Traditional Weddings in Modern India
In the outskirts of Leh, the ancient capital of the Himalayan kingdom of Ladakh, a vast tent was erected, facing the renowned Thiksey Monastery. Small tables, exquisite examples of Ladakhi woodcarving, were arranged for the guests, who sat on the carpeted floor, sipping the traditional salty butter tea—an essential part of Ladakhi hospitality. The couple, already together for over a decade, had two children: a nine-year-old daughter and a four-year-old son. Their wedding, known as a Bagston, required no priest or Lama to officiate. Instead, it was a simple yet profound declaration, endorsed by parental approval and witnessed by the village. As a symbolic gesture of solidarity, guests adorned the couple and their immediate relatives with sacred silk scarves. Gifts, often small sums of money, butter, sugar, wool, and other essentials, were meticulously recorded in a dedicated notebook. This practice functioned as a village ‘loan’—a means to support the young couple in their new life, to be repaid gradually at future weddings.
On the opposite end of this vast country, in the southern state of Tamil Nadu, I experienced my first Indian wedding on a damp October morning. Waking at 4 AM, I stepped into the monsoon rain, inhaling the earthy scent of India. In the wedding hall, cooks prepared idli sambar and vada, which would be served on banana leaves for breakfast. The Brahmin priest had determined the auspicious time, and the wedding had to commence by 6 AM. The Tamil Brahmin wedding was an intricate religious affair, strictly adhering to Hindu scriptures. Over four hours, guests came and went, stretching their legs or slipping away for breakfast in the adjacent hall. Uncertain of the significance of each ritual, I captured nearly two thousand photographs that morning. By the time I finally joined the couple for breakfast, I was close to fainting.
As I continued my journey through India’s diverse wedding traditions, a friend tipped me off about a Dawoodi Bohra mass wedding in Mumbai—an opportunity too rare to miss. Despite not having secured permission, I arrived early, determined to witness the baraat procession. Hundreds of grooms, many on horseback, paraded through the heart of Bhendi Bazaar. The summer heat was relentless, and I wrapped my small white towel into a makeshift turban, sneaking into the mosque unnoticed. Inside, His Holiness Syedna Mufaddal Saifuddin officiated the ceremony. From a balcony, I discreetly took my first shots, inching closer until I was inevitably noticed. The general secretary intercepted me. I was caught.
I explained my story—how I had sought permission but received no response. The secretary made a call, summoning the PR officer. To my relief, my emails had indeed been received. Despite my lack of formal approval, I was granted access and even introduced to His Holiness, who blessed me for my respectful approach. Suddenly, I was free to move as I pleased, capturing every intricate detail of the mass wedding.
Ironically, I had never aspired to be a wedding photographer. In my childhood, I held little respect for them, associating them with the uninspired, flash-heavy snapshots at Israeli weddings I was forced to attend. The wedding halls of Carlebach Street in Tel Aviv, particularly Ulamey Shoshanim (Rose Halls), symbolized everything I disliked—gaudy décor, formulaic celebrations, and photographers capturing unremarkable moments of people eating. My idols were the photojournalists whose work graced the pages of National Geographic. Every month, the magazine arrived from America in its signature yellow envelope, and I would tear it open with anticipation. I wanted to document cultures, emotions, and traditions—not staged, predictable ceremonies. Yet, here I was in India, years later, renowned for wedding photography. But to me, it was never about weddings; it was always about the story.
My childhood experiences had not prepared me for the complexity of Indian weddings. In Delhi, when I first encountered matrimonial advertisements, I was bewildered by the specificity—Baniya, Jain, Agarwal, Sindhi, Brahmin, Malayali, Kannada, and many more, each seeking a partner within their caste.
“So, how many boys did you meet before deciding to marry?” I asked my assistant, who was preparing for her own wedding. We were in a pre-paid taxi from Bangalore International Airport to the city. A Gujarati Jain, she was set to marry a Marwari—an inter-caste marriage, a significant departure from tradition. “More than twenty,” she replied with a sigh. “After six years of searching, my parents were so exhausted they finally agreed to let me marry the boy I met at the gym.” She had known him socially for years and liked him from the start. A few years later, she remarked on the rapid social changes. “It’s so different now. Girls have boyfriends. People date openly. This was unheard of when I was growing up.” Recently, she confided, “We’re thinking of moving out of my in-laws’ house. I need my privacy.” The times, indeed, were changing.
One spring evening in Delhi, the air was perfect—cool, crisp, and intoxicating, a fleeting moment between winter’s chill and summer’s swelter. I was covering a lavish Sikh wedding at a posh farmhouse. The guests, elegantly dressed, gathered under ambient lights while the newlyweds received them on a floral stage. The atmosphere was jubilant, but as I made my way toward the exit, I noticed an unusual commotion under a harsh yellow streetlight.
A group of hijras—India’s ‘third gender’—clad in vibrant saris and adorned with heavy makeup and large, faux-gold earrings, were negotiating their payment. Their exaggerated gestures and suggestive remarks were met with stiff resistance from a man likely sent by the groom’s father. Though often uninvited, hijras traditionally appear at weddings to bestow blessings—for a price. Some families fear their curses, believing they can bring misfortune or infertility. To avoid embarrassment, they usually pay a handsome sum, ensuring goodwill and fortune instead. Eventually, money changed hands, and the hijras departed, their mission accomplished.
“What can you tell me about your wedding?” I asked a Telugu bride in Visakhapatnam, hoping to spark a conversation and gain insight into the rituals. She shrugged. “Nothing. It’s just another Indian wedding.”
