Wed in Kabul April 2009
By: PajhwokPhotographs by Pajhwok
Text by Aunohita Mojumdar
Glitzy dresses, lavish white wedding cakes, glittering chandeliers, gaudily decorated banquet halls, brides wearing tight-fitting sequined gowns – weddings in Kabul are a slice of fantasy, an escape from the gritty reality of life in a conflict zone, a wispy confection constructed for an ephemeral moment of celebration. The separation from reality begins when one peers into the shop windows selling wedding dresses – outrageous constructs of glittering, satiny sheaths, tight bodices and figure-hugging gowns. Needless to say, this is a complete contrast from the conservative dress code prevalent in Kabul city.
In the past few years, wedding halls have sprouted like desert mushrooms around the capital. These compete in gaudiness, decorated with plastic date trees here, a fake Eiffel Tower there, their neon lights flashing dizzily in the night despite massive power outages for most citizens of Kabul. Inside, under the chandeliered ceilings, men and women are segregated into separate sections, and trespass from the men’s side is limited to the intimate family members. The band straddles the middle space to cater to both men and women, each on their own dance floor. Absence of the opposite sex is no dampener to the dancing. The men appear to enjoy the sensuous swaying of bodies with each other, while on the other side the women slither and gyrate to the latest numbers – Afghan or, very often, Bollywood songs.
In the corner of each room is the mandatory television screen, set up so that wedding guests do not miss their favourite Indian soap opera. This is a precaution taken by the hosts to prevent the guests from leaving for their homes to watch Tulsi, as Saas bhi Kabhi bahu thi is known in Afghanistan.
The night is divided by the arrival of the food. Plates steaming high with Kabuli pulau, kebabs, meat curry, naan, all dumped on the tables with little finesse as guests abandon all other activities to devour the presentations. After a concentrated period of intense eating, it is back to the dance floor again.
Eventually, the bride and groom make their ways to shiny thrones in the women’s section of the wedding hall, usually looking miserable and ill at ease. The groom has very often saved his money for years in order to have enough for the mehr (the money paid by a Muslim groom and family to the bride) and wedding festivities. The bride, leaving her parental home for good, oftentimes wears the woebegone face common to all Southasian brides, her anguish heightened by the customary cake of white powder lathered onto her face to accentuate the contrast with the bright red lipstick and heavy eye-shadow. She has probably spent hours being plucked and threaded and kneaded and braided in the parlour.
At least now their efforts will be recorded for posterity. Photography of weddings and videography are a must, and the new photography shops lining the streets in Kabul often have signs indicating their specialisation in weddings. Those wedded prior to 2001 did not have this opportunity, with photography of all kinds prohibited under the Taliban. Nowadays, the wedding procession’s bedecked car is invariably followed down the streets of Kabul by cameramen lurching dangerously out of a second vehicle, recording the proceeding moment for the eternal future.
Text by Aunohita Mojumdar
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| All photos by Pajhwok |
In the past few years, wedding halls have sprouted like desert mushrooms around the capital. These compete in gaudiness, decorated with plastic date trees here, a fake Eiffel Tower there, their neon lights flashing dizzily in the night despite massive power outages for most citizens of Kabul. Inside, under the chandeliered ceilings, men and women are segregated into separate sections, and trespass from the men’s side is limited to the intimate family members. The band straddles the middle space to cater to both men and women, each on their own dance floor. Absence of the opposite sex is no dampener to the dancing. The men appear to enjoy the sensuous swaying of bodies with each other, while on the other side the women slither and gyrate to the latest numbers – Afghan or, very often, Bollywood songs.
In the corner of each room is the mandatory television screen, set up so that wedding guests do not miss their favourite Indian soap opera. This is a precaution taken by the hosts to prevent the guests from leaving for their homes to watch Tulsi, as Saas bhi Kabhi bahu thi is known in Afghanistan.
The night is divided by the arrival of the food. Plates steaming high with Kabuli pulau, kebabs, meat curry, naan, all dumped on the tables with little finesse as guests abandon all other activities to devour the presentations. After a concentrated period of intense eating, it is back to the dance floor again.
Eventually, the bride and groom make their ways to shiny thrones in the women’s section of the wedding hall, usually looking miserable and ill at ease. The groom has very often saved his money for years in order to have enough for the mehr (the money paid by a Muslim groom and family to the bride) and wedding festivities. The bride, leaving her parental home for good, oftentimes wears the woebegone face common to all Southasian brides, her anguish heightened by the customary cake of white powder lathered onto her face to accentuate the contrast with the bright red lipstick and heavy eye-shadow. She has probably spent hours being plucked and threaded and kneaded and braided in the parlour.
At least now their efforts will be recorded for posterity. Photography of weddings and videography are a must, and the new photography shops lining the streets in Kabul often have signs indicating their specialisation in weddings. Those wedded prior to 2001 did not have this opportunity, with photography of all kinds prohibited under the Taliban. Nowadays, the wedding procession’s bedecked car is invariably followed down the streets of Kabul by cameramen lurching dangerously out of a second vehicle, recording the proceeding moment for the eternal future.
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