A wedding in Istanbul

It was our first day in Istanbul. Thunderclouds were threatening a cold, dark and damp evening. From the window of our tiny bed and breakfast place the Blue mosque was framed in grandeur. Silhouetted against the grey clouds were the gleaming blue domes surrounded by not four, but six minarets, unlike any other mosque in the world. Only the Kaaba in Mecca has six minarets.

Braving the spittle of rain we stepped out for a stroll, climbing up steep, narrow lanes and rolling down the other side at alarming speeds, on the way passing several hamams (Turkish baths) with handwritten promises of the best massage. We sat upstairs at a place that could possibly serve as a café during mornings, tavern towards evening and by dinner time as a restaurant.

My initial attempt at braving Raki, a popular and cheap alcohol in Turkey was not very successful. As I saw it turn milky, when I diluted it with water, whatever faith I had was lost. Distilled out of grapes and raisins (sometimes even plums) and laced heavily with anise seed, to me it retains none of the elegance of wine nor the excitement of brandy.

I ordered something more predictable and sat there routing our map for the next day. A bunch of men, were huddled in one of the corner tables, across from us. As drinks were poured forth the evening got livelier and the bunch got even more louder and merrier.Platefuls of mezzes arrived, some hot, and others chilled, sliced cucumbers and slivered meat, spicy sausages swimming in red sauce, with smelly white cheese.

The menu card distracted my attention and I switched to calculating how many millions of lira we had just washed down, when one of the men from the corner table called out to us, "say, are you Indian or Pakistani?" he asked. The others turned around, some with amusement, some in drunken stupor. My normal reaction to a question like that would have been to say something like : 'Yes I believe in socialism.

But this was different, we were on holiday..

"We are Indians from Cairo," volunteered the husband. There was some thumping amidst a round of protests. After they had settled their disagreements, the same gentleman spoke up again,

"I am Hafez from London," .. some grunts of approval, "we had a bet here about where you were from. I won," he smiled.

That seemed like a good enough reason to start a discussion, when a rather small chap stood himself up from amongst the crowd and introduced himself as the owner of the tavern. Saadettin was a rather, smallish built Turk with a grin that seemed to hide some mischief.

Later, it transpired that Hafez was a Pakistani after all. A few rounds of raki and we were well past each other's histories and political differences. Then the story..

Hafez was in Istanbul to marry his daughter off to a Turkish chap. Brought up in London and among the privileged second generation Asians to be educated in a private school, Hafez believed his daughter was not a match for the boy. She was called back home for a session of reasoning, but she would marry none other.

Hafez drowned his glasses of raki rather a bit too fast, I noted. As we said our good nights Hafez insisted that we were to come for the wedding. The ceremony would take place at the Blue Mosque, or that was what I thought I had heard and as corroborated by my highly inebriated companion, the next morning.

I couldn't help wondering how my mother would react if I told her I went to a wedding in gabardines and sports shoes. As I deliberated, I heard assurances being made that we would be there.

And so we were. At first we thought we had heard the time wrong. Then it became clear that the venue must be different or perhaps hastily changed due to some last minute hitches that was usual for weddings. We set off to the neighboring Aya Sofya, that seemed like the next and most probably venue to follow up.

We found an old monk walking down the dark corridors of the church. On sufficient enquiries it was settled. This was a church and no, there was no wedding scheduled. Could he tell if there was a wedding cancelled at the Blue mosque, and he stared at us in disbelief.We didn't stay to find out.

It was well past the time of the wedding, and when there was still no sight of the bride or groom we decided to walk over to the café where we had last seen Hafez and his entourage. A very disturbed looking Saadettin hailed us, "You don't know ? Ahh.. the wedding cancelled.. Hafez very upset this morning. says, 'a boy with no family is not good enough for my daughter..' he refuses the wedding ! Says boy has to go with him to London." The boy was an orphan. "But what happened to the bride," I asked.

"Well, bride is not bride anymore, she refuse to talk with father, she will not go with him to London," Saadettin confided. As we ;mulled over the future of the groom and his chances of ever making it to London on his own steam, Saadettin let out a stream of profanity, "I made shopping from the market for tonight's party and I come in this taxi. So I come up to open the store and when I go back, no taxi, no vegetables."

"Turkish people, some very bad," observed Saadettin muttered some more curses. It appeared the taxi driver made off with Hafez's stock of groceries and shopping.

We ordered some extra round of beers hoping to contribute in some way to contribute to Saadettin's collection for the next month and convinced Saadettin that a mini van could be a useful investment.

And on that hopeful note, promised to send friends over to Saadettin's lil' sidewalk café in Istanbul where it all started.

By Anjana Das