someone who has previously only attended Western weddings is the fact that none of the guests were paying any sort of attention during the ceremonies. There was much chatting, eating, drinking and moving around by guests during both the Jaimala ceremony, which is when garlands are exchanged while the bride and groom sit on a dais, and the Saat Pheras, which is the ceremony of seven steps taken around the ceremonial fire.

I don’t know how much of the traditions at these 3 weddings were tweaked because they were held in the West, so I can’t say whether or not everything that went on was typical of North Indian weddings. However, what I have learned by talking to my Indian neighbor, our driver, and the Indian ladies in my fitness class is that North Indian weddings are very different than South Indian weddings, and I was interested in seeing how they differ.

The South Indian wedding we were invited to was the wedding of Dan’s work colleague’s brother whom we had never met. The wedding ceremony itself was being held at 5:30 am, and fortunately, we were not invited to that part. Instead, we were invited to the reception, which was held at the more manageable hour of 11:30 am. Dan said that his colleagues would be going to the reception on their lunch break and going back to work afterwards. I couldn’t fathom going back to work after a wedding reception or that one would last just the duration of a lunch break.

The first question for me was what to wear. We wanted to look appropriate since Dan was the boss of the sister who invited us, but also wanted to look festive. Sadly, for the previously attended Indian weddings I wore Western clothing because it was just easier. Wearing the clothing of another culture can be a bit tricky depending on the particular culture. Would it seem like cultural appropriation if I wore the clothing of a culture not mine as a white person? Not in India. In India, most people are flattered that you try to wear traditional Indian clothing. So I asked pretty much everyone I know in Bangalore what we should wear to the wedding. Dan’s work colleagues said for me either a sari or a salwar kameez and for Dan a kurta with work pants underneath. The neighborhood expats gave me some pointers on shops that would have these items, and a few even offered to loan me saris. The expat crew also told me that it didn’t really matter what we wore because we would be honored guests just because we were from the West. That would be flattering, but the bride and groom had no idea who we were, so it seemed strange that we would be honored, but okay.

Dan at Fab India holding up the one size fits all pants that go under his kurta.

Photo credit to our wonderful neighbor.

The happy couple.

Dan’s co-workers.

Family.

Mia and her bindi.

Mia with the wedding favor.

The Morgan Stanley crew.

My dear neighbor spent 2.5 hours at Phoenix Mall helping me shop for something to wear. We hit up every single Indian store in the mall. OVERWHELMING. Saris and salwar kameezes come in plain, fancy and extra fancy. Bling, embroidery, silk, cotton. Every color, every style. Some looked like cheap prom dresses, some were beautifully crafted and cost upwards of 25,000 rupees. To help me narrow down my choices my neighbor wanted to know what type of wedding it was going to be. Did the invitation have any clues. No idea – Dan hadn’t shown me the invitation at that point. To make matters more confusing, in Bangalore white is reserved for funerals and black shouldn’t be worn – I forget the reason. So the 2 colors I would typically gravitate towards were out. I started to get mall syndrome, and settled on a pretty, long dress, which wasn’t Indian beyond the mirrors on the front and the tassel on the belt. Seemed like a good back up option if the next shopping trip didn’t prove fruitful.

Fortunately, Dan and I had more luck the next day at store called Fab India. Who knew I would have better luck shopping with Dan, the man who only shops for clothing when the gaping holes in his expose too much to be worn on the street? Anyway, I think of Fab India as Indian-light because it’s an easily accessible store for expats and foreigners to score hand-made, beautiful clothing and housewares without having to venture too far out of their comfort zones. To me it felt a bit like cheating to get our wedding clothing there, but it was easy. I settled on a lehengha, which was a long, full silk skirt and a crop top. The crop top was questionable on a 40 year old mom of 3, but the salesperson helped me to adjust my dupatta in such a way that I was appropriately covered, although women of any age in India wear their cropped sari blouses with pride. Apparently, the way that I liked to drape my dupatta was in the style of the Gujarat region in India, which is where my neighbor is from, so fortunately, she was able to patiently help me get ready the day of.

When we arrived at the wedding reception we were invited to take a seat in the wedding hall with the other guests while the bride and groom had professional pictures taken on a stage at the front with EVERY SINGLE wedding guest, even us whom they had never met. We chatted with Dan’s colleagues and Mia and I borrowed bindis while we waited for our turn. Eventually we were invited to the stage, where we presented our gift of money to the happy couple, said our congratulations, and were given a blessing that somehow involved the goddess Lakshmi, red powder on foreheads, and something about being a good wife to our husbands. After the meet and greet, we were escorted to the wedding hall basement which was filled to overflowing with long folding tables all facing the middle of the room, draped with white table cloths, and covered with banana leaf plates. We were invited to wash our hands at the sinks in an adjoining room (soap and paper towels were not available) before we sat down. I opted for hand sanitizer. As we sat at our places, waiters came by every couple of minutes with metal buckets full of various kinds of delicious vegetarian food that was heaped on our banana leaves. This went on for 20 minutes. Several times during the course of the meal, Dan and I were offered spoons by various waiters since clearly we were having a hard time eating with just our fingers. However, Mia was doing just fine. During the meal, the woman who invited us to the wedding’s husband stood next to our table to keep an eye on us to presumably make sure we were comfortable.

After the delicious meal the party was over. We were ushered out of the reception hall, handed a coconut in a mesh bag as a party favor, and were back in the car on our way home. Boom, a lovely, fun wedding reception over and done in just over an hour. I can’t wait until the next one where I hope to venture into the strange new world of saris. Although I’m really hoping for bit of dancing and an open bar…