My eyes opened a fraction and everything started to sway and revolve around me, I closed them again. As I lay in the dark on my favourite armchair the events of the previous evening were still a little blurred. I attempted to open my eyes again. In the darkness I could see a swathe of bodies on the carpet all huddled up under rajjaies and blankets. I looked over at the mantle piece and saw Pritam Kaur staring at me from the numerous framed pictures of her, next to her the ‘ek-oan-kaar’ clock read 3.55am. I shivered a little under my blanket, it is said that some people get up at this ungodly hour to do paath and simran, to be honest there have been times when I have gone to bed at this time after a good night out.

It was the wedding day, today! The thought caused a little panic but my head throbbed and my mind was still a bit cloudy. Being an Indian wedding the relatives had descended from all over the country and last night just grabbed blankets and doss’d down wherever they could. It still surprises me when I see an English wedding on the TV, there is hardly anyone at the boys or girls house in the morning, not at a Sikh wedding, it is crammed packed with people and there are literally dozens of cars outside cluttering up the street.

Last night was the second maia night which meant we covered Rekha with a mixture of arta and mustard oil called buttna in a vane attempt to lighten her skin a little, not to mention anyone else who strayed too close. The rotters all ganged up on me and gave me a good rubbing down with it, I could still feel some stuck in my crew-cut beard which itched irritatingly. There was a good bit of partying done last night with a DJ blaring out the latest bhangra beats. Men and boys, women and girls, hot and sweaty really got down to a bit of shoulder twitching. It would all have to be done again tonight at the reception, and tomorrow as well. It’s a dirty job, but someone’s got to do it!

Being the bachola I had been given a lot of responsibility with the organisation. As I lay in the darkness picking out bits of dry arta from my face I tried to make a mental check of all the bits and pieces. The booze was the main thing and there was lots of it. Bacardi by the box load, and Bell’s whisky, the jaan-ate would be mighty displeased if there was any lesser variety. Poor Rekhas father, he was caught between a rock and a hard place. Being the brides’ father he had to pay for the whole caboodle, down to the last box of confetti. We have picked up so many ‘traditions’ from the west but not discarded any of our own, so the burden seems to get heavier and heavier, not that the boy side are complaining they still require the whole shebang to be tip-top else it is a matter of izzat. So, we have all our own traditions, the dozens upon dozens of women’s ‘suits’ that have to be given, one for the grooms mum, one for his nani, one for each of his chachi’s, one for each of his tai’s, one for his pooa’s, one for his fuface (who are these fuface’s anyway?), one each for his sisters and his cousins and I haven’t even started on the brides side, and the 21 suits for the bride and the three full gold jewellery sets! Then there is the Gurdwara to book and the reception hall and the caterers for the morning reception and the afternoon main meal. They do it by the thaali these days. With £3.00 a thaali, and a standard estimate of say 300 people, that would be near upon a thousand quid, and that is just for the main meal. Then we have to have the boy kitted out in three suits and an expensive watch and gold karra and of course the ring, not to mention the ring for the boys father at milni time where he will put on the obligatory show of “No, no, this is too much” and at the same time extending out his finger. We then go on to the so-called dowry which is supposed to be outlawed but god forbid if this is anything other then top-notch – plasma screens, fridges, washers, dishwashers, cars, houses you name it at some point in time it was been included. Now, this is all old hat, that is to say this is how things have been, but now in all our self-glory to show how modern and ‘with it’ we are, we have decided to add to this endless list items like a four tiered wedding cake, bhangra DJ’s, white limousines, wedding present lists, is it a wonder the parents of a newly born female will look a little stunned.

I shook my head a little, someone stirred in the corner and mumbled in their sleep, “Gibb me bottle, gibb my drink” he kept repeating, he was obviously still at the party. I looked at him with disdain “Kio marddha jandha eh?” I thought, what is it with people. You can get a bottle of Bell’s from the local shop that is open 24 hours and yet these people will drink as if there is no tomorrow. People are so lalachy that a bottle has to be completely drunk dry, god forbid if even a drop is left. I looked over at my new suit bought from M&S last week with a bright red cummerbund to match the colour of my cheeks. Pritam Kaur had gone for a pale coloured Indian style trouser suit with chunni of heavy embroidery, apparently lengas were out this season.

There was a knock at the door, I got out of my warm comfy chair and managed to avoid stepping on anyone’s head. I poked my nose through a small gap in the door to see who it was. “Hi my name is Meena, the hairdresser” said a voice in the dark who was far too bright and chirpy for this time of day. “Hairdresser?” I shouted a little too loud “I haven’t booked a hairdresser.”
“Don’t worry, I did.” came my wife’s voice from behind me “Come on in Meena.” Meena filed past me and went straight into the kitchen and started unpacking her tools, she’d obviously done this before. “Hairdresser, at this time in the morning? Today?” things just didn’t compute this early in the morning.
“Go brush your teeth and start getting ready, we don’t have much time you know. Everyone will be getting up soon and there will be a queue at the bathroom” Pritam Kaur advised me. Women are so much more clued up then we are. If we had to run the home we would make a right ‘bodge job’ of it I thought, there would be used dishes and clothes littered everywhere. But the ladies, bless them, go into a new household and adapt themselves and run it like clockwork.
“But what’s with her” I gestured at Meena.
“She is going to do my hair, followed by Sukies, Harpreets, Jatinders and Kirndeeps” she said.
“Oh, those bouffant type hair do’s that need setting for an hour. How much?”
“Hundred and fifty pounds each” she said matter of factly.

“Whaaaat?” I shouted trying to keep my voice down “that will be, er, seven hundred and fifty pounds?.” I couldn’t believe it “not bad for a mornings work” I thought as I wondered off banging into walls trying to think where the bathroom was.

Considering the house was packed with guests they all managed to get dressed and ready with the minimal of disruption. Everyone stood around in their dark suits and new shoes drinking glasses of hot steaming tea. It was time we all progressed to the gurdwara, so everyone piled into their BMW’s, Mercedes’, Audi’s and some poor soul into his Ford Mondeo.

At the gurdwara we had laid the tables with cups and saucers and the mutthai – ladoos, barfi, chumchum and now stood idly waiting for the jana-ate. Considering that most of them could have walked the short distance to the gurdwara, the jann-ate was nowhere to be seen and it was already 10.30am. We stood in out shirt sleeves braving the stiff breeze. Then a coach appeared over the horizon followed by a fleet of cars and the obligatory stretched limo’. Everything was now running an hour and a half late, but whose counting?

As everyone gathered in the car park for the milni ceremony forming a large circle, with the jann-ate on one side and the girls side on the other side you could tell who were the gursikhs and who were not. For the gursikhs took off their shoes when the giani started the ardaas and clasped their hands in remembrance of the true Lord with whose blessings this whole karaj was about to start, while the rest of us shifted and fidgeted. Those clean-shaven Sikhs amongst us had to be told to cover their heads which they did with great reluctance with white handkerchiefs. The ladies were worst, either unable or unwilling to cover their heads and those that did barely covered the back of their head. A sorry state we are in when for a few moments we cannot even respect our Guru on this happy occasion.

The milnies started with the fathers of the bride and groom meeting formally. Fancy haars were produced which of course got tangled up as one put it over the other and then the other reciprocated. “Edhar edhar” came the instructions from the cameramen. Rekhs father then produced a small red box from his pocket and took out a gold ring. The boys father genuinely looked surprised, I think he should have got an Oscar for it. The inevitable “no no no no ih ta bohut hey” was followed by the ring being eagerly accepted on his finger. The elder statesmen of the families were next, the nanas’, mamas’ and taia’s. As I stood in the crowed I surveyed the scene. Everyone seemed to be enjoying the spectacle. It was now the brothers turn for the milni and someone shouted “chack-dhay, chack-dhay” to which the grooms brother bent down and grabbed Rekhas brother around the legs and lifted him into the air. There were cheers from the jann-ate, and groans from our side. For some reason this is regarded as big bezithi and Tonni had let the side down. “Oi Tonni eh kee keeta?” shouted Fuffer. Tonni held his head in shame. This obviously meant that we had to get our own back and so the whole thing kind of degenerated into a type of summo match, although light hearted and much to the glee of all watching.

The morning tea had finished and it was well past 11.00am I took off my shoes and quickly glanced up at the gold plaque on the wall with my name and donation amount on it, I had no time bask in my glory as I rushed in to the darbar sahib ahead of the throng and did my mutha-take. I sat down to one side, it had been a hectic morning but I could now relax a little, I surveyed the scene.

A long line of jann-atey and guests built up to do the matha-take. It concerned me a little that these people are the same people who come to this gurdwara week in week out and show great respect and ‘adhav’ to our hazzar naazar Guru and yet today they seemed to be so wrapped up in the wedding and all its trappings that the Guru was only of secondary importance. The ladies were so preoccupied with their latest dress creations and jewellery that a quick mutha-take was all they could offer their Guru. The men were so preoccupied with their new suits and who had the latest mobile that they hardly acknowledged His presence.

Next to Guru Sahib Ji’s stage the video cameramen had started installing their mini studios complete with large sturdy tripods, accessories, TV monitors, mixing consoles and miles of cable. Of course each side has to have a video guy who doesn’t just record the events these days but directs the whole proceedings also. All he now needs is a beard and a baseball cap with “Spielberg” written on it to complete the persona. These guys have to get the ‘shot’ and if that means disrespect for Guru Ji they do not care. They will get on stage next to the palki, behind Guru Sahib Ji, have their backs to Guru Sahib Ji, anything goes as long as they get the ‘shot.’ They even ask for re-takes these days. The one from our side was a typical video guy, overweight overhanging stomach with the video equipment slung on his shoulders and 20m to cable wrapped around his waist. The spot lights had been set and he marched up and down the darbar sweeping his lens to and fro. I wondered to myself, maybe their power should be curtailed. Maybe they should only be allowed to set up their cameras on the tripod and only allowed to film from this spot.

The most solemn part of the day had come when even the most hardened soul will shed a secret tear, that of the pullay-di-rasam. This is when the brides’ father ties the grooms’ pulla to his daughter in a symbolic joining of his daughter to her husband. It is quite an emotional time, for all her life the girl has been nurtured and loved by her parents and now it is time for her to spread her wings and fly the comfort of her parents’ home.

The sangat sat listening to the lava and watched to see if the groom and bride would walk too fast or too slow around Guru Granth Sahib Ji and then seeing if adjustments to the speed of walk were made in the proceeding lavas’. The lavas were complete and Sri Anand Sahib Ji recited, so now it was the turn of the purbundhks. The sewasdhars from the committee knew that they had a captive audience and the speeches started. The Stage ‘Sekkutur’ followed by the Pardhaan followed by the Trustees, on and on it went numbing us into submission. Then glory be, the last item. It was Pooa Ji who had decided at the last minute to sing a shabad at the wedding that she had learned twenty years ago. So we had to endure a slightly off-key shabad but we showed our appreciation anyway with a pound coin pay-tta.

At last the Anand Karaj ceremony was complete and there were smiles all round. Isn’t it a great ceremony I thought, so full of Guru Ji’s blessing, so full of colour and happiness, and it’s so informal. The men sit solemnly while the ladies who generally have to look after the kids, take care of them admirably as the little ones decide that they would rather go for ‘walkies’ around the darbar and normally end up infront of Guru Granth Sahib ji attracted by all the flowers and the clanking of the maya in the money box. The darbar Sahib is no cold echo’y place decked out in drab colours where one is reluctant even to cough, but instead it is so full of colour and warmth and friendliness, all Guru Ji’s kirpa I thought.

Then followed the suggan ceremony, no orderly queue here, this is basically a free for all with a line forming behind the bride and groom, at least five deep and people deciding to join it wherever they please. The more polite of us being pushed further and further back. I jostled with the other guests desperately trying to find Pritam Kaur so that we could place the haar around Rekha and Joginder Singh. I caught her eye and we pushed right in front of the queue. On a pretence of saying ‘sat siri akal’ to someone in the queue we kind of just stayed there, trying to avoid the evil looks from those around us.

No time was wasted in getting to the Millionaires Club situated not too far from the Gurdwara. The aim was to secure a good table in the reception hall, any ‘reserved’ notes on chairs or tables were promptly ignored or just removed and the table was accosted. We arrived late as we had to attend the “coat” marriage in an adjoining room to darbar sahib. The tables in the reception hall had the obligatory Ready Salted crisps and ‘juice’. Let the part begin!

Just like a Gursikh is attracted to the sound of Gurus’ bani, just like a moth is attracted to a bright light, just like Baloo in The Jungle Book who could not resist the monkey beat, the guests and jann-atey could not resist the bhangra music that started in earnest at a volume that Led Zeppelin would be proud off.

They came leaving their seats and finishing off the last bit of Bacardi in their plastic cups to the dance floor. And oh did we dance. We danced, our arms raised and our shoulders twitching up and down with silly grins on our faces. Just like in the Irish Riverdance where the only part of the body that moves is the legs, in Punjabi Bhangra the only thing that moves is outstretched arms moving up and down at the shoulders, even overweight blokes can do it. Unfortunately they did.

The caterers prepared and served and the people ate, all washed down with something golden and smooth, the women not wanting to be outdone did their damnedest to keep up with the men. The roti came and went, the rasmali and ice cream was also consumed and still the beat continued. The dhole wallas’ did their turn and the bride and groom danced their first dance together, they were looking forward to going on their 'Hanumaan.'

As the afternoon progressed the inevitable scuffles broke out with people shouting “puttaa kaun yaa meh?”, “You know who I am?” Angry young lads and foolish middle aged men were pulled apart, with their pags around their necks shouting profanities that young children should never hear. An afternoon of celebration once again ended up tarnished and tinged with regret. Fingers were wagged and threats issued, “Tenoo fare dhekan-gay.” As the tables and chairs lay untidily across the hall and the confetti covered the floor people melted away into the evening.

As I slumped in my favourite armchair in an empty room, very tired and worst for wear, I reflected on the events. I was reminded of a lyric “You run and run to catch up with the sun, but it’s sinking.” That’s how I felt, a kind of malaise had come over me and I looked around the room at all the things that we had collected over the years. I looked at all the things that meant so dear to me – my Pritam Kaur, the mini-bar in the corner with an array of expensive and rare bottles of booze, my CD collection and sound system. I examined the gold rings that adorned my fingers and the medallion around my neck, I looked outside at my beloved BMW, but you know something, it didn’t mean a thing, not a single thing. All of it was temporary, all of it was fleeting, just a passing phase that left a gaping hole in the pit of my stomach. I felt empty and hollow, a void that I did not know how to fill. Something was missing which I always tried to alleviate with material objects but something inside me was crying out and I always ignored it or pushed it to the back. The voice was getting stronger and stronger and the time was coming when I would not be able to ignore it any more. I looked over at the table and a copy of The Sikh Times lay open and the face of Guru Nanak Dev Ji benevolently looked back at me, a tear appeared in the corner of my eye and I started to cry uncontrollably.