"Kalyanam" for Dummies - a beginner's guide to Iyer marriages

DISCLAIMER: No Iyers were harmed during the composition of this article. However you can be rest assured that at least one Iyer might come to bodily harm after the publication of the same.

“Welcome to the wedding of the season!” - The media screamed about Mira Nair’s “Monsoon Wedding”, a few years back. Marriage - A function I distance myself from every time one of those comes around – for reasons not known to me. Indian marriages, as you might be aware, are spectacular affairs – the lights, the colors, the music all encompassing – and iyer marriages are no exception to this general perception.

But what makes an Iyer Marriage (or “Kalyanam” as it is known in the local tongue) stand out? They are a ritual unto themselves - the bride and the groom, and the relatives who attend and join in the revelry. And God help the hapless soul who fails to ignore the small nuances that come along with the package. Mine is a humble attempt to educate those naïve fellows who might fall into this trap.

As the big day looms, sambandhis (relatives) from all over flock to the venue – some of whom the groom (we’ll take the groom as the “reference object) would never have seen in his life! There are usually “courtesy visits” undertaken, when all and sundry turn up one after the other at the groom’s house. The visit usually starts with a question like “Ennada, readiyaa?” (Are you all set for the marriage?). I’m yet to come across someone who responded with a “No”. The one good aspect of such visits would be the hot cups of filter coffee handed out to everyone, including the groom. One can imagine and shudder at the caffeine levels in the poor man’s blood, by the time he gets to the altar.

Come the big day, the poor guy would more or less resemble the proverbial lamb for slaughter. But then, this is not his story or account. So let’s just leave him to face the music…er…the chants. Marriages are also like quiz competitions – you request people to register in advance, and 90% of participants turn up at the venue unregistered! A sizeable number of relatives turn up only at the Mandapam (Marriage Hall). The first few hours would be pure mayhem, as most of these people would not have met each other for ages (at least not since the last marriage in the family).

What happens next is akin to what used to occur at the gates of the Nazi Concentration Camps of yore – men, women and children to different sides of the hall (not the most apt metaphor, but I couldn’t resist the temptation). The final outcome is always the same – gossip – the difference lying in the levels to which it rises or falls. The women perhaps are predictable – it mostly centers on the unfortunate souls who could not make it to the marriage. The men, I’ve never been able to figure out, since it is too dangerous to go near this group – due to the risk of electrocution from high voltage gossip. And the “children”? - No matter how much you grow up, the elders always refer to you as “kuttikal” (children) – it consists of trying to decipher what the other groups are talking about, only to be shut up by a severe reprimand: “Pesamirungo da! Anga function nadakkarathu!” (Keep quiet! Can’t you see that there’s a function going on?) – wonder when they realized that!

That’s something you need to be aware of – the reprimands. The people who bestow unto themselves the title of “periyavaal” (No…Not “big sword” you idiot! It means “elders”), are always around to warn and advise if you step out of the line. Your first encounter with them would inevitably be when they come in. If it is someone you’ve never seen in your life, be on guard! The first question would be: “Ennada, naan aaru therinjutha? (Hey kid! Do you know who I am)” The safest option would be to act like the proverbial child-in-the-topless-bar and blabber out a “no”. The reaction to this answer has been recorded many a time by experts in the field of psychology as a tirade from the elder about how you used to play in his/her lap when you were a kid. A more adventurous approach would be to boldly say, “Yes! I do”, but the consequence can sometimes be injurious to your ego, as my unfortunate cousin once found out. If the elder in question retorts back: “Oh! Yeah? Then tell me who I am!”, you're in deep water. Personally, I have a reply to such a retort: “Do you mean to say you don’t know who you are?” But the prerequisite for giving such a reply is that you have already prepared your will and appointed an executor.

Iyer marriages are equally well known for their culinary delights as for their pomp and splendor - four-course meals, filled with sweet and spicy delights that make your mouth water. As the clock strikes 12:00 (no obvious connection to Mrs. Cinderella Charming) it is time for the first meal. Strangely though, there won’t be any rush for the first serving. It always starts with the elders commanding the younger ones: “Dei, chaappada varungo!”(Come and have your lunch!) – Mostly since they don’t want to be embarrassed at being the first ones to rush into the dining hall! We of course, will never be there (some hapless children do suffer the misfortune of having to sit in the first round itself, fearful of a tongue-lashing from their parents). We try to make it as late as possible, after the elders have finished their lunch (there’s always enough for everyone). Of course, after their lunch the first thing your elders would ask you is: “Neengal ellam chappatteloda?”(“Have all of you had lunch?”), knowing well that the answer would be “no”. Another embarrassment for you.

Lunch again, has its own “code of conduct” – and men usually bear the brunt of it. Any guy who was gone through the sacred thread ceremony, is not supposed to touch the food until rice and ghee has been served and he has uttered all the necessary mantras (something popularly known as “neer chuthal”) – and inevitably, rice is served last. It starts with the sweets, followed by umpteen curries, and above all, the small serving of “payasam"(kheer). We watch in dismay as the ladies slurp the servings with glee (I don’t need to emphasize what would happen to you if you try eating the payasam before the rice comes around). And when the rice finally arrives, it is an anti-climax – try as you may, the person serving would make sure that the rice is served on top of the payasam. There goes all for nothing!

Etiquette does not end here. First comes the sambar, followed by rasam, a few varieties of payasams, and finally, buttermilk (oops! Did I forget the double dose of “appalams” - papads - in between?). By the time you finish your lunch, the banana leaf on which the food is served should have been wiped clean. Rasam – now that is a dish every Brahmin loves, with the exception of me. Being old enough to disregard the advice of elders, I’ve never had rice with rasam as long as I can remember. But you cannot try the same, if you have your parents or any other relative sitting next to you. If you do not prefer the rice-buttermilk combination to have a sweet taste, and hence prefer to skip all those varieties of payasams, think twice. In our circles, it is considered a heinous crime not to have payasams. Of course, after eating all these (an endeavor that you can compare to a cross country race), you might need to crawl on your belly to get out of the dining hall. Ever wondered why we have pot bellies?

Afternoon is the time to relax and enjoy on your own, with elders enjoying their siesta. Times have changed though, and nowadays you cannot even enjoy a private session of antakshari or dumb charades without the elders challenging you for the same. And if you thought that your array of remixes would serve as ammunition, you’ll be bombarded with those obscure tamil songs from the time when K L Saigal was crawling around in diapers. All said and done, this is the perfect time to impress them and get on their good side – provided you can sing well, and possess rudimentary knowledge in Carnatic Music. There would of course, be the odd expert who might claim that their grand nephew, once removed, could sing a thousand times better. But if you possess a decent voice, you can floor most of them.

The evening starts with hot bajji and…coffee again. After that it’s a mad scramble to get ready for the evening festivities on time. As you would expect, the ladies take the maximum time – to deck themselves up in smooth and shining Kanjeevaram silk sarees and put on tons of gold ornaments that would probably throw any weighing machine off calibration. The guys just have to put on any shirt or trousers they can lay hands on, or drape on any “veshti”(dhoti) lying around. Nobody pays much attention to us – something that might be evident from the Santoor advertisement of yesteryears. Honestly, have you ever seen a guy featured in such ads? I have tried dressing up elaborately in kurta-pyjamas, but the result was not much to talk about. Looking down from the ceremonial dais, you can see an ocean of dazzling color on the side of the auditorium where the ladies would be sitting. It’s time to start from where they left off in the morning – the only difference being in a new topic introduced into the agenda: the origins and family tree structure of every silk saree on view. In another corner you can also spot a splinter group, busy practicing songs for the “oonjal” ceremony the next day.

Talking about music – the kalyanam is never complete without the nadaswaram, the world’s loudest non-brass acoustic instrument. Nowadays the nadaswaram is usually found only in Hindu marriages – the genius of Rajarathnam Pillai, Karukurichi Arunachalam and Sheikh Chinna Moulana has sadly been forgotten. It is the duty of the nadaswaram vidwans(experts) and their accompanying troupe to entertain the audience with Carnatic keertanams. You can perceive the men in the family nodding their heads as if in appreciation of the skill of the artists, even though their attention would be on their on-going gossip session. He would have just finished a glorious raga-alapana, ready to start the pallavi, when the hand of a priest would shoot up from the dais asking him to stop. It is now the priest’s turn to show off his prowess in the Vedas – though for the untrained ear like mine, it would sound like a modem trying to connect to the internet. The unfortunate part is that the groom is expected to repeat whatever the priest recites. The greatest responsibility of the nadaswaram guys however is to play a definite piece of music at regular timed intervals. Those who attend marriages regularly might comprehend what I am referring to but for the uninitiated, this piece may sound similar to the theme music of 2001: A Space Odyssey. Since this is an oft-repeated piece, I did fancy whether it would be a good idea to provide a free CD of the same along with this article. The nadaswaram can then be dispensed with and you just need to run the CD in repeat mode. But the fact that this article might well end up being banned in most agraharams, thus rendering the CD useless, put me off.

Oh! And spare a thought to the groom and bride. Here they are, sitting merrily on the dais: the guy decked up in a blazer – the only time he would ever wear that in his life – and the girl, well, she has to change her garb once in a while. It would have barely been ten minutes since she changed into a brand new silk saree, than the ladies of the family would come and take her along for another costume change. In between, the guy would have had to make a visit to the near-by temple. Nobody knows exactly when this happens, since everyone would be busy in gossip to take notice. The biggest ordeal for them however, is the photography session. Even if the groom and bride are not photogenic, the photography session is mandatory, since all the guests would have primarily turned up for that moment. Each photograph would take 10-15 minutes of arrangement, framing and composition. Add to this, the fact that there would be at least five hundred odd people eager to appear on film. It’s simple mathematics as to how much time this whole exercise would take. A study of this photograph album would enable the groom and bride to trace and draw their family tree. The photography session is the last major act before the grand finale of the first day – the dinner (sadly, for the groom and bride, this may not be the case).

And the dinner? Please refer to the section on the etiquette for lunch. They are the same.

The next day is perhaps the biggest and most important day in the life of the bride and groom: the day they are bound together in wedlock – an event which, in reality, 90% of the people present would never get to witness. All the relatives have to be at the hall early in the morning, and with the unwritten rule that you have to dress up better than the previous evening, you can be sure that for people like me, it would be the one day of the year I see the sun rise. The first important event of the day (no…not breakfast cum another cup of coffee) is the “oonjal” ceremony. The bride and the groom exchange garlands and are seated on a huge swing. Tladies of the house go bananas…er...I mean, feed them banana and milk. The aforementioned “splinter group” who spent the previous evening rehearsing their voices, now take over for a performance of their own – but only after the priest or his assistants announce “aaravathu paattu paadungo” (somebody sing a song) – as if to convince everyone present that they are just obliging on the insistence of everyone. If you listen carefully, you will invariably get to hear only one song – that “laali" song (in reality it is a beautiful piece composed in ragam Kurinji), with all the ladies (never heard the men) competing against each other as if this were an audition for Indian Idol (at this juncture, the idea of staging an “Iyer Idol” did tempt me). Be whatever it may, I have to confess that I personally have sung this song (perhaps the only guy in history to achieve this) at a relative’s marriage, albeit when I was some 10 years old – a fact my mother always tries to bring up during marriages, prompting me to quietly slink away from the place.

At the end of the audition, the groom and bride take up the pole position on the dais. Thall would be choc-a-bloc full with relatives, friends and acquaintances of both families, most of them blissfully unaware of what is happening on the stage. For:

Theirs is not to reason why,
Theirs is but to do and dine…
(Copyright: Lord Alfred Tennyson, the Charge of the Light Brigade)

On the dais, the groom and bride are completely engulfed by hordes of relatives, eager to witness and help in the rituals. Their efficiently in shielding the two would put any black cat commando unit to shame. I’m one of the privileged few who’ve actually witnessed the “thaali kettal” (tying the knot) ceremony that happens in the midst of this security blanket – thanks to the fact that I carry a high-tech digital camera. Ever heard of the term “Paparazzi”?

For the general public, the only indication of something important happening out there would be the periodic outbursts of the aforementioned “theme music". After a while the bride and the groom finally come into view and realization would dawn that everything’s done and dusted. It’s time for lunch.

Really? Maybe the groom would not agree. Here is a guy who has to now sit for over an hour and brave all that smoke, trying to decipher what the priest wants him to recite. And wait, there’s that small ceremony of lifting up his wife’s feet and dragging it on top of a huge grinding stone. It marks the first time that he falls at the feet of his wife – something that he has to keep doing throughout his life…

The grand and sumptuous lunch marks the end of the festivities for most people who turn up (the bride and the groom get to eat last, and are always accompanied by the photographer and the videographer). For the relatives this is the end of another memorable outing whereas for the bride and the bridegroom it marks the beginning of their life together. And people like me? We heave a sigh of relief – for all's well that ends well. All said and done, the Iyer marriage is perhaps the most beautiful and meaningful ceremony. People might dismiss me as cynical and disrespectful. They would advise me: “You can go on teasing. When it is your turn, you’ll realize its important”. But then, I’m still a bachelor and as they say in Hindi: “Bandar kya jaane adrak ka swaad?”

P.S: The incidents detailed here are purely based on the author’s experiences in attending marriages, and do not strictly constitute a “must-do” list for the functions. Elders being elders may always find new ways of reprimanding you. If you come across any such unchartered incidents, do send in your experiences to the author.