Uma & Akshit

Nothing here begins without pithya — the Kumaoni mark of rice and turmeric pressed onto the brow. In its first form it is the teek: the groom's elders carry it to the bride's home to seal the match — the engagement, made the old way. From then it opens every rite that follows, given again and again; the one humble thread that ties all the days together.

Days ahead, the women gather to fry the suwal — the sacred breads offered first to the gods and the ancestors. They knead and fry and sing as they work, an old song calling the forebears down to bless the union before a single guest has arrived.

Turmeric, laughter and colour — the morning the bride and groom are made to glow. Relatives smear the bright paste over face, arms and feet, for a shine and for protection; and from this hour the bride's parents fast, and won't eat again until she has left.

An evening of henna, song and the slow patterning of the bride's hands. The women gather close as the cones trace fine dark vines across her skin, the groom's name hidden somewhere in the design — the last unhurried night before the wedding day breaks.

The women's night, given over wholly to music. Mangal geet and shakun-aakhar — the old auspicious songs of Shiva and Parvati's own wedding — rise in call and answer, led by the gidaar and carried late, and tender, into the cold hill night.

The groom comes for the bride with his procession — a brass band ahead, and the Chholia whirling with sword and shield. From a gathering spot nearby the bride's youngest brother is borne in on the doli, the groom following on a horse, and the two sides at last meet.

At dusk, the bride's family welcomes the dust-covered procession at the door. Unmarried girls come out bearing water urns and lamps, a design is laid in clay and rice-flour, and the groom — honoured as a form of Vishnu — has his feet washed before he is led inside.

The garlands — the first thing they do as a couple, in front of everyone. Lifted onto their families' shoulders amid much teasing, each tries to garland the other first; and in that bright, laughing moment, the two families quietly become one.

The hardest rite of them all — a father gives his daughter away. He places her hand into the groom's and, as the family pours water over their joined hands, lets her go; then the groom fills the parting of her hair with sindoor, and it is done.

Seven steps around the sacred fire, seven vows — and they are married. Hands knotted by the aanchal, the couple circles the flame as the bride's brother feeds puffed rice into it; seven lamps are lit, the seventh worshipped, and nothing is ever the same.

The goodbye, and the tears — the bride leaves the home she grew up in. She is carried in the doli to the departure point nearby, throwing a handful of rice back over her shoulder; a last blessing left for the house, and the truest, hardest moment of all the days.

She crosses a new threshold — escorted the whole way there by her own brothers — and is welcomed into the family that is hers now too. A reception waits on the groom's side, and a day or two of their own rites, before the new life begins to settle.

Once the couple is home, the family holds a katha — a day of recitation and puja to bless the new marriage. It is kept at home or at a temple; in our family's case, high on the ridge at the Vriddha Jageshwar shrine, which made it ours twice over.

The couple's first act together — to seek their family deity's blessing. Every house has its own Isht Devta and its own shrine, in whatever form it comes; for us, that is Jageshwar Dham, the great Shiva temple of these hills.