Photo by Michael Vaughan
Preparations for the wedding of the year : no, not Harry Hewitt and Meghan's extortionate bash , but my older daughter Bethan to Rahil Abbas up in the mountains of Lonavala, between Mumbai and Pune.
I feel so delighted for them : they complement each other, ying and yang. We've known Rahil for some time and come to love him as one of our own.....I even forgive him for being a Chelsea fan!
A birthday present from the couple, a kurta to wear for the main ceremony, duly adjusted by the Latvian woman in Merthyr indoor market, who admired my taste in pyjamas!
A new case from my son, also for my birthday; flights booked and even the tricky visas sorted eventually, but not after a scare when I discovered that the company were based in Barcelona and had no phone number.
What could possibly go wrong except panic and confusion at Heathrow, so myself and my wife only just boarded in time.
All the medical equipment packed : stomach pills, mosquito spray, net, zapper and stomach pump.
Everyone I'd spoken to who'd been loved India but had tales of the inevitable 'Delhi Belly' and gave me advice what to do : avoid fruit, ice cream, non-bottled water, street food, milk, cheese, rice , ice, meat and fish ( no probs for a veggie).
Most importantly, I had written and packed my wedding poem....in fact, I'd written three : the first a while ago, second a funny one and third a techno-garage remix of the first.
Also packed, a framed version for Rahil's parents......to be presented.
No idea of what would happen, except it would be long , colourful and there'd be many guests.
After an overnight flight we landed mid-day and were up for a brief tour of the area not far from the hotel. We went to the beach and Bandra areas and visited a Catholic Church ( of course!).
On the beach we saw women in full attire submerging themselves in the dubious-looking water and were duly gawped at and photographed in a mono-cultural city.
Mumbai's traffic un-system was quite a shock.
Heavily-polluted atmosphere lurked constantly on the horizon, with streets a definition of chaos as tuk-tuks, taxis, motorbikes, buses and cars all blasted horns....with no white lines or regulations, few pavements or pedestrian crossings. Mumbai is the biggest dodgem ride in the world!
It's a vibrant, busy traffic jam and no wonder nobody keeps to schedules.
We visited a restaurant called Maharaja Bhog (a name to remember), veggie and non-alcoholic and good training for the wedding.
We were served cold, fruity tea ( far too sweet, like most drinks there) and a minty yoghurt drink which was refreshing.
We all had the same thali served on a large round metal plate, half-mooned by small bowls : dips and scrumptious breads, vegetable curries and desserts which arrived too soon and I mistakenly ate with the savoury.
I liked the palate-cleanser to finish : a rosewater and honey tutti fruiti served in a leaf.
Most of us were suffering, not from the 'Delhi Belly' but the 'Pukka Paranoia'.....we sprayed hands, sprayed banknotes, fished ice-cubes out of mocktails and became temporary veggies.
We visited a Bollywood/ TV studio and met Rahil's friend Vivek and his wife Divyanka, both of them actors and the latter famous.
It was a ramshackle building, the glamour only represented by a golden figure of Ghandi on one set and Divyanka's dressing-room. Everyone sought selfies with her, except me ( knowing how unphotogenic I am).
In her dressing-room she turned to me and said - 'You must take one here....you're so handsome!'
I later told everyone she must be a bit short-sighted!
Next day we gathered together for a bus journey up to the mountain resort of Lonavala and the wedding ceremonies.
We were stuck for ages in Mumbai rush hour ( actually , every hour is Mumbai crawl not 'rush', hour).
Finally, past street stalls selling fudge ( what else?) we were winding up the mountain's U-bends on the old road to Pune ( or 'Poona' as Alun Lewis calls it in his 2nd World war poems from the hospital there).
By now our ranks had swelled to include folk from Port Talbot, Canada and Kazakhstan; lots of Bluebirds, twitchers and even Swonzee fans.
We later met many of Rahil's relatives and I particularly enjoying chatting with his uncle, a well-known Indian dialect poet ( we didn't discuss Neil Warnock!).
Next day was Haldi, when all the women have their hands, and sometimes arms, decorated with intricate henna patterns and all the men go off in search of banks that change dollars, stroppy monkeys and viewing points to strain eyes into the ubiquitous haze.
A huge lake was dried up to a puddle, reminding me of Crete in the 70s, when a vast river-bed was arid and empty of water. This was only the beginning of India's summer.
Every event was printed on a schedule which - we soon came to realise - was irrelevant, as 'there was no time here' ( or.....people were caught in Mumbai traffic).
Some of our party had gone to great lengths to resemble a dapper Nehru; in my sandals and simplicity, I like to think I was closer to Gandhi.
In the Haldi ceremony itself, bride and groom have turmeric paste plastered on their faces and are fed sweetmeats by friends and family.
Bethan looked stunning as ever, though I could hardly recognise her : bejewelled, bright-robed and with long fair hair extensions.
The evening disco finally got going when Rahil and his mates took to the floor and showed everyone the moves to the Hindi-techno music.
Someone filmed me trying to copy Vivek ( a past winner of the Indian Strictly) and this had 44,000 hits on Instagram apparently.
'Bald, specky Welshman in sandals makes an eejit of himself!' springs to mind immediately.
So to the following day and main ceremony, or Nikah, which was full of radiant colours and rituals.
It was intriguing : men seated one side, women the other. Bride and groom would be separated initially by a large , opaque curtain. Prayers in Arabic led by an imam.
Myself in unfamiliar kurta alongside elders of the Jenkins' tribe and, at last, Bethan and Rahil meeting under a veil, at first seeing each other only in mirrors.
I did read my poem, though it was a bit lost in the hubbub and I look forward to reading it again at our Cardiff celebration soon.
The evening's reception was a massive feast and also photo opportunity alongside the couple on a flower-adorned stage.
After many sad /joyful partings we returned to Mumbai on a bus called Destiny, which chugged and choked down winding roads and then accelerated on the freeway to all of 40 mph.
All of a sudden, a grating, grinding sound and it pulled over, driveshaft collapsed and we were left to be rescued by Rahil's attentive cousins and Uber.
Our next place of rest was the old, colonial area near the Gateway to India and the docks and , curiously, a building nearby called 'Jenkins House'!
Up to then, the 'Pukka Paranoia' had turned a few to 'Delhi Belly'. My wife was OD-ing on imodium, younger daughter had stopped eating pizza and sister-in-law stopped eating altogether.
I had eaten fruit and ice-cream and felt fine till a poolside snack and , maybe, some unwise crudites.
I made the mistake of joining the rest for an evening meal and afterwards became violently sick.
Confined to bed for a day I began writing poems about the country and reading the thoughts of Gandhi......unfortunately, I missed the trip to his house Mani Bhavan, now a memorial museum.
I admired the way he embraced all religions, argued for an inclusive Indian nationalism, expressed fervent pacifism in the face of the atom bomb and was surprised by the strong undercurrent of Marxism.
His fundamental role in Indian independence is stressed, yet his advocacy of civil disobedience, attack on the caste system and belief in the equal distribution of wealth are still highly relevant today.
If his ideas were to be implemented it would transform a country so divided by rampant capitalism and entrenched in both caste and class divisions.
Reading his work made me realise the strong link to recent Welsh history and to my daughter's party Plaid Cymru, because former leader Gwynfor Evans was inspired by Gandhi when he threatened to go on hunger strike unless a Welsh TV channel was created.
Even stronger are the connections with Cymdeithas yr Iaith ( the Welsh Language Society) and Gandhi's use of civil disobedience as a peaceful revolution in society.
Just as he spent many years in jail for various causes, so many members of Cymdeithas have been imprisoned in their fight for equal status for Welsh ( a struggle not yet finished).
Sometimes you have to go away to look back. This is true of both nations and individuals.
I am so happy for Bethan and Rahil. Discovering a person is like discovering a strange country : initial impressions can be powerful, but you are always learning and wondering.
( This is the first poem I wrote for their wedding :-
VIOLA & TABLA
For Bethan & Rahil’s wedding ( 24/02/18)
This is music of a different future,
of Continents reaching out
and touching one another.
A spark, a message and a sign,
on a simple stage
of a table in a room.
A tune and a rhythm
from one to the other,
music of meeting of cultures.
The strings and drum,
the bow and palms :
hollowness at last filling.
This is music of city and mountain,
players needing no applause :
two instruments, two rivers joining.
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