Chapter 6 - Marriage Palaces

 

6

 

            There is a strange sadness in places where happiness was loud only a few hours earlier.

 

            That morning, from the dusty window of my bus, I saw a luxurious wedding palace standing tired beside the highway. The lights were gone. The music had disappeared. Decorations hung like exhausted smiles after too much pretending.

 

            Workers cleaned leftovers while the morning wind carried torn flower petals across the empty parking ground.

 

            Last night people must have danced there as if life had finally defeated sorrow.

 

            But dawn has a cruel habit of telling the truth quietly.

 

            The road was still half asleep.

 

            Tea stalls had just begun breathing smoke into the cold air. Milkmen moved slowly on bicycles like tired clock hands. Dogs stretched lazily beside closed shops. Somewhere far away, a temple loudspeaker was testing its voice against the silence of dawn.

 

            The bus moved through the outskirts of a town where the night had recently spent itself in celebration.

 

            And then I saw it.

 

            A grand wedding palace stood beside the highway.

 

            Only a few hours earlier, it must have looked like a kingdom borrowed from dreams. I could almost imagine the floodlights, the perfumes, the music, the decorated gates, the expensive cars lined outside, and people dressed as if sorrow had permanently left the world.

 

            But now the palace looked abandoned.  The lights were gone.  The music had died.

 

            The entrance gate, still covered with flowers, looked tired. Torn ribbons fluttered weakly in the dusty morning wind. Plastic plates lay scattered near the parking area. Half-burnt fireworks rested like dead insects on the ground.

 

            A few workers were cleaning the leftovers of happiness.

 

            One man gathered empty water bottles into a sack. Another swept flower petals mixed with mud. A cook sat near giant utensils, rubbing his eyes with exhaustion. Two stray dogs fought over pieces of leftover bread near the back wall.

 

            The palace that must have echoed with laughter all night now sounded hollow.

 

            It felt strange.  Just a few hours earlier, people probably danced there believing the moment would never end.  But dawn had arrived quietly and taken everything away.

 

            The bus slowed near the gate, and for a brief moment I kept staring at the scene.  Human celebration suddenly appeared very fragile to me.  Maybe happiness is not meant to stay.  Maybe it only visits us for a few hours and leaves before sunrise.

 

            An old thought rose silently inside me: "Most celebrations end before the decorations are removed."

 

            I kept looking outside.

 

            Huge photographs of the bride and groom still stood near the entrance. Their smiling faces looked untouched by reality. Printed happiness survives longer than real happiness.

 

            I wondered where they were now.  Perhaps sitting in a decorated room surrounded by relatives.  Perhaps exhausted already.  Perhaps nervous about a future they had only imagined but never truly understood.  Marriage is strange.  Two people smile before hundreds of guests while secretly carrying thousands of fears inside them.  No wedding photographer captures that part.

 

            Marriage season had covered the highways with celebration.

 

            One palace after another appeared outside my bus window like giant reminders that humans still try to decorate life against the certainty of time.

 

            The bus moved ahead slowly, but my thoughts stayed behind at that palace.

 

            I remembered the marriages of old days.  And suddenly the distance between celebrations of yesterday and today became visible to me. 

 

            When I was young, marriages did not need palaces.  People themselves became the palace.  Houses became crowded with relatives days before the wedding. Courtyards became kitchens. Roofs became sleeping places for guests. Every wall carried noise, laughter, and instructions shouted from one room to another.  Nobody cared about decoration themes.  Nobody discussed "destination weddings."  There were no drones flying above the bride and groom.  No DJs shaking the ground.  No giant LED screens announcing love like a political campaign.  And strangely, despite having less, people seemed fuller. 

 

            In those days, marriages were not performances.  They were gatherings of human warmth. I remember how wedding parties often stayed in religious places, schools, or panchayat ghars. The arrangements were simple. Charpais spread across large halls. Steel buckets filled with water. Tea prepared in giant kettles before sunrise.  Nobody complained about "facilities."  People carried patience naturally in those days.

 

            Today comfort has increased, but tolerance has reduced.  Back then, guests adjusted themselves.  Today arrangements adjust around guests.  Yet satisfaction still seems missing. 

 

            I smiled faintly while remembering my own marriage.  It was so different from the grand palaces standing beside highways today.  My marriage did not happen near my home.  It did not even happen near my state.  Life had taken me far away from familiar roads and known faces.  And perhaps that distance itself taught me something important about marriage - that two people begin their journey alone no matter how crowded the wedding may be.

 

            Only seven people were in my marriage party.  Just seven.  Including my parents.  No luxury convoy.  No decorated fleet of cars.  No orchestra.  No loudspeakers.  No DJ trying to force happiness into the air.  No dancing crowd blocking roads to announce temporary joy to strangers.

 

            The ceremony was simple.  The reception was simple.  And yet when I look back today, I do not feel anything was missing.  In fact, sometimes I feel simplicity protected the purity of the moment.  There is less exhaustion in memories that are not overloaded with display.

 

            Modern weddings often look less like unions and more like competitions.   Who booked the bigger palace.  Who served more dishes.  Who hired the famous singer.  Who created the grander social media clips.  It feels as if marriages today are sometimes arranged more for cameras than for hearts.

 

            The bus crossed another wedding palace.

 

            This one was still glowing faintly from leftover lights.  A worker stood on a ladder removing decorative cloth from the gate.  I watched him carefully.  All night people must have admired those decorations.  Now one tired man was quietly dismantling them before the town fully woke up.

 

            That image stayed with me.  Maybe life itself is like that.  We spend years decorating temporary moments.  Then time arrives silently with a ladder and begins removing everything one by one – Youth, Beauty, Strength, Possessions, Crowds, Applause.  Even relationships sometimes.  Nothing stays permanently tied to the gate of life.

 

            Another thought touched me deeply: "The world rents us its joys. Ownership belongs only to time."

 

            Outside the bus window, the morning had become brighter.

 

            Children in school uniforms walked beside the road. Vegetable vendors arranged their carts. Life was already preparing for another day, completely unconcerned about last night’s grand celebration.

 

            That is how the world moves.  Someone cries while another celebrates.  Someone gets married while someone becomes widowed.  Someone enters life while someone leaves it.  The earth never pauses long enough to honour one human emotion completely.  Perhaps that is why wisdom often grows quietly after celebrations end.              Noise hides truth.  Silence reveals it. 

 

            I remembered old village marriages again.  There used to be tiredness in them too, but a different kind of tiredness.  Women cooking together through the night.  Relatives washing utensils together.  Children sleeping in corners wrapped in shawls.  Men discussing crops, jobs, and family matters after dinner under open skies.  The marriage belonged to everyone.

 

            Today weddings often feel outsourced.  Caterers cook.  Decorators decorate.  Event managers manage emotions.  Photographers instruct smiles.  Guests arrive polished and leave quickly.  Convenience has reduced participation.  And where participation decreases, emotional ownership also weakens.

 

            I am not against modern celebrations.  Every generation creates its own ways of expressing joy.  But sometimes I wonder if we are slowly losing the human simplicity hidden beneath these expensive layers.

 

            The bus entered a narrow stretch of road lined with trees.  Sunlight filtered through leaves and fell across passengers' faces.   An elderly man sitting across from me was half asleep, his head moving gently with the motion of the bus.  A young boy beside him watched reels on his phone loudly without earphones.  Two generations travelling together, separated by invisible worlds.

 

            I looked outside again.

 

            The wedding palace had disappeared far behind us now.

 

            But its morning emptiness continued sitting beside me.  I started thinking about happiness itself.  Why do humans celebrate so loudly?  Maybe because somewhere deep inside we know nothing lasts.  Maybe music is our temporary rebellion against mortality.  Maybe dancing is the body’s way of forgetting time.  And maybe weddings are not merely celebrations of love.  Maybe they are collective attempts to convince ourselves that permanence still exists somewhere.

 

            Yet life quietly keeps teaching the opposite.  Even the strongest emotions slowly change shape.  Love becomes responsibility.  Excitement becomes routine.  Beauty becomes memory.  And memory itself eventually becomes silence.

 

            Still humans continue decorating gates, lighting fireworks, and gathering crowds.  Perhaps that is beautiful too.  Because despite knowing life is temporary, people still choose celebration.  There is courage hidden in that.

 

            The bus stopped briefly near a roadside tea stall.  A few passengers stepped down.  I stayed seated near the window.  The smell of boiling tea entered the bus softly.

 

            Nearby, I saw another leftover sign of a wedding night - a crushed flower garland lying beside the road.  Yesterday it must have rested proudly around someone’s neck.  Today vehicles passed over it without noticing.  Fame, beauty, celebration - all share the same destiny eventually.

 

            Dust.  The bus started again.

 

            I leaned my head against the window and closed my eyes for a moment.

 

            Faces from old marriages returned to me.  Simple people.  Simple clothes.  Simple food.  But genuine laughter. 

 

            Not every memory shines because it was grand.  Some memories survive because they were honest.  That is why I still remember my own marriage peacefully.  No loud music competes with the memory.  No extravagant show distracts the heart.  Just a quiet beginning between two human beings trying to trust life together.  And perhaps that is all marriage truly is beneath the decorations.  Not a palace.  Not fireworks.  Not photography.  Just two imperfect travellers agreeing to continue the road together despite uncertainty.

 

            The bus kept moving forward.  Fields passed.  Shops passed.  People passed.  And somewhere behind us, workers would have completely cleaned that wedding palace by now.  By evening, perhaps another celebration would begin there again.  New lights.  New music.  New promises.  New photographs.  The world repeatedly rebuilds temporary joy over the same floors.  And maybe that is the greatest truth of human life.

 

            We know celebrations fade.  We know decorations tear.  We know mornings always arrive after loud nights.  Still we continue singing.  Still we continue gathering.  Still we continue hoping.

 

            Because perhaps humans do not celebrate to defeat impermanence.  Perhaps humans celebrate simply to make peace with it.