Go read Part 1 and 2 if you haven’t already.
I turned off my Hindi because I was no longer in India as I walked off the plane. I was exhausted; I didn’t sleep much in Bombay. And the 1.5-hour nap on the plane made me somehow feel worse. At baggage claim, I saw the crate of Alphonso mangoes I brought from Bombay. They only grow in coastal Maharashtra from March to June. I have fond memories of devouring the mangoes in my grandparents’ dining room as a young child, getting the pulp all over my face, wishing I could enjoy these year-round. I was half worried I’d break the law checking a crate of tropical fruits on my flight. But they came out of the conveyor belt with no problem. I picked up the cardboard crate of mangoes by the slack in the rope that was trying the box shut. I felt a dull pain as the thin rope dug into my fingers. At the departure gate, I hopped into an SUV. In the cab, on an onramp onto Sheikh Zayed Road, I see a panoramic view of the Dubai skyline. It’s Majestic.
Next thing I know, I’m in a hotel suite with the extended family of the groom. It was honestly kind of awkward. I was offered a drink, which I reluctantly accepted. I then found myself in a room with a bunch of other young people, who were practicing a dance that they had to perform in front of the guests. They were all from Bombay. I was the odd one out.
Muskaan (remember from this blog) and I decided to leave around 1 AM. Me and her brother got in a taxi to her parent's apartment where me and my family were staying for the night.
I’m sharing a room with my parents, and I wake up to the sound of my dad taking a call at 8 AM. It’s pissing me off to my core because I slept at 4 AM. And as I listen to the call I become even more annoyed as I realize it could have been an email.
But Dad makes it up to me by taking me out to breakfast. We lounge around the apartment, my family and Muskaans, eating those mangoes I brought, a salad that Muskaan's dad made, and nibbling on some viral Dubai chocolate. At a Lebanese restaurant a few hours later, I gorged on plates of kabobs, grilled fish, tzatziki, hummus, and baklava. I love Middle Eastern food. It’s the right mix of spice, rich texture, and unique flavors.
The end of the Lebanese lunch marked the start of the wedding for me. My parents and I went to the front desk to check-in, and I learned that the family (who paid for all the guests’ hotel rooms) has not only booked one room for our family, but rather 2 rooms, one for me and another for my parents. I felt like royalty, this was my first time having a hotel room all to myself.
Later that day I had an interview set with a robotics startup. The call was scheduled for 10 AM Pacific time, which ended up being 930 PM Dubai time. I had my Indian clothes set on my bed, ready to head to the “Sufi Night”, the opening wedding function. I was wearing my underwear and a polo shirt sitting on a desk, explaining to a white lady why I’m passionate about the intersection between hardware and software. I end the call, let out a deep sigh, and put on a pair of white pants. I’m nervous, this is a fashion risk for me.
I went to the roof of the hotel, where the function was occurring, and the venue was fantastic. You could see the entirety of the Dubai skyline all the way from the Burj al-Arab to the Bhurj Khalifa.
At the Sufi function, Dad introduced me to his friend, and the topic of where I studied came up. I responded: UC Berkeley. For context, I went to UC Santa Barbara for my undergrad and Berkeley for grad school. I thus feel like I have the god given the right to choose between the two when I’m asked about my education, based on whether I’m trying to seem intelligent or cool. Given that this 60-year-old Indian man likely doesn’t know about my undergraduate Alma Mater, I decided to answer “UC Berkeley”. To which he responded. Wow, impressive beta. To which I humbly deflected while having my ego boosted 10xp points. But my Dad had to follow up with, “No he went to UC Santa Barbara, he only did grad school at Berkeley”. Nice way to be a wet blanket Dad.
For namesake, I went to the Dubai Mall and Burj Khalifa the following morning. When I returned to the hotel, I hurried to the “Welcome Lunch” where I wore my white pants again. I got some henna done (don’t worry it was manly).
That same night was the Sangeet, which is typically a function before the wedding ceremony meant to welcome the guests. There was an open bar, and I met another American (of Indian Descent) guy, and accidentally got too drunk. But can you blame me?
I woke up bright and early the next morning, had a cup of instant coffee in my room, and quickly got ready. My mom introduced me to a girl at breakfast who works at an AI startup in the Netherlands. My knee-jerk reaction was to ask her why she didn’t move to the AI Mecca: San Francisco. To which she responded with how much she hates America and how it’s unsafe and doesn’t align with her values. I stood up in disgust and started doing the pledge of allegiance in protest (kidding). I think the reality of life in America is a middle ground between my views and hers. This anti-American sentiment seemed to be a common theme in upper-class Indian circles. They still prefer a life abroad, just one in Europe now. Don’t get me wrong, Europe has a lot of pros, but in my eyes isn’t the right choice for many immigrants. I wonder if they’ve jumped to the wrong conclusion, or if my eyeglasses are just foggy with American optimism. Only time will tell.
After breakfast, we headed to the Gurdwara (Sikh Temple) for the official wedding ceremony. We loaded into buses and I sat next to Muskaan, and we played 20 questions. It was the most bogus game ever. The word I had to guess was Orange. I asked if it was a place, and she said kind of– she was referring to Orange County. I asked if it was a thing, and she said kind of– she was referring to the fruit. Then I asked if was a person– she said yes again, referring to Donald Trump.
I was happy to be off the bus and away from her antics. The ceremony was nice. I played 20 questions again on the way back, this time with Muskaan’s brother.
I slept for 6 hours in the hotel room and woke up in a panic, I quickly showered, put on my suit, and headed downstairs to the ballroom for the wedding reception. Indian weddings are like a bender college weekend, you just see the same people over and over again but in different venues in different outfits. But the key difference is that the food is much better.
They were making Keema Pav at the reception, the best appetizer I’ve had in my entire life. Not much else to say, everyone was tired and hungover from the prior events, this night was just a good way to send everyone off. I went to my room early that night (2AM), voraciously dodging invitations to the “after party”.
I woke up early to make my flight the next morning. I bumped into the afterparty people on their way to their breakfast McDonald's run. I got a cappuccino at the hotel cafe, while the bellboy hailed me a cab.
And that’s it. That’s everything that happened at the Big Fat Zubai Wedding.
-Raj
Some Photos:
