If you could wrap up the essence of modern urban life in one word it would be ‘package’. From packaging the tangible (practically everything we eat and use is sheathed in plastic) we’ve moved to packaging experience. Births, marriages, even deaths — our rites of passage are custom-made. We’ve entrusted more and more areas of life to planners, managers, organisers. They turn it into a package and sell it back to us.
But hey, packaging is convenient, packaging saves time, and you do have a bit of money to throw around, these days. You can’t remember when last you bought an item ‘loose’ from the grocer, you go to themed parties, take time-share vacations, and when you fall sick, you check in to a private hotel, sorry, hospital, and select a healthcare package. A new grandmother recently described the (caesarean, what else?) birth of her first granddaughter at one of those corporate maternity homes. Insurance took care of the mammoth bill, which was sought to be cushioned in a cloud of PR and marketing. A royal farewell was arranged: pink balloons and bunting in the room, staff dressed in matching uniforms, photographer capturing mother and babe in numerous poses et cetera. They even wanted to decorate the car in which the newborn was going home, but grandma put her foot down and said enough was enough.
Although the professed aim of event managers is to give their clients a ‘unique and individualised experience’, they often think on predictable lines. Like the clichéd pink for girl and blue for boy, a convention that originated in the US in the 1940s, faded away for a few decades, and re-surfaced in the 1980s (according to American historian Jo B Paoletti) when pre-natal testing gained currency and manufacturers seized the marketing opportunity this provided. Anyway, nobody’s complaining. In our new urban middle class, a growing breed of young entrepreneur easily finds clients with disposable incomes who’re eager to be marketed to. I read somewhere that event managers now organise baby showers and I’m curious: do they do western or Indian? Traditional ‘seemantham’ and ‘godh bhari’ or cakes, games and party favours? More likely a khichdi of the two.
Not that I have any moral objection to rituals being tweaked. If you are game for trying out ideas pinched from the Net, Hollywood or Bollywood, bully for you. As far as I know, however, death is a territory in which event managers have not yet managed to find a toehold. But funerals are being streamlined to match the pace of city life. A few years ago a friend lost his mother. He employed the services of a high-flying pujari, whose appointment book was so full that he could not appear in person. He therefore sent over one of his minions, but not before calling my friend in advance to gather details such as the name of the deceased, her date of birth, whether she was a widow, etc. Keep her photo and a copy of the death certificate ready, he said. His minion, who rushed into the house of mourning with a cheery smile on his face, wrapped up matters in a few minutes and had the body conveyed to the waiting ambulance. Everything was timed to a T. He had calculated how long the ambulance would take to reach the distant crematorium (recommended by the pujari because “it’s new and it’s clean”) so that it could arrive within the auspicious period.
People tend not to tamper with funeral rituals. Marriage, aha, that’s another ball game altogether. Thanks to super-rich clients who favour lavish spectacles in exotic locations, wedding planners are in clover. But even when the urban Indian wedding is not so big and fat, and professionals aren’t hired to organise it, solemn is the last word you would use to describe it. It’s fun fun fun all the way. Inter-caste and inter-cultural weddings are a boisterous free-for-all, and even traditional marriage functions have become a pan-Indian mishmash. The Bollywood influence is palpable. Never mind what caste, community or religion you belong to, never mind if you were born in the North or South, East or West, mehendi and sangeet are a must on the eve. At an ‘arranged’ south Indian wedding that I recently attended, during a dinner on the previous night, the would-be couple was entertained by friends and relatives singing (karaoke, with lyrics scrolled down on mobile phones) and dancing (Hindi film style, garbed in vividly coloured crepe silk saris emblazoned with silver zari and semi-precious stones). The couple were teased, made to play games, and asked to describe what they felt when they first met. In the buffet area, pounding Indi-pop nearly blew the plates off our tables.
At the wedding in the forenoon there was more bling than muted Kancheevaram. The CCTV screen switched between live action and replays, as in a cricket match where the camera pans the spectators between overs. Here it alternated between action onstage and looped reruns of scenes shot at other venues. One of those scenes happened to be the thali-tying ceremony at a temple, attended by close family earlier that morning. We in the auditorium were only witnessing Part II. Which ended with a loud buzzing noise as a drone camera hovered over the guests like a giant mosquito, filming the aerial view, signalling the grand finale.
