Wedded Bliss, The Municipal Way

Standing in line at City Hall, flanked by two of my closest--and soon to be married--friends, Prachi and Sameer, it occurs to me that passing through security check on your wedding day is definitely unorthodox. Then again, so is riding the 6 train to the ceremony.

As a gruff officer demands ID, Sameer produces his passport from the clear plastic folder that's been tucked under his arm for the course of the morning. The officer does a double take after laying eyes on the hand-written portion of the very first page, not unusual for most Indian passports. "Where'd ya make this buddy?" he snorts. "At home?"

When we're finally shooed into the building, we wait in a dismal grey hallway. Next to us, a woman in a veil straightens the hem of her skirt, which I could've sworn I'd spotted at H&M last week. Her groom is nowhere in sight. Another couple paces restlessly, carrying a drooling baby with almond eyes. Everyone's clutching some sort of paperwork, eagerly waiting to hear their name being called by an attendant. That is, if they can hear it. With no functional overhead sound system, the soon-to-be husbands and wives rely on their listening skills and a screechy City Hall employee to make sure they're not skipped over.

It turns out that approximately $60 can buy you a New York state wedding license and ceremony. This is "marriage lite", I think to myself. Minus the bells and whistles, gushing guests and open bar, it's a grittier look at the world of happily ever after. Prachi lets out a gasp as a delicate young girl glides past us in a shimmering dress, somewhat out of place. Her skirt drags the floor, picking up the dust and dirt, and I shake my head in disappointment. "Oh well. she'll only wear it once, I guess," Prachi offers, somewhat relieved that she stuck to jeans for the occasion. As we wait our turn, I'm picturing what lies behind the door marked "chapel", only steps away from where we stand. Makeshift maids of honor? "Here Comes the Bride" on repeat? A half-eaten cake, sloppily consumed by everyone else who got married today?

Soon enough, however, I get to see for myself, as the three of us, bride, groom and witness, shuffle into the chapel. Contrary to what I had imagined, it's an empty room, occupied by a single podium and a hefty woman, wearing a clerk's uniform and a no-nonsense grimace. In the course of a few brisk minutes--about the time it usually takes me to wait in line at my neighborhood CVS--they are pronounced husband and wife. But before my friends can even begin to glance into each other's eyes to register (no pun intended) what's just taken place, they're interrupted by the agitated clerk. "NEXT!" she booms, in an authoritative holler, sending us scurrying. The scene is definitely more McDonald's than marriage bureau. An hour later, we relive the events over plates of greasy Chilli Paneer at 28th and Lex., peppered with hysterical laughter, after which I finally excuse myself, feeling positively third wheel.

It's been exactly a year since that December morning. Months later, Prachi and Sameer eventually had the wedding they deserved in Mumbai, complete with a pundit, ooh-ing relatives and an extensive dinner menu that was a far cry from the mediocre Indo-Chinese fare we'd picked at on Curry Hill. Though I couldn't attend, I found solace in the the fact that I'd been able to participate in the City Hall version, however matter-of-fact, but still a very cherished union. We'd forgotten a camera that morning, unable to record the ceremony's significance. Consider this entry a humble attempt to capture the day.

Happy anniversary, guys :)