Pre-hitched

It's official: I have one foot firmly planted in the land of the old. I have not one but TWO honkin' diamonds on my hand, I've met the extended Punjabi family, I've had treacly balls from Sindhi Sweets jammed into my gaping maw. If I back out now, I will always be known as the shameless white woman who took advantage of the family, their golden son, and Indian hospitality. Or something like that.

I should (read: will later, when I'm not at work, fielding congratulations) write more about this, in a more coherent manner; instead, I'll list items of particular interest:

• A boy scout running through the train at our stop in Ambala, distributing free polio drops to the crying baby sitting in front of us
• My inappropriately pleated salwar, the cause of much consternation from a bevy of aunties
• Not knowing appropriate foot-touching protocol, defaulting to a half-hearted namaste and a hesitant bend at the waist, most often forestalled by women clutching my hand as they inspected my face (nice and fair!)
• Muzak modeled on artists including, but not limited to, The Backstreet Boys, The Beach Boys, and John Denver
• Plaster-cast "villagers" adorning the venue, a resort somewhat akin to a heritage village
• Inadvertently licking the fingers of numerous strangers as they fed me sweets and waved rupee notes over my head
• Posing for the exact same picture, in the exact same place, with at least 20 different people/families
• Driving home from the big event behind a car with a sticker boasting the owner's caste, which was "Billing," which apparently is pronounced "bling," a fact which S's father celebrated by repeating ad infinitum, causing me some cognitive dissonance, as it's not everyday you see a proper Sikh papa, beturbaned, immaculately groomed white beard accompanying a lovely suit, chanting something more often associated with gangsta rap and hos