When the captain announces the plane's descent, I do the usual thing of sticking my nose to the window and looking below. There seems to be a massive mossy green turtle floating about in the aquamarine blue waters of the ocean. The turtle, I realise, is Mauritius, the beautiful island embellishing the Indian Ocean, just off the Southeast coast of Africa.
"Bonjour madame. Is this your first time in Mauritius," the avuncular immigration officer asks with a warm smile. It is. "I hope you like our country and visit again and again," he says as he stamps my passport. As far as immigration officers go, this gentleman is, by far, the most welcoming one I ever met. Maybe he could teach our immigration staff back home in Mumbai a thing or two about congeniality.
We are among the stream of Indians who have arrived on the Air Mauritius flight from Mumbai to attend a big fat Indian wedding, a three-day extravaganza. Over the next few days, our numbers will swell and suddenly we will be in India again—the people, the singing, the music, the wedding finery, the food, the ceremonies and even the banter. Isn't it interesting how our own people and culture suddenly appear more endearing in foreign climes?
Oh well anyway, this is my second destination wedding of this year, the first being Vienna. Having learnt my lessons well, I have armed myself with comfortable shoes to go with all my wedding outfits, ‘party smart' tablets to prevent a hangover and extra strength multivitamins to combat sleep deficit.
A cool breeze welcomes us as we step outside the airport, it is a perfect 18ºC, the cerulean skies are bright with sunlight with clouds like spools of wool scattered across in clusters and I feel a sublime kind of happy.
Our hotel, the Sofitel L'imperial is located at Flic n Flac , an hour's drive from the airport. We pass by the busy Port Louis and traverse the winding streets of the quaint Quatre Bornes, then through a gloriously green and lush landscape of sugarcane fields, green hills and dancing rushes to arrive at the hotel, where a whole reception committee is waiting.
Six statuesque African dancers in flaming red tribal costumes break into an animated dance as they see the weary guests trickle out of various vehicles. The hosts too join in and then the dholak too starts to play. Suddenly the guests are dancing and smiling at the videographer in their seashell garlands, sipping champagne and holding their step awkwardly each time they suspect the camera lens is on them.
Boho-chic: well, that is the theme for the night and nobody is too sure about what they ought to be wearing. Still, it is a beach wedding and no fashion police lurking around hopefully. I drop by to say hello to the bride, Tina, who is sipping champagne perched on a chair like a high priestess as a team of hair, beauty and draping experts add the finishing touches. I tell her she looks bewitching. She introduces me to the man who is responsible for her looks tonight, the senior make-up artiste Kapil who is Kareena Kapoor's very own personal make-up person. Her hair stylist Mallika too is one of the most sought after hair stylists among a certain section of Hindi cinema's leading ladies. "Was this team of beauty experts booked perhaps even before the groom Abhishek had proposed to Tina," I ask the bride in jest. "Sort of," she laughs.
An hour later, we are at the party on the beach in our wedges to be able to stay on the sand without sinking. A fresh set of ebony beauties entertain guests with the chaotic rhythm of the Sega dance routine, seductively inviting the more enthusiastic ones to the dance floor to teach them the moves. Some of these men, kinesthetically challenged as they might be, look like they will die of rapture tonight.
The bride is moving about the beach, the long lacy trail of her white boho-chic gown sweeping after her in the sand. The young singles are flocking together in the hope of putting an end to their single status, if only for a night. An astronomer is walking about pointing out the stars and galaxies in the heavens above to those inclined in edifying themselves with this sort of business. The welcome speeches and introductions are quickly followed up with much dancing to a mix of western and Bollywood beats against the backdrop of the almost still sea.
In the morning, some hung-over striplings are seen working out in the gym, the middle aged lot, on the other hand are sitting around the breakfast tables in clusters and among other things discussing politics, joint problems and fitness regimens over hot dosas.
I have time to go kayaking before the afternoon function and manage to hit the seas for an hour of aquatic exertion. Back on land, the wedding planners have been working away with a frenzy to put together a beachside carnivalesque set up in the sea facing lawns of the hotel. There are orange and teal colour canopied beds that have been laid out on the edge of the lawns facing the sea, a bunch of masseuse is being briefed. There will be sore feet in the crowd today, feet that will need to be liberated by means of a foot massage.
By high noon the party is in full swing and Brazilian dancers on stilts have appeared from nowhere. Guests in boas, funky hair pieces and carnival masks are dancing to live dholak beats mingled with songs from the DJs console and drone cameras are zipping across the skies filming the madness below.
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Other guests at the hotel are awed by the flamboyance and vibrance of an Indian wedding and are probably secretly congratulating themselves for witnessing one. They do not know of the sleepless nights that await them over the next two days when the DJ will keep the young crowds enraptured till sunrise with his entourage of a violinist, a saxophonist, a dholki-wala and a remarkable drummer.
The caterer from Mumbai has prepared an Indian coastal banquet with a smattering of street food. Guests are torn between their desire to do justice to the food and their inclination to dance in the lawns by the sea. A few hours from now is the wedding sangeet, the biggest night at an Indian wedding as we know. The theme, as expected, is Indian.
There is a salon setup that has been provided to cater to our vanities at the hotel. A large banquet room has been turned into a beauty lounge and justifiably so. In the smaller room next door, a few saree drapers have been provided and there are long queues everywhere. The make-up girl is applying some heavy war paint on an unsuspecting but hopeful middle-aged lady on one of the chairs. When I see her cover her eye-lids with fat strokes of murder green eye shadow to match her moss green outfit I decide that I do not have it in me to watch this transformation with a straight face and I head to the venue directly.
The sangeet carries on through the night ending in a breakfast of eggs and cheese on the beach for those who have survived the night purely on the might of their strong liver and their love for dancing.
Fortunately for the hosts, Mauritius has witnessed a spate of clear skies three nights in a row. This is unusual at this time of the year. By now, some of the guests, including this writer, have developed numbness in their feet, soreness in their throats and a constant ringing sound in their ears but they are determined to keep walking with or without Johnnie Walker.
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It's the day of the wedding. The skies are overcast and the hosts in a state of panic. The wedding ceremony is to take place on the beach itself and the beautiful flower-decked podium flanked by frangipani trees will be ruined with the slightest shower.
Mercifully, the clouds show compassion and retreat after a very light drizzle leaving the skies a deep shade of indigo. It is a magical setting and one that makes you want to believe that marriages are the best thing ever. The bejeweled bride arrives in a palquin and then walks carefully under a red muslin canopy held at four ends by her brothers. The sounds of shehnais fill the air.
The bride and groom exchange garlands and the locally sourced pandit, who is clearly gifted when it comes to expediting ceremonial matters, makes them take their marriage vows around the fire. Congratulatory fireworks go off in the background and fill up the skies like a meteorite shower. It is a sight to behold.
"The groom Abhishek is to think of every other woman, apart from his wife, as his sister after today… and the same goes for the bride. Tina, after today, every man apart from your husband, will be your brother," the pundit proclaims.
The singles in the audience are suddenly not enamoured by marriage anymore at the sound of this pronouncement that sounds more like a sentence. Their dilated pupils have suddenly retracted back and their eros has vaporized into the salty sea air.
Speaking of salty, the bride is crying on her mother's shoulder… but she isn't allowed to let her emotions pour out for long, the beauty wizards are waiting to transform her yet again, this time in a ball gown, for the black-tie dinner in a few hours.
On my flight back to Mumbai, I think to myself, just how wonderful the destination weddings of this year have been. Mauritius was delightful, Vienna was fantastic. I am hoping someone I know plans a wedding in Morocco soon.