I first went to India when I was 25 for my wedding shopping. It felt like a rite of passage. The plan was simple: spend the first week with my in-laws shopping for all the stuff they were giving me, then meet my sister in Delhi for the second week, stay in a hotel, and finish my own shopping.
I traveled with my in-laws future husband and SIL in tow. Apart from watching a a two headed dog get fucked in the face and the arse, at the same time the journey was pretty uneventful. The incident happened as we were waiting outside the airport waiting for our baggage from the porters. I was mesmerised i couldn’t stop looking. The dogs were so confused however the two headed dog was experienced. My FH kept nudging me to avert my eyes, and trying to engage in conversation. I had questions. I knew i couldn’t ask him, so i ignored him. My best bet was to keep watching to see how this unfolded.
Each day, we’d get ready early and commit to full-on shopping marathons. If you’ve ever been to India, you’ll know it’s a feast for the eyes. Shopping there is like being in a warehouse; you’re surrounded by piles of stuff, 80% of which is shit you’d never wear, but the remaining 20% is pure gold—if you can find it.
I’m a scan-and-point shopper. I skim the racks with my eyes, spot something I like, and then zero in. My sister-in-law (SIL) was shopping at the same time as me, so I let her do her thing while I tried to figure out how this system worked. It was my first time in India, after all. Reams of material were paraded in front of us, and at one point, three men appeared, expertly draping saris on themselves in seconds. It was incredible – they were so quick and they looked incredible.
But here’s the thing—I don’t have the same taste as my SIL. So, I quickly got bored with her choices and started eyeing what another shopper to our left was picking out. That’s when I saw the most beautiful prints and colors being pulled from a sealed chest. The other shopper dismissed most of the items, so I walked over and asked the salesman to bring them to me instead.
The shop burst into chatter when they had realized I wasn’t an Indian native. Suddenly, it was all, “Madam, madam, please sit. Would you like a drink?” They gestured to a tiny boy, previously invisible, and sent him off to fetch me a Diet Coke. When i asked for sugar Coke they laughed at me, they didn’t want me to look like a roly-poly bride. But chai tea? I could have as much as i wanted and that was loaded with sugar!
I started building a pile of “maybes,” but then I heard my SIL talking to my MIL: “That one,” she said, pointing to a piece I’d just picked. “I’ve always wanted that; I showed you pictures, remember?” Without hesitation, my MIL took my selection and handed it to my SIL. I didn’t say anything. Surely, there were other beautiful items in this shop piled high with options. I let her have it.
The next few shops were the same story. My SIL kept a close eye on where my gaze went, swooping in to claim anything I liked. By then, I thought, Hang on, isn’t this meant to be my wedding shopping trip with my in-laws? So far, I’d chosen three things—two of which she’d taken.
Later, my MIL wanted to get me some ready made punjabi suits made, so we went to a shop full of ready-made outfits. If you’re unfamiliar with Indian sizes, they cater to about a size 10 with stick-thin arms. Anything larger, and the shopkeeper just nods and says “margin”—a promise that they’ll open the seams by four inches if needed. The margin was extra material in the seam, which could be used to adjust the size.
I let my SIL go first. She picked out five suits. Exhausted, I chose one and went to try it on. Wrestling it over my body, I had a touch-and-go moment where I thought they might need to cut me out of it. So i stood there close to hyper-ventilation, my fingers found a hidden zip near the waist. It fit like a glove.
When I came out to show my in-laws, they were full of oohs and aahs. Then my SIL emerged from the changing room, took one look at my outfit, and turned to her mum: “Those are my colours, Remember when I told you I wanted orange and pink?”
I stood there, stunned. If my mum, had she been there, would’ve dragged me back into the changing room and yelled, “Get a grip!” She’d have called me pukhi (Punjabi slang for greedy) and to shut this shit down. My MIL asked me to take the outfit off so my SIL could try it on.
So, I did. I zipped it back up, tossed it to her, and sat down to watch the show. And what a show it was. The curtain of the changing room looked like someone was fighting a bear inside. Groans and muffled swearing came from within. I did the only kind thing: I asked, “Are you okay? Do you want me to come in and help?” She declined.
Eventually, the shop assistant stepped in, came back out. Scissors in hand, she made her second approach. Turns out she had to cut her out of the outfit. Red-faced, my SIL emerged, saying, “On second thought, it’s not what I imagined. If you want it, you can have it.” She threw it toward me.
“But it’s cut now,” I replied. “I I don’t want it anymore.”
After that she become a bit more Sidhi (straightened herself out). You’d think this experience would stop her, but no it happened again on registry wedding.
Before we went to India, we did a bit of window shopping in the UK with my mum, MIL, and SIL. I tried on a stunning gold outfit with a trail and bustier top. My SIL tried it on after me—trail and all. My mum, clocking the nonsense, quipped, “Why are you looking at outfits with trails? Have you got a secret boyfriend we don’t know about?” My mum and i smiled, my in-laws didn’t find it funny.
So roll forward to my registry wedding day, I wore a simple silver satin bustier top with a full skirt and a stool that i had attached to my hair like a veil. I had bought it in the Monsoon sale – it had cost me 70 pounds. I wore diamond studs and a small pendent necklace. As we walked from the hotel to the venue, I noticed whispers and side-eyes. My sister’s loud Northern friend finally blurted, “Who the fuck is that, and what does she think she’s wearing?”
I turned to see my SIL, decked out in a heavily embroidered gold lengha—much like the one I’d tried on months ago. Bustier top, full skirt with trail. She was wearing a tikka in her hair, and heavy earrings, necklace and bangles. She looked like a bride. My sister’s white British friend unknowingly said what we were all thinking: “How can someone so overdressed still look so plain?”
After the wedding, we had a relaxed celebration with my family. With a desi picnic with champagne (Asti and Cava). My mum even changed into shorts and a T-shirt to join us in kicking a ball around. None of my husband’s family stuck around. But you know what? It was perfect.
There this an update to this story she is still very much a cunt.
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