Henna horror

I remember my first experience of henna as a child. I remember looking down at my hands and feeling pretty damn special with my strange patterned hands. That is, however, until I tried to eat some biscuits the next morning (chocolate Bourbons, no less) and discovered that they (my hands, not the Bourbons) absolutely stank. It was a slightly disturbing realisation, since I couldn't get away from my hands - and, as an Indian, I eat everything with my hands (even, from time-to-time, things that really do require cutlery - I know, shame on me). 


Anyway, despite the distinct smell of henna, my appreciation of it continued to grow, and up until recently I was a pretty big fan of the stuff. Henna is a really important part of Indian weddings, and the bride is usually covered in the stuff (her hands and feet are anyway). It was always my favourite part of weddings, and at my sister's wedding I think I actually had more on than she did!


Last year, my henna-appreciation took a turn for the worse. I went to Morocco for a week and was enticed by the henna ladies in the big touristy square in Marrakech. Without realising what I was getting myself in to, I got my right hand and arm (almost all the way up until my elbow) covered in black henna. At the time, I didn't realise that there is no such thing as black henna (normal brown-red henna is natural, and black henna is just a harsh mix of toxins and poison). I was chuffed with my unusual body-art and couldn't wait to come back to England and show it off. On my return, however, I was met with nothing but terrified looks and words of concern from those who weren't as naive as me and knew what the coming days would bring. 


12 days later my arm erupted in to an angry red reaction. I felt like a mutant (and seriously, my arm did look totally disgusting and scary). It turns out that the key ingredient of black henna is a chemical called PPD, and this is what is used to dye hair, leather, etc. Under no circumstances should it be applied directly to the skin and left there for a few hours. It took a series of scary steroid creams and even scarier steroid tablets to calm the reaction down, and - a year on - I am left with a pretty permanent scar. I was, in some ways, quite lucky, as it can lead to liver failure. But I didn't feel it at the time. 


In addition to the physical scars, I also have some psychological ones. I am now a complete henna-phobe, and am dreading the day before the wedding when I have to let someone cover me in the stuff. Of course, I know that it will be natural henna and so, of course, there is no reason why I will react to it. But that's the point about phobias, right? They're irrational. 


In six months time, I will be sitting with my henna lady letting her paint those pretty patterns on my hands and feet. I truly hope that I don't lash out at her in fear (because then we'll probably have to pay her double). 


PS. If you were wondering about those Bourbons, worry not, I still managed to eat them. With a spoon. I know, this whole cutlery business is confusing. What can I say? I'm Indian. 

Who said romance is dead?

DISCLAIMER: if you are romantically challenged/emotionally diabetic and unable to handle sweeter-than-sugar romance, beware...

I realise that in all this self-obsessed wedding talk, there is one crucial topic that I haven’t discussed: the proposal. Imagine being in Brittany, surrounded by beautiful landscapes, clear green-blue water and illuminating sunsets. Then imagine being guided through all of this natural beauty, to a small hill overlooking the sea, separated only by a cluster of rocks. Can you imagine this? Okay, good. Now imagine two hundred and fifty candles carefully placed on these rocks, arranged in the shape of a heart and forming the words “Meera will you marry me?”

Best. Proposal. Ever. (Not that I have any others to compare it to – this was, of course, my first). But seriously, this was like something out of the movies.

Unlike a movie, however, I was not following a script; so I didn’t know when I was being forced out of the house “to go for a walk” that I would be getting engaged within the next hour. I didn’t know, when I was walking up the hill, that it was completely inappropriate to continuously complain about the increasing accumulation of mud on my shiny white trainers – after all, I didn’t know what was there, waiting for me, at the bottom of the hill. I also didn’t know that when I woke up that morning I should have washed my hair and worn something at least vaguely attractive (we were on a surfing holiday; we were damp, sandy and smelly pretty much the whole time); how was I to know this would be the day that would change my life forever?

Nevertheless, it was perfect. The Groom-to-be successfully rendered me speechless (for those of you who know me, you will know that this isn’t easily done) by giving me the most beautiful diamond engagement ring and the promise of a lifetime of love, adventure and happiness.

And there we sat, on the hill, watching the waves crash against the shore.

(Until my mum called five minutes later to discuss the details of a family trip to Blackpool. Talk about killing the moment.)

The "crying bit"

Despite all the vibrant colours, glamorous clothes and stacks of presents involved in Indian weddings, I have to admit that there is one part that I am really dreading. While the official name of this dreaded aspect is "vidaai", I often refer to it as the "crying bit". 

Have you ever had to cry on demand? Because this is basically what it entails. While this post-wedding ritual/extremely odd tradition allows the bride's family to openly express their sadness at "losing" a daughter, it also gives the bride a chance to smudge her make-up and snot all over her expensive clothes. 

At my sister's wedding (four years ago), when the "crying bit" came, I was worried that if I didn't cry, I would look like the evil sister who couldn't wait to see her go. 

*MASSIVE STAGE FRIGHT*

However, when the moment came, I was a big ball of snot and tears. I, too, shamelessly jumped on the crying bandwagon, and - in a frighteningly honest public display of affection - cried hysterically at the thought of "losing" my sister. 

Of course, I didn't really lose her. And of course, my parents won't really lose me. This is all very dramatic and belongs - ultimately - to the realms of overly-emotional Bollywood movies. (The kind your parents watch on a Sunday afternoon, while sipping tea and tearfully reminiscing about days gone by). 

But do you know what the worst part is? Not the melodrama, not the scary make-up effects, and not even the uncontrollable snot (because, let's face it, the Groom-to-be has already married you - be as snotty as you like, it's simply too late). The worst part is (for me anyway) the "stress rash" I get when I cry too much. That's right: big, angry, red blotches that cover my entire body like a patchwork (or cruel joke) of nature. 

In Juliet's words (well, Shakespeare's), "parting is such sweet sorrow". She obviously didn't need an antihistamine. 

How to avoid becoming Bridezilla

Having spent the past week indulging myself with this blog - writing about myself, my wedding, my dress, etc etc - I am very aware that (as scary as it is) every bride has the potential to become a complete and utter Bridezilla. For this reason, here are a few things I have to keep reminding myself of...


Do:

• listen to your mother when she tells you that 2-hours is more than enough time for your hairdresser to get you ready. It's okay to share him. 
• remember that the wedding budget is not an unlimited pot of gold. (NB. If you don't take this one seriously, then be prepared for a Butlin's honeymoon in Skegness). 
• make sure to ask the Groom-to-be what he thinks. Your wedding is not a one-woman show.
• have a sense of humour. Weddings can be crazy, families can be crazier, and the bride tends to be the craziest of all. 

Don't:

• expect everyone to talk/think about your wedding all the time. They are not unemployed and obsessive like you lucky enough to have lots of free time. 
• spend all day sitting on your arse watching "Three Fat Brides, One Thin Dress". You might find it funny now, but if you don't get up and do some exercise, you might not be laughing in 6 months time when your perfect dress doesn't fit. 
• fuss over every tiny little bit of dust on your wedding dress. It's the trail. It trails along the floor. What do you expect?  
• spend more time blogging about planning the wedding than actually planning the wedding. (This one might be quite difficult). Having ten more followers won't be much compensation when you realise you've forgotten to order the wedding cake. 

Is there anything you can add to this list? I would love to hear your thoughts/advice on how to avoid becoming Bridezilla... 

The One

The "bride gene": does every girl have it? Does every girl want it? I'm not so sure.  Or at least, I wasn't sure until... until I met The One. The perfect One. The One that completed me. The One that made everything worthwhile. The One that instantly filled me with an overwhelming sense of excitement and joy.


Wait. Before you write me off as a soppy cow, give me a chance to explain. The One that I am referring to is ivory and satin (and no, that isn't a euphemism for caucasian and soft-skinned). That's right guys, I'm talking about The Dress. I won't go in to too much detail - for fear of the Groom-to-be discovering the other love in my life (though I will post pictures of it after the wedding) - but I can tell you that it is beyond perfection. 


Check out the fabulous range at Dona Nicole to see where I found The One. From what I am told, this is the largest bridal wear shop in the midlands; and from my own experience, I can tell you that it is wedding dress heaven. I tried on eight beautiful dresses - though it was the sixth that changed my life - and was able to pick up a designer wedding dress at an excellent price. 


The experience of standing on a platform in a big white wedding dress and looking in three mirrors (one in front, one behind and one at the side) made me feel like a real princess. Or a child playing dress-up. 

The Numbers Game

What often surprises people most about Indian weddings is the (insanely large) amount of people that get invited. My sister got married a few years ago, and there were eight hundred people at her wedding reception (honestly, I'm not joking). 


"The Numbers Game", then, is the battle between the bride - who only wants to invite close family and friends - and her parents, who want to invite everybody they know. And their neighbours. And the uncle of the guy who invited them to his daughter's wedding back in 1980 (you get the picture).


Our wedding will, by Indian standards anyway, be notably smaller. If you are wondering why, I must be honest and tell you that I did not win The Numbers Game - not at all. However, the Groom-to-be has a rather small family. His guests (including friends, family - close and distant - and friends of family) total 50 people; my immediate family and closest friends total way more than 50 people. 


It seems that the best way to avoid The Numbers Game altogether is to:

1. Give in
2. Elope
3. Marry a non-Indian (my personal favourite)

Oh well, at least that's one less game to play.

And so the journey begins...

Well, actually, it began back in October when the Groom-to-be popped the question (in the most romantic way ever, might I add). When is the big day, I hear you ask? This coming August. That's right: less than a year between saying "I will" and "I do". Good job I have enthusiastic parents who were already well in to the wedding planning process. No, that's not weird. That's Indian. 

Anyway, given that this is an introductory post, I might as well stop rambling and set the scene. Me and my other half met in Paris (cliche? no... massively romantic? perhaps) more than three years ago. Since then, we have been on a roller-coaster journey - you know, the ups, the downs, the oh-my-god-this-is-so-scary-yet-exciting-all-at-the-same-time - and made our way back to London. (Isn't it ironic that I went to Paris for an ERASMUS exchange and came back with a German man?) 

Since last October, we have been thrown in to the deep end of wedding planning, but - thanks to my parents - we did have a great deal of help getting it off the ground. Given that it is going to be an Indian wedding, there is literally twice as much work to do (and about four times as much fun to be had). We will, in effect, be having two weddings and two parties. Does this mean more presents than usual? I certainly hope so. And does this mean more clothes than usual? Absolutely. 


Over the next few months, I will be sharing what I hope will be a series of fun/dramatic/heart-felt/comedy pre-wedding stories...