A Muslim Wedding Celebration: Day 1

All my family and I knew when we were first invited to our Muslim friends’ wedding was that the first night of the celebrations we would attend was called the Mehendi or Henna party. The groom’s mother saw us arrive and eagerly made it a point to welcome us and give us some instruction. She motioned for us to sit on the floor with a mixed-age group of mostly women. The few men who were present mingled just outside the girl-group, so for my husband’s sake our family huddled on a spot of carpet left between the gals and the guys, where we waited for what would happen next.

If you have been to a Muslim wedding, you know that everything that comes next is worth your anticipation. If you have not had yet had the pleasure of “guesting” a Muslim wedding, my hope is that this brief narrative will make you want to. True friends posture themselves to be a part of one another’s big life moments. Sharing a Muslim family’s wedding experience can be a highlight of your friendship journey; it will help you to understand and appreciate one another’s traditions and values. It will most certainly dignify your relationship in ways that are God-focused and mutually affirming. 

The Mehendi party commenced to the beat of tabla being played by a couple of the girls present. Before long we became slightly awkward participants in a banter that went back and forth from the group of girls who belonged to groom’s family to the group of girls that belonged to the bride’s family. We didn’t understand the language they chanted in, but we clapped along to the rhythm of the acapella singing that volleyed between the girls’ groups. At one point the bride’s-side girls produced a man’s shoe. The banter got louder and more hilarious. Finally someone kindly explained to us that the girls had stolen the groom’s shoe, and the two groups were haggling over the price the groom would have to pay to get it back. Neither the groom nor the bride had arrived yet, but the game that continued for some time was lots of fun. 

Finally, to the sudden accompaniment of music and more drums, the gallant groom arrived. We joined the tide of guests that made its way to the salon’s entrance. To welcome him everyone stood in separate lines to either side of where he would walk. My family managed to stand in the groom’s family line. We threw rose petals on him, and as I recall, he sat on a decorated sofa at the front of the hall. Soon to follow came the bride, with her separate entourage. 

The bride was dressed in traditional yellow . She walked in slowly, beneath an ornamented veil which family members held in place. In spite of the music and our hearty throwing of rose petals as she passed by, her head hung low. She wore no make up, and she made no effort to connect with her guests—not even with a glance. She ambled as if she carried sadness between her shoulders. The veil over her head led her to a secluded place where she would sit alone, while the party continued.  She remained isolated while we all enjoyed a feast of curry and sweets. Then she was moved to the front of the room, next to her fiancé.

Even next to her fiancé she remained reserved. Women spontaneously arose from the crowd and walked toward her, one or two at a time, to offer modest, quiet blessings. Before returning to their places on the floor they dabbed a little something into the palms of her hands. I learned it was henna, the same herbal mix that was used to create the intricate, trans-generational designs that already adorned the visible parts of her hands and feet. The artwork danced delicately from her fingertips beyond her wrists, before disappearing beneath the sleeve of her yellow tunic. Most of the women present wore similar henna designs, though not as elaborate. The henna component of the evening is more tradition than anything, but it tends to be the focus of bridal blessing. 

I think I remember the most about this night, because of the mix of emotions I experienced. My friend’s veiled, bowed, ochre presence fused bunglingly into the fun of the talkative tabla, the buoyant banter of girls’ games, and the mischievous masala I had eaten for dinner. Then the life-invoking henna designs on the outsides of her hands that held tightly to the sentimental smears of the henna clenched into her fists brought it all together. This was my friend’s transition day, because the day she marries is the day she departs from the home she knows to the home she’ll adopt. It would be dishonorable to be frivolous on the day she leaves loving family. There is plenty to contemplate; therefore, in spite of her excitement, she grieves.