Like any good grandmother, on our last full day in Bangladesh, Mustari wanted to get everything that Emma’s little heart desired, including jelabis.  While we rested after the morning at the girls center , Mustari went to the best restaurant for these sweets in Dhaka, only to find that they had been cleaned out that morning.  She came back in time to take Emma for her mehndi appointment at the salon that we had made the day before.

After an early dinner, we spiffed up to go to a wedding shower for a neighbor’s son.  The event was held in a conference center just a block from their home. We walked into an extravaganza.  The walls, the ceiling, the chairs were all decorated in silk and marigolds and twinkling lights hung from every corner.  A dais at the front of the room held a huge shamiana (tent), where the groom sat on a large low couch, filled with silk pillows and brocades.  Guests were dressed to the nines in their best saris and kurtas and each of the groom’s family members came to have formal pictures made with him under the shamiana.   Occasionally, the doors would open and members of the groom’s family came in with huge velvet lined boxes with clear lids, so we could all see the embroidered cloths, silks and jewelry he was presenting to his bride to be. Despite the ancient rituals, it was definitely a modern affair — huge speakers pumped in a mesmerizing melody which reminded me of a swanky bar in L.A., lights dimmed, cameras flashing, beautiful women gliding by in glitter and gold. Only difference in this scene is that instead of martinis, coffee and tea and jelabis were being served, much to Emma’s and Mustari’s delight.

The groom and his family

A tiny diamond earring, combined with an air of bemused patience, hinted the groom’s time in America.  His friends, all dressed in golden kurtas, took pictures and selfies with him on the dais.  Guests mingled, getting their photos taken  prom style by the ten photographers who roamed the room.

The bride at the shower

Finally the music signaled a change with sweet Bollywood pop songs.  And then there she was, brought in a golden swan carriage by four men, just like the goddess Saraswati.  The bride was tall, and seemed at least a foot taller because of a huge poof on the very top of her forehead. You could tell she was model good-looking, but the Bengali industrial wedding complex dictated she look like a Bollywood poster.  In other words, Bengali brides fall into the same trap we all do — we never actually look like what we really look like on our wedding day.

We made our exit shortly thereafter.  It would be an early morning for all of us.  Emma and I were headed off to India, to navigate a new city without the strong and loving presence of our Bengali mother and grandmother.

Mustari and Atiq Khan, our Bengali family