The day of my Wedding, it rained. It did not rain the day before, or the day after. But on the day of the wedding, it rained like that was the purpose for which this world came into existence in the first place. It started raining in the wee hours of morning, when I struggled to ensure that my freshly washed hair dried enough by itself for it to be twisted into a French plait in time, because a hair dryer would only make it frizzier. It rained as I got into my pattu saree and fretted about how awful the drape was and almost burst into tears that nothing was working fine. It rained as the huge melee of relatives in the house took turns to have a bath and hogged the only mirror, while I was left glowering that no one cared if the bride got ready or not and hello, no bride meant no wedding, so what were they all in a hurry to get ready for themselves?
It rained as we quickly piled into the cars that would take us to the venue. It rained the whole way, while I worried that we would be late for the muhurat, forgetting that we had decided the muhurat to be ‘when the Bride and Groom would be around and ready’. It rained when I got off the car and started walking towards the mandap, and the photographer chose to protect his equipment from the rain so there are no pictures of that.
It continued raining as my aunt fixed my hair and the drape and I was secretly happy that the groom got delayed, but made up my mind to give him a talking to when he arrived. It rained as we sat through the 2 hour ritual, most of which had me grinning madly, or giggling away at The Dude’s incoherent rendition of the shlokas the priest was reciting. As the smoke from the agni got into my eyes, and the groom escaped the tears thanks to his glasses, I looked out of the window to our right, and it was still raining.
Once we were done the official wedding, all that remained was getting decked up for the Reception in the evening, something I had really planned to do, but the rain hadn’t stopped. The lady from the parlor I paid quite a bit for arrived late, because of the traffic jams in the city, thanks to the rain. The beautiful garden setting we had decided upon had to be hurriedly moved into halls because it wouldn’t stop raining. And since everyone else decided to delay their arrival to the venue until it stopped raining, the groom was running around doing all the work as it rained. The lady finally arrived and started her work, only to announce that my hair wouldn’t settle down because the rain and humidity had made it too frizzy to style.
It rained as I went through the whole make up ritual only to realise I hated it. It rained as we walked around the hall, and even across the wet gardens to meet the guests because the groom wanted an atypical reception. It rained as my heels dug into wet earth, and my frigging expensive lehenga was dampened on the edges. It was still raining when I took one glance at one of the photographs in the camera and immediately went to wash the goop off my face. It rained as we posed for photographs, the groom bright and happy, the bride glum, make-up less, plain and frizzy haired.
It wasn’t raining as much as we wrapped it for the day, and the guests were leaving. It had completely stopped raining by the time the family left for home loaded with the gifts and the bouquets, the groom settled the bills, and I finally sat down to remove the heeled shoes which had blistered my feet.
Ever since that day, every year I would look out to see if it rained on the day of our Wedding. It never did. Anniversaries came and anniversaries went, and however much we were in the midst of monsoons, on that particular day, there would never be a drop, not one single drop.
Until yesterday. 6 years since that day in June, yesterday, it rained. Continuously, heavily, the whole time. Just like that day. And it was beautiful.
Just like that day.