The Gods see everything, but the Aunties see more....

So I wrote this as an essay for my Travellers Tales class back in Uni, but it is one I always come back to and share with family and friends. I am as much a part of this community as anyone else but I think it is a writer's job to comment on their world, so here is my comment on the Indian community. Do not get me wrong, I am a very proud Indian who loves Indian weddings. But for the purpose of entertainment, writing and this being my place to share whatever I feel like sharing, here is my exposé on the society that is my birthright!

The Gods see everything, but the Aunties see more…

Not too long ago, I left behind the tranquillity of Sydney’s lifestyle and travelled to the beautiful Island of the Gods. Bali, Indonesia has always been one of my favourite places on earth. Much like the Indian culture I was facing, Bali too expresses a sense of peace and paradise, hiding all its mayhem beneath the surface. It was the summer of ’13, and the occasion was my cousin’s ostentatiously, elaborate Indian wedding.

Landing in Denpasar airport, surrounded by dozens of other distant relatives all eagerly awaiting the hotel buses, I reminded myself to be on my best behaviour. There could be nothing worse than getting caught with your guard down at one of these destination weddings. They were always watching, waiting for you to slip up so they could use it against you. The aunties, of course. They may seem sweet, offering you hugs and asking about your parents, but in reality, they’re just fishing for information, for something juicy enough to cast attention away from their own scandalous lives.

Before long, we had arrived at the lavish Westin hotel in Nusa Dua, and all the aunties were fussing over their outfits being crushed and their hair getting ruined by the Bali breeze. Meanwhile, us youngsters made our way to the poolside and observed carefully in amusement. What a life it must be. Where one’s greatest accomplishment is being the best dressed at a wedding. No wonder they gossip so much, I would be bored too if big hair and fancy outfits is all I had to look forward to. They really did have nothing better to do than meddle in the lives of the next generation.

The entire affair was much like a giant masquerade. During all the formal functions, all the dinner parties, the youngsters dressed like princesses in their best Indian attire, long skirts, sheer saris covering up the skin, and a shy, coy attitude to match. Only the uncles visited the bar, and the boys and girls remained within appropriate distance of one another. Then at midnight, parents and youngsters would saunter back to their hotel rooms and call it a night…. Until 20 mins later, when the long skirts and coy attitudes had been stripped away and the skimpy outfits came out to play. So begins the real party.

Having been to many of these weddings before, I recall a previous experience I had back in ’10. In the naivety of my youth, I underestimated their omnipresence and thought it would be safe to let a young gentleman walk me back to my room in the wee hours of a morning. You’ll be glad to know, nothing of consequence occurred after we heard the anklets chime from around the corner and noticed a lone aunty creeping toward us. Since then I’ve been wary to observe only and stay out of trouble’s way. Coming from a society like Sydney, where no one really cares what you do, it’s always challenging to adjust back to the gossip circle of the culture that is my birthright. I’m no Robinson Crusoe, but I do think my travels can be linked to his in some ways. Rather than slaying lions while marooned on a foreign island, I slay proposals and avoid women with hair much like lion’s manes.

While the cat’s asleep, the mice will play. Alcohol is freely distributed and the distance between boys and girls no longer exists as the after party continues way into morning. But no matter how late it is, there will always be that straddling aunty that thinks she’s young enough to hang around. The one young mummy who joins the party and witnesses all the untold secrets the young ones hold dear. However, what the young ones don’t know is that young mummy knows some more than she can share. The youngsters aren’t the only ones that sneak out after midnight; the gossiping aunties have secrets too.

The masquerade continues as this great division forms between the adults and the “young adults”. Them and us. Hiding their own secrets of alcoholism, adultery, money laundering and more, the adults turn to the scandalous lives of the young adults, to steer the light away from their own dirty laundry. It sounds so melodramatic, as though it belongs in a Hollywood television show like Cherry’s Desperate Housewives or Savage and Schwartz’s Gossip Girl, but it’s scarily accurate. It’s almost as though Wisteria lane was based off the hotels at Indian weddings. One week of non-stop parties, matchmaking and scandals galore. When so many Indians are living in the same hotel, gossip spreads like wild fire and anyone who’s talked about, risks losing a marriage proposal either for themselves or their children, because no one wants to marry into a scandalous family, despite the scandals that hide in their own closets.

Watching all this madness unfold, I often find myself approached by aunties I never knew I had. “Hello Dear! My you’ve grown up to be such a lovely young lady! You look so much like your mother. Do you remember me? We met when you were two years old. What’s my name?” No, I’m sorry lady, but twenty years later, I do not remember meeting you before I learned to read. So no, I don’t know your name. “Ok dear listen, my nephew Rahul is two years your senior, and he’s studying medicine in the UK. Wait here, I’ll go and fetch him for you to meet. It would make such a good match. You really won’t get a better offer. Now stand straight and don’t roll your eyes at me, he won’t want a girl with such attitude!”

The assumption is bold, but it’s not unheard of. Many an eligible bachelorette do traipse around the world, attending wedding after wedding, in the hopes of finding a husband for themselves. However, the problem with this global dating service is that most of these young ladies aren’t really single at all. It’s more likely that they are deeply involved with someone that they met at one of these weddings, but he is either unsuitable to her parents, or she is unsuitable to his. Either way, they aren’t really allowed to date, so if they are not engaged soon after meeting, her reputation is being dragged through the mud and no one else will ever want to marry her. So they continue globe-trotting, looking for a prince that is not only tall, dark, handsome, and a doctor, but also one that comes from a well-established rich family, because no self-respecting Indian parent will let their child marry into a family that has less social standing than they do.

So I watch as other girls go through this matchmaking process and cringe as I get introduced to doctors studying in London or New York. While in reality, I probably wouldn’t mind meeting this gentleman, if it weren’t being set up by an aunty that will want all the credit should it actually work out. So instead I find a reason to excuse myself and follow the aunty, who leads me to more drama than any youngster could ever conjure up. We youngsters may be trouble, we may get drunk and secretly date and wear short skirts, hence making us look like strumpets that no Indian guy would want to marry, but the adults… they’ve been there. They’ve struggled to land their husbands and keep their social standing, and yet even they can’t resist the debauchery a destination wedding catalyses. There is something about there being so many travellers from all over the world in the same foreign land together for a week. Of course the free flow of alcohol doesn’t help either. But there is that whole sense that what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. Unfortunately not aunties, unfortunately not.

One has to ask why Mrs. A is creeping into Mr. T’s room at three o’clock in the morning. Or why Mr. B and Mr. W got into a fistfight outside the ballroom. But then one comes to the realisation that the scandalous young adults, never truly grow up at all. Whether twenty-one or sixty-five, living in a society so suppressed, scandal is bound to catch up at some point, and for some reason, the joining of so many worldly Indians in one hotel, means that everyone’s closet doors are left wide open, and dirty laundry and skeletons begin to collect.

Of course in reality, while I mock the big hair, gossiping lips and dramatic lives, this is in fact my birthright. As much as we all say we don’t want any part of it, me telling you all this proves in its own way that I am as much a part of the gossip circle as any of the aunties are. I too see all. As far as traipsing around the world looking for a groom, isn’t it ironic when you travel all over the world for something you end up finding in the city you call home? Ah Sydney. It’s good to be back.