The Relic Suit: Colonial Charm vs. Desi Drama

It was always exciting to attend weddings from cultures outside our own. I had one such opportunity to attend a wedding in a remote, inconspicuous village in Uttar Pradesh (UP). It was finally my loyal Man Friday Ramu's D-Day—a simpleton who had migrated to the city years ago to make ends meet. I owed it to him to attend the wedding. Little did I know, I'd witness the most hilarious clash of colonial leftovers and rural reality: not one, but two men battling ill-fitted suits in the sweltering heat.

Ramu was gifted a stiff, 3-piece charcoal-gray suit with shiny shoes and a tie by his in-laws—his first wedding and so his first suit as well. This quirky custom got me thinking as I watched the funny drama unfold before my eyes.

Ramu, in his suit, was trying very hard to look comfortable. Still, he appeared like an "Utterly Self-Conscious Mr. Ramu." Ramu had a mama from a nearby village who was one of the main orchestrators of this wedding. He, too, had pulled out his 20-year-old wedding suit to wear in this reception. He had stuffed his rotund frame into the relic suit. The tie almost resembled a noose around his belly. Marriage had significantly increased his waistline; the buttons strained and stretched to their maximum elasticity. One wrong move, and they would burst, giving way to the stuffed flesh to break free.

Nevertheless, the Mama-Bhanja duo had decided to ace the reception in their English men's attire as if it were a mandatory custom. But the summer heat was unforgiving. I could see Ramu trying hard to hide his discomfort as sweat trickled down his suit. He was grinning for the onlookers, while it seemed as if his insides screamed for mercy from the heat. His mama was puffing like a steam engine. The highlight of the reception was the local DJ, who played a non-stop medley of loud, garish desi numbers. The blasting music made everything around me vibrate—the ground, the chairs, even my teeth. It seemed like the mama had vowed to channel his inner 80s actor, Govinda, and launched into an over-the-top center-stage dance. His whole body swayed wildly in large circles. The crowd cheered him (or jeered), and this prompted him to position himself for his climax moves: the "great Indian wedding Naagin dance" moves. He twisted and wriggled like a snake from those classic Sridevi films, one moment low on the ground with his hands hooded above his head like a cobra's flare, the next moment on the floor coiled and rolling as a gluttonous serpent trying hard to digest his prey. The visual was hilarious, an "English gentleman" in a relic suit, shedding all pretense of colonial civility and at his desi best, the nagin got out the desi-babu in him no matter how well it was concealed by the English suit.

Ramu had to join this customary dance to impress his coolness upon his new bride, though the stiff suit was restricting every move of his. The uncle, on the other hand, was unstoppable. That's when disaster struck. As uncle coiled and uncoiled like a constrictor from the rain forests, his overstrained buttons gave way—one by one, popping off like fireworks. By the time the third one came off, his shirt gaped open, revealing a belly that wanted to hide in shame from the camera's focus lights. The uncle hissed and froze for a moment. The auntie rolled her eyes and fished out safety pins from her purse. "Aur karo Nagin dance," she scolded him sarcastically.

I couldn't help but reflect on the deeper roots of such customs. History says that during British rule from 1858 to 1947, Western fashion was imposed as a marker of "civility" and status. Educated Indians "fitted into" the colonial society by wearing suits, just because the British perceived our native attire as "uncivilized." But do suits make the man look gentlemanly or civilized, or is it just a remnant of our colonial past? Does it indicate prosperity, or merely serves as a flashy prop to boost the groom's status for a day? Or are we just masking a deep-rooted low self-esteem that keeps us from proudly showcasing our traditional attire?

By dawn, Ramu had finally shed his suit. I left the village with a funny insight: some traditions are best laughed off—time to chuck the pretentious suit and embrace the Indian shaadi-wala attire with dignity and pride.

Moral: In the clash of old empires and village vibes, sometimes the best tradition is the one you sweat through—and let go.