The Spaghetti Principle

This story begins the way all the best stories do — It begins with a girl sipping Coke on a flight headed to the middle of Nowhere. It also begins right now.

DAY 1: Descent into Nowhere, AKA rural Punjab.

The sun is threateningly hot as I lug my green backpack into the flight. The second the AC hits my face, I exhale happily and cozy up in my seat. Time flies as I binge some Netflix on “my” phone, which I really just borrowed from my mother. Next thing I know, I’m walking through Chandigarh airport, lugging another suitcase, filled with clothes in preparation for the wedding I’m going to attend. Again. 

I think you might be getting bored of the pleasantries, details, and intricate world-building I’m setting up to give you context, because I know I am.

The taxi moves fairly smoothly with only minor hindrance from the underdeveloped and broken roads. I stare out the window, earphones popped in, my favorite music playing, and my sneaker tapping to the beat. Fairly cliche teenager setup, now that I think about it. From my eyes, it isn’t the car that moves, but the rest of the world, a hazy blur as I sit perfectly still. I watch excitedly as the sky-touching buildings in the city swim past my vision, then patiently at the littered alleyways, then tiredly at the run-down houses of the outskirts of Chandigarh. I hate to admit it, but I’m getting bored. I’m half asleep and only kept awake by the haunting tunes of Billie Eilish by the time I see the villages. Mud caked houses layered on top of fields of green as far as the eye can see and more, picturesque eucalyptus trees bobbing up and down under the gentle breeze. How lethal, I think, for it is as if the wet-grass scented air has been taken out of my lungs. That is where I realize something, and that feeling is like being struck by the sun after a long night — True beauty does not come from loud chaos, cityscapes, or the never-ending rivers of traffic you so easily find in Bangalore city. It comes from things like the sound of pages turning as you read your favorite novel, the reassuring warmth of steaming tea as you sit, curled up on your couch in a blanket on a rainy day, the deafening orchestra played every evening by the crickets only to be heard if you strain your ears. That is what beauty is. Beauty is seen in the quiet things. And music. Definitely music.

Day 2: Rings, roses, and relatives. Why me?

I arrive at Dholowal, my dad’s hometown, at maybe 3:30 in the evening. If you don’t know what on Earth, or should I say where on Earth that is, I don’t blame you. The entry gate is decorated with ribbons and roses, a sign of a wedding, and from far away I can hear the buzz of the family and villagers as they suit up for the wedding. 

The second I reach my ancestral home, I have to brace myself because I’ve never been quite good with social endeavors like mingling, forget about handling relatives and people I’ve never met, both of whom have such strong opinions. I perch on the couch, half hanging off as the ladies gossip and the men drink, and talking to whoever makes conversation with me, but half the time I just have to tune out. “Guneeva’s so thin.” Only the most classic Indian auntie line ever. “Guneeva doesn’t speak Punjabi.” I do, just not so well that I broadcast my skills to distant family. “Guneeva wants to become a doctor for animals. Why not just make her a teacher or lawyer or something useful and traditional instead?” Translation: Animals are cute, but not respectable work. And there it is. The one thing that creates the most awkward environment to imagine. I want to be a veterinarian, and in conservative communities that is an unorthodox and seemingly unsuccessful career. Of course it is. In a lot of the places I go, I get an earful of why my future this way is insecure, not financially stable, or just not fitting their expectation of me. Then, they belly laugh and move on in their conversation. They always mean well, but never know any better. The first time I heard it, I was so upset. I’m more used to it now, but I know a change will follow soon. Same old, same old. In the end, however, it’s your life to live, your dreams to follow, your vision to force to life, and no one should be able to tell you otherwise. After all, if you push hard enough, it will be you who has the last laugh.

Day 3: Ten useful minutes after 6 hours. 

I’ve been sitting at this table for a while now, and time has been slipping away like water between my fingers. I am slumped on a padded chair that is covered in white silk, sipping mixed fruit juice and watching the world distort around me. Today was the day we were supposed to attend the ring ceremony, but so far, nothing, and I mean nothing, has happened. I pick up my phone, and open some game or the other, not because I enjoy gaming but because I have nothing better to do. I am caught up in this constant loop of gaming, Spotify, eating, and observing my surroundings to almost a creepy extent. 

Finally, I decide to take control of my brain. There’s this one place, one nation in the world, where anything can happen, and it’s called imagination. I let my own imagination unfurl its wings. In that high-above-the-clouds world, I am a magician, an adult, a dragon tamer, and whatever else I want to be. Do not get me wrong, I was bored earlier, and now more than slightly grateful as the ring ceremony actually begins, but I have a feeling that even if it happened a few minutes, a few hours, even a few days later, I would have made it through only mildly scarred by the dullness, because I unlocked something important, the lifeboat that keeps me floating, the fuel that keeps me moving, and something I can never lose, and I now know I will never get bored. Never because I can imagine.

Day 4 —

Part 1: When spirituality eases the spirit.

I’m sitting on my grandparents’ couch, waiting for the whole family to get ready. The event of the day? Or rather, events? First, the Paath, pronounced pah-t, a spiritual event of prayer in Sikhism, in this case for the wellbeing and prosperity of the couple, and second, the Jaago, pronounced jah-go; more information to follow later. After a huge series of long commutes in the past, I am overjoyed, because I suffer from motion sickness and today’s event is a thirty second walk from the sofa because it’s right in the pavilion. Let’s go, I grin, and I fall into step beside my mother as we exit the house. The floor is covered with two-ish inch mattresses covered with white cloth. Prayers and hymns drift through the air, like golden ribbons or gentle foam-tipped waves lapping the rough edges of honey-colored sand. The murmurs that pass aimlessly through the crowd fall silent. I sit, cross-legged, ears pricked and eyes scanning the crowd. Everyone is in their own world, some with their eyes closed and others with theirs open, but dreamily staring into somewhere far past me, past the house, past this world itself. I am not very religious and I don’t usually pursue spirituality, but there’s something about the setting that comforts me. I ponder, think, and muse, probably to an extent far beyond what an average teenager would, and finally, decide on the cause of this feeling — feeling like I am protected by a warm, love-filled embrace. I have a community, people who believe the same things as me, share my values, and will always stand behind me, even if they don’t always agree with me. If spirituality is what ties this community together, then it is more important than I could ever realize.

Part 2: The appeal of banging drums.

And now for the event I have been most looking forward to, out of all of them: The Jaago. I promised you context, so here you are. The Jaago is an event where, in the dead of the night, the whole wedding party marches around the village, singing and yelling at people, saying “Wake up, today’s a night for celebration, not sleep!” Before the actual Jaago, there’s a buffet, and oh God, it’s delicious. I find myself hovering near the Golgappe station, a crunchy shell filled with potato and other unidentified substances, then drenched in either sweet or spicy liquid. You have to eat it in one go, or you have a huge mess on your shirt. FUN FACT ABOUT ME: If you want to bribe me, bribe me with Golgappe, pronounced goal-guh-peh and alternatively known as pani puri, puchka/fuchka, gup chup, pani ke batashe, phulki, or pakodi, because I am a sucker for street food. Back to topic. I reserve a table for my mother, father, grandparents, cousin, aunt, myself, and two little boys I’m growing closer to every day, right in front of the cooler. I feel my hair tangling as the cold wind bites my face. Then the Jaago begins. I pass different houses, including a few where cattle stand with their deep, soulful eyes, and tails that twitch with confusion at the cacophony. I keep moving along, even when my feet hurt and sleep is dragging me down and weighing my eyelids, and I enjoy it even more. That was followed by a DJ night. I am the second-worst dancer I know, but I would say a combination of sleepiness and euphoria pushed me to dance, and next thing I know, I was vibing on the dance floor. The whole night, I had been going to the beat of my own drum, and then, and only then, I had real fun. At first I would have scoffed at this, thinking that “Only people who can’t dance would say this”, but now, I relate: To quote my dad “Dancing isn’t about knowing the moves, it’s about feeling the music, and doing so like nobody’s watching.” My dad is the worst dancer I know, but maybe he’s right.

Day 5: What potion creates such beauty? Slug juice? Crocodile dung? Nope, just turmeric.

The night of the Jaago, I did not sleep in the night — I slept only in the morning. So, as my mother tries to drag me out of the covers, it is evident I refuse. I cover my face and mumble, “it’s 5AM, go away…” and so on until I trail off and fall asleep. My mother informs me it’s actually 1:20 in the afternoon, and with tremendous effort, I heave myself out of bed. Today’s adventure is the Haldi or turmeric ceremony, where all the guests in the wedding rub haldi on the bride. Historical note: In the “olden times”, when processed cosmetics did not exist, Punjabi people, as well as many others, used turmeric to increase the glow of the skin. This is still considered a healthy and natural beauty remedy. Another fun fact is slug juice and crocodile dung were also considered to increase beauty in ancient civilization, but nowadays, that’s just gross. As we are about to walk to the venue, which is in the house catercorner from ours, thankfully, the sky puffs up with angry clouds and takes a shade of grey. Not that it can put off the festivity and celebration, but it can try. 

The sky rumbles with thunder, a guttural roar above us. Hail blends in with the rain, and the pavilion is flooded with little cubes of white. Trees are blown around, birds flock to shelter, and one car is dented. Ouch. I pull up the ultra-flared pants in my outfit, grip my stylish sandals with my toes, and the second the storm dulls down, I sprint, arriving at the place breathless with my clothes sticking tightly to my body and a haphazard smile on my face. The ceremony goes on until the bride’s hands are stained yellow — now more symbolic than actually important. It’s the 21st century, and beauty doesn’t matter. But with her long hair, tall body, strong legs, rosy cheeks, and the pride, tradition, and joy radiating off her like she has too much and is ready to share, she is beautiful. There is no doubt about it. 

Day 6: The real deal(After 4 other events, procrastination much?)

And now, for the moment we’ve all been waiting for, ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for the real wedding! I am more than a little excited, after all, this very event is the reason I bunked a week of school, and came here in the first place. I am wearing a heavy royal-purple lehenga, a cropped top with a billowing skirt, and as I walk out of the car, I trip over myself and shakily stride in, for I don’t usually wear heels but for the reason of celebration, I’m wearing them today. Everyone is in their finest attires, and I gasp as I enter the Golden Heritage palace. That’s not a reaction so easily driven out of me. The ceiling is lined with chandeliers that chime like bells whenever a gust of wind escapes the closed glass doors that tower maybe ten or twenty feet above me. Oh, great. The tables are full with the bustling crowds, and I struggle to claim one. The buffet is rich, the LED dance floor is almost like it is vibing by itself with flashing colors, and the couch-like chairs are pillowy. There is a bouncer, clad in black with rippling muscles, eyeing the festivities, but even he can’t stop a small smile from playing on his lips.

Most Punjabi weddings are the same. The gurudwara, place of Sikh worship, where the newlyweds walk four times around the Guru Granth Sahib, making them officially married, at least in terms of religion. The party hall, where the women from the bride’s side try to steal the groom’s slippers and ransom them for a lot of cash. A random tradition that somehow managed to stick. I laughed out loud until my stomach was stinging and my cheeks were flushed. The banquet, where I ate my weight in desserts. And now the last part. The sad one, where everyone, and I mean everyone, cries, bawls, wails, whines, grieves, melts down, whatever you want to call it. The end of the party, except the bride doesn’t go in the car headed to her old home. She goes in the car headed to her new one. For good. As she begins the slow procession through the hall, she throws uncooked rice behind her. As sad as I’m supposed to be, I’m equally curious, so I ask my aunt the symbolism of the event, something I found myself doing often across the week. She replies “What she’s doing is using the rice as a symbol of prosperity, and wishing that upon everything she leaves behind.” It makes enough sense, but I can’t help but think this — Or maybe, she’s just making one last mess for her parents to clean up. The march to the car is a melancholy song, with the dramatic singing a background noise tied together by the sounds of sniffles, feet shuffling, and mumbled goodbyes managed before the onset of tears. As we wave goodbye to the car that emotionlessly drives away, the pillar of sense amidst sadness, I consider the mood. Change is scary. Approaching this is approaching change, and yes, change hurts, more than we can ever get used to, because getting used to means no change. But to love, to laugh, to live means change. And living is worth it.

Day 7: Goodbyes are not forever… unless they are.

Picture a girl. She’s sprinting furiously between fancy tables, barefoot because elegant shoes aren’t made for, well, sprinting, her dress bobbing up and down, flashing glimpses of her calves. She slows down and ducks behind a chair, crawling until she sneaks up on a little boy. Flash back to a few hours ago.

The camper van makes most of the adults happy because they can drink as much as they want and still return home easily. I, on the other hand, just love the vibes, and the fact that I can walk around because school buses never let me do that. We reach the party hall for the last event before I’m on a one-way trip to Bangalore — the Reception. This is an event hosted by both the boy and the girl, which acts as a symbol of their togetherness. Everyone is dressed in modern or semi-modern finery, which makes me happy because the sleeves of traditional clothing are very uncomfortable. I stretched my legs. Remember the little boy and his brother I mentioned in Jaago? Yeah, I had to stretch, because as emotionally attached to me as he was, I ended up having him sit in my lap for a whopping two-and-a-half hours. It was worth the leg cramps and incredible drainage of my phone battery, though. As we enter the hall, I squat down so he can whisper something in my ear; his voice is unintelligible and his words are gibberish because he’s no more than 5 years old. I just nod and pretend I agree, because 5 year olds usually don’t ask rhetorical questions. 

I indulge myself in the variety of appetizers, golgappe self-serve included, and clap along with the cutting of the wedding cake, taking pictures with the couple, and just chilling. Then the older of the siblings asks me if I want to play tag. I mouth yes, of course, to him because everyone else is oddly silent and I don’t want to loudly say something and break it. The party is dying down. People are going home. I race after him, getting quite a few weird looks. playfully berating him about how “you got a head start” The younger of the two joins our game, and I have to pretend to run because his top speed is my brisk-walking. We play, and laugh, and the whole room feels like sunshine. Then comes the time we go. As I walk out, knowing how much I’m going to miss this experience, and then people in it, I allow myself to look back just once. And I see it. The little boy is running after me. His mom has to pick him up to take him away, his eyes tearful. I exit the double doors, silently upset. I don’t know when I will meet these people again, or if I will in the first place, if a few years down the line, they will remember me or I will remember them. I don’t know. What I do know is that they have shaped who I am, and left their footprint — however baby-sized and tiny it might be — on my heart.

Epilogue: We’re returning to Somewhere. Oh man, that sucks.

This story ends in an oddly similar way as it starts — A girl, on a flight, sipping Coke, binge-watching Netflix. But she is stronger, wiser, more experienced, more mature, and slightly saddened at having to go. She is different. The girl who steps into Bangalore airport is a better version of the girl who stepped into the plane that left it.