Sunday morning in Nagpur, India, and I am lonely. My kids have not sent emails, nor have my grandkids or friends. Twenty-eight spam messages urge me to buy Viagra. If it would stiffen my skirts, I would. I should be ironing. I re-dampen my clothes and hang them on the balcony. Wind smoothes wrinkles. If not, I’ll bury my stubborn fabrics in my suitcase. In just three weeks, I will be home to my clothes dryer, dishwasher, TV, and dogs.  And the usual view from my living room window: my tree, my neighbor’s tree, clean, quiet street, sedate, shiny automobiles emitting no visible fumes. Occasionally, squirrels squabble or a Jehovah’s Witness comes to announce the end of time.

The view from my third floor balcony banishes loneliness with the first breath of diesel fumes. Across the street, a Hindu wedding celebration is at the parade-the-groom phase. The garlanded groom, in a foot-high headdress of roses and marigolds, trots off on his red-velvet cloaked white stallion whose gold tassels shimmer through the generator’s black smoke. They are followed by a 12-member marching band in full blast weaving around cows that have a placid attitude toward street parades. To kill one incurs a $100 fine. Cows are worth more than most brides. The groom and his men are going to the temple to make Puja to the Hindu gods. The bride and her women huddle in a secluded room whispering, perhaps , of the shortcomings of their strutting men. Along the parade route, firecrackers pop; their smoke mingles with exhaust fumes, the scent of a million blossoms, and the earthy exhalations of cows.

Below, I see that two lawn events were booked back to back. The Christian five-hour prayer and praise service is over, but the pastor overstays his departure time to cast out a demon. Two women in faded saris hold a young girl to a chair while the pastor, clad in white, jumps around and screams in her face. The girl writhes and vomits. Her captors look implacable. The pastor increases the volume. The girl retches again. I am revolted but rooted until I think the demon may jump on my balcony, chase me into my room, and get tangled in the mosquito netting. Four cardinals and a pope may be required to exorcise such an infestation.

I step back and enjoy the sights of the other booking: a Hindu engagement party. Arriving guests stream around the demon possessed girl. They do not stare as we do at a train wreck or avert their eyes as we do when a wheelchair rolls by. Hindus have their spectacular rituals; Christians have theirs. Here, both religions are peaceful, non judgmental. And, really, what is there to see? A girl held down and yelled at? A child vomiting? Non-events in a land where life is lived on sidewalks, alleys, and inside flimsy huts. All have heard the screams of birth, the dirges of death.

I grab my camera and run down the stairs. I’ve photographed Hindu weddings, but not a Hindu engagement party. A rainbow of women in sparkling saris put their palms together and bow their welcome. The men move plastic chairs so I can pass. Little girls in spangled dresses and little boys in brightly colored shirts and pants pose and plead that I take their photo. I oblige. They thank me;  their parents thank me; their aunties thank me. I snake my way to the dais where the engaged couple poses for photographs. They nod their pleased assent that I join the paparazzi. I feel hands pushing me up on the dais. A man takes my camera and motions for me to stand between the feted couple. I oblige. Why not? I, too, wish them a thousand sons. I see a parade of a thousand white stallions, a thousand splendid grooms, a thousand marching bands, women whispering in a thousand little rooms.

Hindu music blares and I slide off the dais. A tiny old woman grabs my hand and we dance an energetic number.  I am amazed at her spryness, her toothless joy. I wonder if our dance is an ancient one, handed down by women. I see our mothers dancing behind us and their mothers and and theirs.

A matron with six inches of gold bangles on each arm and a bindi on her forehead offers me a seat. A little girl brings me a plate of food. I eat goat curry and dal with a chapatti. Someone brings me orange, pretzel-shaped sweets and potato chips on a snack plate. Dessert in India is both salty and sweet.

Syrup and salt cling to the curry crud on my hands. I must go. I nod my thanks and return to my room. I want to plunge my hands in hot water, but I am not in the mood to heat it. Soap and cold water feel good on my hands – all the way up to my elbows. I step in a bucket of cold water and wash my feet up to my knees.

It is noon in India. Soon Abhay will arrive on his motorcycle to take me on a picnic. He’ll have take out tandoori chicken and rice in a tiffin, two green coconuts and straws, a watermelon, and a pint of pale whiskey that tastes like my grandfather’s moonshine and kicks like a camel. I was lonely? It was just a passing cloud. In India there is always a stunning display for the senses, always a party to crash.

Will I see the vibrant colors of India while squirrels squabble on my grass? When Jehovahs Witnesses lean on my doorbell, will I hear the jangling music I danced to? When a friend drives up in his BMW , armed with the proper wine and erudite conversation, will I yearn for redolent wind scorching my face and my hard hugs around Abhay as he hits potholes to avoid beggars and busses — or just to feel me hug him harder — or just to hear me laugh?

Carol Stigger lives in the Chicago area with her two Boston Terriers. She lives in India every winter hosted by a community development organization in exchange for doing communications and organizational development. She lives in Rome every spring where she writes about ancient and modern Italy.

Tags: bride, cows, groom, Hindu, India, party, photograph, Weddings