Lisa tells me that she’s feeling a bit better — though obviously not 100%. We’ll see if she contradicts this story in the post that she’s writing a couple of computers over.

I did in fact join three other white folks at the reception on Friday evening (Brian, Alex, and Caroline — whose names I have assuredly misspelled and will fix later). The video of the morning’s ceremony was playing when we showed up, which helped to smooth over the lingering regret I had (though I would stay with a feverish Lisa again if given the choice).

The reception was pretty much everything I was told to expect. 100+ people I did not know, mixed in with the few that I did, sitting around listening to carnatic music while the bride and groom (by then wife and husband) stood on the stage in the hot lamps shaking everyone’s hands for the video as the photographer snapped everyone’s group photos. “I don’t know who most of those people were,” Nimmi confided afterward. But no matter, she looked pleasantly tired, very happy, and quite stunning in her third outfit of the day.

After the singing and sitar playing and handshaking was done, we Western folk went to the dining hall and promptly broke all of the food safety guidelines from the Lonely Planet books and from our travel doctor. Heaps of vegetarian food whose names I have forgotten were piled onto the wide banana leaf that served as my plate. Eating with one’s fingers isn’t nearly as awkward as it might seem when everyone else is doing it too, though much more adroitly than any of the rest of us four. It made no difference what we did or said; food kept being laddled from steaming galvanized buckets onto our leaves. The woman next to me folded her leaf! That seemed to work. No more chapatis or rice or lentils or sweet, yellow coconut stuff over corn-filled pastries. Only a small, very welcome cup of ice cream with a fried yummy in it.

Back upstairs in the mostly vacant reception hall, we sat on plastic lawn furniture under the ceiling fans completely stuffed and steaming. Two of us in kurtas, Caroline in her new sari that some relatives helped her into, and Alex in shiny leather shoes, a starched collar, and a muted pink tie. A kurta is actually quite cool when the air is moving, but Western business wear is not.

“Do you feel different yet? Do you feel married?” I asked. Nirmala laughed. “Not really. No.” I told her to wait until she realized that she was stuck with Jay. Actually I can barely imagine two more agreeable people.

As we sat, some folks announced they were going back to Bombay or Trichy or Delhi. One fellow unrolled a mat to sleep at the hall. Some of Jay’s cousins picked up their cricket bats and headed outside. It was nearly eleven, and most of us had been up since 5:00 AM, but a good part of our group seemed too hot to move. Eventually we took the hint and left, our driver shuttling us through the still busy streets. “I think I want a beer,” Alex said. (I actually want a burrito and a Diet Coke. Hold the beer.)

Coincidentally, Caroline and Alex just started working in Bangkok. When I told them it was my first trip out of the continent, Alex said, “Wow. India is hardcore. You should come to Thailand. It’s like India but hospitable to tourists.” Maybe after our trip to Europe in a couple years we will.