Masi's Wedding

We left for Duliajan in the early morning, heading southeast through Assam. To our left were a threatening stack of Himalayan foothills, a faint outline all that was visible through the distant blue-grey haze. On our right, an anaemic mist hesitated in boxy paddy fields that stretched out to a thin, flat horizon.

We crossed the Brahmaputra river on a mind-bending 5km-long bridge, a hypnotising straight run of pylons and steel over the vast river bed below. We arrived- eventually- just in time. It turns out there is more than one St Xavier’s Church in Duliajan, and the first one we drove up to was deserted. After stopping to get directions from several passers-by, we finally found the other: a brightly painted concrete building with a large crowd gathered outside.

The bride and groom were outside with the guests, smiling and taking photos. I’m here as a guest of Wilfred Topno, the groom’s uncle, and he seems to know virtually everyone. The bride’s father was an imposing figure in a blue suit, pink shirt and new trainers, marauding around like a battle cruiser in a duckpond while telling people where to stand.

Though it appeared we had a full cast for the ceremony to start, we waited. “The bishop emeritus is coming,” Wilfred said. He was treated to a grand entrance, which from his expression I could tell he was both used to and slightly embarrassed about. Resplendent in a brown cardigan and matching grandfather smile he turned at the top step to the church, said a short blessing, and with that the ceremony could begin.

The wedding was between Masi Topno, a government officer, and Sushma, a school teacher. Both families are a minority twice over: they are Adivasi, a tribe making up about a fifth of Assam’s population, as well as Catholic- under 4% of people here are Christian. This mix of Catholicism and Indian tribal heritage came together in the expression of a wedding, forming a culturally vibrant and rich hybrid experience unlike anything I’ve seen before.

I have become painfully aware of my whiteness. I haven’t seen another foreigner since arriving in Assam, and I've grown accustomed to people staring at me and asking for selfies. When I go for a walk a fistful of children follow me, hammering me with questions. “Where are you coming from saar? How are you liking it here?” I make an exaggerated effort to dress, eat and speak like a local, but ultimately I can’t change the colour of my skin.

Here, I was worried about being a distraction and inadvertently stealing attention away from the main event. As we entered the church, I made a dive for some subtle-looking wooden benches in the back right corner, as far as possible from the happy couple at the front and a team of 3 overenthusiastic videographers waving comically large cameras at anything that moved. I should have known that all this effort at anonymity would be fruitless. Wilfred was basically a guest of honour, and by accompanying him there was little hope of keeping the low profile I craved.

Towards the end of the service, there was a set of speeches. Masi spoke first. He gave a series of thank yous, delivered in a mix of Assamese and Sadri, an Adivasi language. Unfortunately for me, you could fit all the Assamese words I know (so far) on a twice-folded napkin, and I have no hope of understanding Sadri, let alone someone skipping between the two. I strained to detect any familiar words, anything I work with- proper nouns are usually my lifeline.

Suddenly, Masi started tearing up. He paused, and I felt the crowd grow towards him. Then a flood of words came tumbling out. He turned to the priests (there were 3, including the bishop) and thanked them repeatedly. He used the word ‘father’ over a dozen times. Even without knowing more than a few words of what he said, I understood what he meant. There was a power in how he spoke, the words carrying meaning beyond any single language to a universal vocabulary of feelings; of love, loss, gratitude and acceptance.

Later, Wilfred filled in the gaps. I’d already guessed most of it myself. Masi grew up poor and his father died when he was very young. The priests who ran his school became his father figures. Later, one of them supported him to attend university in Guwahati. Now a magistrate and district administrator, Masi remains forever grateful for the life-changing support he received from the church.

Soon the service was over, but the day had just begun. A first stop after the church was tea for us and the bridal party with the priests. We sat down at a large round table, the room full of frantic energy as food and drinks landed in front of us. The bishop cracked a joke about being retired while everyone else worked around him. We caught eyes across the table and exchanged a knowing smile, two inert passengers being carried along in a wild choreographed circus.

Next there was more tea, and later we joined a procession to the bride's house. The crowd had grown to include the whole village. The bride’s family home had been completely transformed. The lane leading to the front gate was lined with a bamboo archway and bright streamers. A multicoloured tent had been set up over the front garden, and a specially selected banana plant formed the centrepiece in the largest space.

There were rows of chairs everywhere, and unwritten hierarchies in each spot. We were some of the first to arrive, and were offered food in the house kitchen with front-row seats for the proceedings. Later, I snuck a look through a curtain and spotted dozens of people squeezed onto benches eating out the back. Somehow, everyone who turned up was fed.

We headed outside and watched the Nagra Bhajan, a dancing procession. Wilfred pointed out that historically this dance is performed late at night, but today it is more frequently done during the day. As a nod to the past, flame torches are still carried by the dancers in the daytime.

Finally, the bride and groom arrived. They were carried over the threshold into the tent, and once again across the room into their throne seat, ready to receive gifts from the guests.

Wilfred and his wife were first in line to present their gift, a box wrapped up in shiny paper. I asked Wilfred what it was. He paused. He didn't know. A kitchen set? Or maybe a dining set? He looked across at his wife- she wasn't sure either. We laughed. We passed over the gift, gave our best wishes and left, keen to be on our way before dark. People were still arriving as we loaded into the car outside. Wilfred told me the party would go on long into the night, and next week everyone would head to the groom's house and repeat the process there.

We headed home, the sun in blood orange freefall over the river. Conversation slowed, then stopped completely, our tired minds running over the day’s events as we retreated back along the highway.