StyleSpeak: Wedding Capital
By Wendell Rodricks
How I love birthdays and weddings. Not the boring social dos where
people don’t know wine from vinegar, make inane conversation while
flashing their latest Louis Vulgaire (Vuitton) bags, horrid music on
full blast and the sexes separate like an Ottoman harem. Two hours of
drinking and yawn talk later, people run like a heard of buffaloes to
devour the same buffet as the last party in under ten minutes. Then they
burp over dessert and flee home.
Nah! Not for me. A good old fashioned Goan birthday party is where it
rocks. Interesting people (throw in the village drunks to sit aside the
Parish priest, local politician or dowager spinsters for full on masala
merriment). Robust feni ; always from “my special supplier”. Fashion
that can leave Mario Miranda inspired (“You like my new pattern?
Material from Dubai!”). Wholesome food ; sorpotel and sannas rule.
Musical instruments and singing voices magically appear after the third
feni. Dancing toes are released after the fourth round. In one corner a
boisterous argument breaks into a full blown rugby brawl. At that stage,
listen carefully and learn colourful new Konkani phrases you have never
heard before. Goans will ignore repeated calls to the dinner table while
hassled staff re-heat dishes every half hour. As the clock goes towards
sunrise, hosts struggle to throw guests out of the house.
Living in Goa I have also begun to enjoy funerals and months minds. Do
we Goans need any excuse to pull out the snacks and the drinks? Funerals
are as social events as weddings. There is a pecking order that descends
from front row pew to last. Men will dress in suits and ladies pull out
their mantillas. It is all very elegant and theatric. People arrive in
the same breathless anticipation as they would for a fashion show.
Everything is up for comment. “You saw what Perpetine was wearing?’
“That choir is damn good.” “From where they brought the priest? He did
not know anything to say.”
When I see a cluster of black and white dresses pass under my Colvale
balcao, I enquire who has passed away. “No funeral. Months Mind for
Anton Braganza”. That immediately conjures up visions of heavenly green
chutney sandwiches, beef croquettes and plum cake that are bound to be
served by the culinary blessed Mrs. Braganza. Shamelessly throw on a
black shirt over my Lulu Lemon gym tracks and jog to church. Through the
ramble of prayers in Konkani, I fixate on the bound-to-be-delicious
chutney sandwiches that will follow. People take their chutney
sandwiches for granted. With a Mom in Bombay and no one aware of my
craving for home made goodies, my poor chutney starved stomach is now
near ecstacy. When the grave blessing is done, I am delirious with joy.
Chomp through three sandwiches, ignoring the beef and cake. I even steal
some in a paper napkin. Lucy spots the act and cries out loud for all to
hear “What men Wendell, not taking the croquettes and cake owhat? Come
come. Take take.” I walk home with my goodie bag napkin: four croquettes
for the dogs (I don’t eat beef), two slices of cake for the staff and my
chutney stash for ‘feni hour’ to be made truly happy indeed!
Goan weddings are sheer orgasmic experiences. From the feasting to the
dancing, I want it all. Unlike other cities who do not know how to
party, a Goan wedding is about fun, fun and more fun. The bands play
till illegal hours. The bar is the main spot. The dancing is athletic.
Sometimes things get out of hand. I attended a wedding two months ago
and regret the short ‘appearance’ I made, due to house guests. After a
sunset boat ride to see crocs near Aldona, I left Lisa Ray and Malaika
Arora in my car with a bottle of wine and told them to strictly not step
out and start a riot. I then told my chauffer to lock the doors and not
let them out even if they pleaded a pee. Bounced into the wedding and
out in ten minutes as promised. Next day I heard about a massive row
between the couple who were so sloshed in the early morning that among
all the many abuses for the entire village to hear, they loudly
proclaimed that they wanted a divorce. Missed the tiatr!
Since then, I was eagerly waiting for the next wedding invite.
It appeared via a phone call. Vikram from IMG/Lakme Fashion Week was
getting married.
”Keep July third free!” he commanded.
I was excited. A Bombay wedding party in Goa. With a Hyatt room thrown
in for the night! Jackpot! However as the week drew near, I panicked at
the thought of the big, fat, fake fashion crowd that was bound to
follow. Flying to Bombay to address a seminar for a day, I had
nightmares of arriving at Goa airport full of fresh flower chandeliers
and ‘Vikram weds Neesha’ signs on strawberry ice-cream pink boards with
white Styrofoam hearts. Mercifully, that was not the case. In fact the
guest list was an intimate eighty people.
On D day, I was almost out the door when it dawned on me that the ride
would be long and its best to go to the happy room for a leak, just in
case. My cell rang. It was the groom. “Hello, have you left?”
“On our way”, I half lied.
“Liar, I can hear your voice bouncing off bathroom tiles!”
Geez, a man can’t pee and lie in peace thanks to a Motorola
over-efficient handset. I changed tracks… ”Vikram, it’s your wedding
day. Don’t you have like a wedding planner or a relative to handle your
cell? Just chill!”
Barely a minute in the car and my brother Chester calls from Dubai “Are
you on your way to the Hyatt for a wedding?”
What the hell is this? Have they put the FBI on my case?
“My friend Siddharth is in charge of rooms at the Hyatt and he saw your
name on the guest list”.
At that I brightened up. “Tell him to upgrade me to a suite”, I told my
brother who is now immune to me milking my celeb status.
We did get a lush suite at the Hyatt; with a panoramic ocean view. If I
was getting so excited about this wedding in Goa, imagine the guests who
have flown in…they must be on a major adrenaline trip. Barely time to
change into Indian splendor, we wait for a buggy to make the trip in
pouring rain, to the mandap area. Fashionably ten minutes late is not a
good thing in a very small crowd. Hindu weddings are so informal that I
almost died when the groom turns around and says hello when we are
seated. The power players of fashion are here. Anil Chopra (Lakme
Fashion Week). Alex Kuruvilla (Publisher, Conde Nast/Vogue). Sujata
Assumol (Editor, Harpers Bazar). Gaurav Mahajan (CEO Westside) and his
pretty wife Priti (Marketing, Taj Hotels). A couple of newbie designers
and one sole but sexy stylist, Junelia Aguiar. She wears a low-slung
sari with a superbly draped paloo to show off her curves; easily winning
the most-sexy-woman-in-the-room crown. I am such a slave for beautiful
women. Mercifully they gravitate towards me. Junelia did just that…like
a well honed missile. Post the perfectly edited half hour ceremony,
everyone descended on the bar. I order a drink and tip the waiter so
heavily he stays glued to my elbow all evening (old trick that works
like a dream). Some city slicker saunters up to me and asks a stoopid
question “What are you drinking?”
“Vodka. What are you drinking?” I ask, eyeing his pink beer with suspicion.
“Bacardi Raspberry Breezer” urban cool replies.
Instead of keeping quiet, what rolls involuntarily off my tongue is
“What a pansy drink!” He reacts like someone shoved an ice cube up his
other end.
Junelia grabs me by my sherwani and steers me away from a boxers punch
with a breezy “Let’s go get the 7.30 pm kick off of the World Cup semi
final between Argentina and Germany”. Boisterous drinking and cheering
follows; I gain mega gambling bucks since I backed the winning team. A
Goan band belts out some fine jazz and blues. When they tell me they are
playing together for the first time, it confirms that Goans do possess
the best musical talent this side of the Danube.
“Do you jive?” Junelia asks me.
Do I not look like a Goan who can’t dance?
“Ok then I am going to change into jive gear. First jive is with me!”
She flounces off and reappears in a black mini as high as the North Pole
and a neckline cut way down to Cuba. The men’s eyeballs are boinging in
and out like in MAD magazine cartoons. I think I see Alex’ tongue roll
out of his mouth and mop the floor.
Jiving is like a serious aerobic exercise. Huffing and puffing, later I
lose my gone-to-cigar-smoke partner, get suddenly bored despite it being
just 11pm, grab a glass and begin the long trek to the suite. It is now
drizzling and I am unhappy to get my footwear wet. So I seek solace in a
sip of vodka. Ouch! It’s a whiskey. Spit it out and kill a flowering
hibiscus. Slumber till dawn while the party goes on till 4 am.
Vikram calls at 11 am. “Where are you?”
You called my room right? Where else can I be? “Will be with you at the
champagne brunch in twenty”.
Two dozen bubbly bottles are chilling in a big cooler. I offer to buy
any balance of the Moet et Chandon. Fat chance! By the end of the
brunch, which picks up momentum only after Jaideep Sippy hits the mike
and I ask Goan singer Andre to go for Konkani dulpods and dekhnis, every
bubble is gone.
We then take the long trip home to Colvale.
Is this what weddings in Goa mean to the rest of India? Going by the
fun, the employment of local talent for everything from flowers to
taxis, the plumping of couture coffers and the killer profit from two
hundred rooms per wedding, this is Goa’s next big business. If Liz
Hurley were to marry today she would settle for Goa instead of camel
country Rajasthan. So is Goa wedding capital of India? Bet your big fat
wedding dollar on it! Let the wedding bells ring!!! (ENDS)
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First published in Goa Today, Goa - August 2010
