Cricket: Template system Chapter 464 464: Haldi Ceremony

At 4:00 PM, Rahul and the logistics team began moving through the guest houses. They carried dozens of wide, woven bamboo trays.

Inside each tray sat the attire for the evening. Siddanth had commissioned the weavers in advance. Every single guest received a bright yellow Kota silk outfit. The fabric was highly breathable. The borders of the sarees and the kurtas featured delicate, interwoven silver lotus patterns.

By 4:15 PM, the guests stepped out of their respective manors and walked toward the central courtyard. The entire venue transford. The grey stone walls and the brown dirt paths were suddenly filled with over a hundred people wearing identical, bright yellow silk.

In the center of the courtyard, beneath the sprawling canopy of the ancient Banyan tree, the staff had placed a massive, solid stone mortar. It weighed over a hundred kilograms. Beside it rested two heavy, five-foot-long wooden pestles with iron-banded tips.

The matriarchs of both families gathered around the stone mortar.

This was the Pasupu Kottadam. It signified the official beginning of the wedding labor. The turric paste used for the bride and groom could not be bought from a store or ground in a machine. It had to be pounded manually by the won of the family.

Sesikala stepped forward. She untied a small linen sack and poured whole, dried, rock-hard turric roots into the deep bowl of the stone mortar.

Suma, Krithika's mother, stepped up to the opposite side of the mortar.

Sesikala picked up the first heavy wooden pestle. She gripped it with both hands. Suma picked up the second one.

"Ready?" Sesikala asked.

"Ready," Suma nodded.

Sesikala raised the heavy wooden pole above her shoulder and drove it straight down into the stone mortar.

Thud.

The iron tip cracked the dried turric roots. A puff of yellow dust rose into the air. As Sesikala pulled her pestle up, Suma drove hers down.

Thud.

They established a rhythm. Thud. Thud. Thud. The older won of the extended family ford a circle around them. They started singing a traditional Telugu folk song, clapping their hands to match the rhythm of the wooden pestles striking the stone. The sharp, earthy, raw scent of crushed turric imdiately filled the courtyard.

Siddanth stood on the edge of the courtyard, wearing his yellow Kota silk kurta, watching his mother work. Krithika stood a few feet away, surrounded by her cousins, watching her mother.

After ten minutes of continuous pounding, Sesikala and Suma stepped back, breathing heavily, their hands and forearms stained yellow. Krithika's Pinni and Siddanth's aunt stepped up, took the pestles, and continued the labor. They took turns until the hard roots were completely pulverized into a fine, highly fragrant yellow powder.

They scooped the powder into large silver bowls, mixed it with drops of oil and water, and kneaded it into a thick paste.

Then half the paste was taken by groom's side and other half bride's

The crowd split. The n and the groom's side walked toward Siddanth's large villa on the right. The won, Krithika's friends, and few of the cricketers' wives walked toward Krithika's villa on the left.

Inside the Groom's manor, Siddanth walked into the central courtyard. A low, square wooden plank, known as a peeta, sat in the center of the floor.

"Take off the kurta, Sid," Saer instructed, holding a small brass bowl of oil.

Siddanth pulled the yellow silk kurta over his head and tossed it onto a nearby chair, remaining only in his yellow dhoti. He walked over and sat cross-legged on the wooden plank.

His father, Vikram Deva, stepped forward first. He dipped his index finger into a small silver bowl of oil. He placed a dot of oil on Siddanth's forehead, then on his shoulders, and finally on his knees. This was the traditional warding against the evil eye. Then, Vikram took a handful of the freshly pounded turric paste and sared it gently on Siddanth's cheeks.

"Don't rub it into his eyes," Sesikala warned from the doorway.

Next ca Siddanth's Pedananna. He walked up, dipped his fingers in the paste, and applied it to his arms. Siddanth bowed his head respectfully.

Then, the elders stepped back. The friends and teammates stepped forward. The tone of the room imdiately changed.

Virat Kohli rolled up the sleeves of his yellow silk kurta. He looked at Saer. Saer nodded.

"Hold him," Virat instructed.

Before Siddanth could react, Jasprit Bumrah and KL Rahul stepped forward and firmly pinned Siddanth's shoulders down.

"What are you doing?" Siddanth asked, trying to break free.

"Applying the haldi, Skipper," Virat said smoothly. He bypassed the small, polite silver bowl. Instead, he grabbed an entire handful of the thick, wet turric paste from the main mixing bucket.

Virat slapped the wet paste directly onto Siddanth's chest, rubbing it aggressively into his skin. Saer grabbed another handful and sared it entirely over Siddanth's hair, massaging it into his scalp.

"Hey!" Siddanth shouted, closing his eyes tightly to avoid the stinging paste. "The hair takes days to wash out!"

"That is the point," David Warner laughed, walking up with his own handful of paste. He sared it down Siddanth's back. "You look too clean, mate. You need the full treatnt."

Across the lawn, inside the Bride's manor, a much more organized but equally loud scene was taking place.

Krithika sat on her wooden peeta in the center of the living room. She wore her yellow Kota saree, the silver lotus borders catching the light. Her hair was braided and pinned back.

Suma applied the first dots of oil and turric to her daughter's face, fighting back a small wave of emotion. Then her Pinni followed, blessing her.

Once the mothers stepped back, the seating area was imdiately taken over by Anjali, Sneha, Priya, Riya, Kavya, and the wives of the cricketers who had walked over from the main guest houses.

Sakshi Dhoni sat on a cushion to Krithika's right. Ritika Sajdeh and Ayesha Dhawan stood behind them, holding small plates of yellow flower petals.

Ritika dipped her fingers into the turric bowl. She gently applied it to Krithika's cheek.

Krithika holded her hands out as Sakshi applied turric to her forearms.

"How long?" Ritika asked, leaning over. "How long did you guys actually keep this a secret?"

"Since the 2011 World Cup final," Anjali answered proudly from the corner, holding a cup of tea. "My sister has the patience of a saint."

"2011?" Ritika stopped applying the paste and looked at Krithika in pure shock. "Rohit said he knew about your relationship 3 years ago."

"He is very good at maintaining secrets," Krithika joked.

"Well, the secret will be out in a few days," Sneha, said as she stepped up. She scooped a large amount of paste and sared it down Krithika's neck. "You quit the office without telling us the real reason. This is your punishnt."

Priya stepped up and rubbed a handful into Krithika's hair.

"Not the hair!" Krithika protested, exactly as Siddanth had done across the lawn.

"Too late," Swathi laughed, tossing a handful of yellow marigold petals over Krithika's head.

The won started throwing the flower petals at each other, laughing loudly. The floor of the manor quickly beca covered in yellow powder, wet paste, and crushed flowers.

Back in the Groom's manor, the situation had completely deteriorated.

Siddanth was no longer sitting on the wooden plank. He was standing in the corner of the courtyard, completely covered from head to toe in bright yellow paste. His hair was plastered to his forehead. He wiped the paste away from his eyes.

Virat, Saer, and Warner stood on the opposite side of the courtyard. They were whispering.

"He thinks it is over," Saer muttered to Virat. "He is dropping his guard."

"Where are the buckets?" Virat asked quietly.

"Behind the pillar," Warner pointed.

During the application, the staff had brought in several large steel buckets filled with cold water, ant to be used later for washing the floor.

"Cover the flanks," Virat commanded.

Saer walked to the left, holding a small brass mug. Warner walked to the right. Virat casually walked toward the stone pillar.

Siddanth, temporarily blinded by the turric, grabbed a towel to wipe his face. He heard the scraping sound of a steel bucket sliding across the stone floor. His survival instincts, honed by years on the cricket pitch, kicked in. He dropped the towel and opened his eyes.

Virat Kohli was sprinting toward him, carrying a massive steel bucket filled to the brim with freezing cold, turric-infused water.

"Virat, don't you dare," Siddanth warned, taking a step back.

Virat didn't slow down. He reached Siddanth, hoisted the bucket with both hands, and hurled the entire contents forward.

Siddanth tried to duck, but the wave of freezing cold water hit him square in the chest and face. He gasped, the shock of the cold water taking his breath away.

Before he could recover, Saer rushed in from the left and poured a smaller mug of cold water directly down the back of Siddanth's neck. Warner ca from the right and dumped another bucket over his head.

The entire room of cricketers erupted into loud laughter.

Siddanth stood there, dripping wet, freezing, and completely yellow. He wiped his eyes slowly. He looked at Virat, who was laughing so hard he was bending over, supporting himself on his knees. He looked at Saer, who was high-fiving Warner.

Siddanth did not say a word. He walked slowly toward the large mixing bucket in the center of the room. There was still a thick layer of dense, wet turric paste at the bottom.

He scooped up a massive handful with both hands. He ford it into a large, dense ball.

Siddanth turned around and charged.

Virat looked up just in ti to see the Siddanth running at him. "Wait! Sid, wait!"

Siddanth tackled Virat by the shoulders, driving him back against the wall. He took the handful of thick turric paste and aggressively scrubbed it directly into Virat's thick, perfectly grood beard.

"My beard!" Virat shouted, trying to push Siddanth away. "Not the beard!"

Siddanth ignored him, rubbing the yellow paste deep into the hair follicles. He then spun around, looking for Saer.

Saer saw the look in Siddanth's eyes and instantly bolted for the door. "I am family! You cannot do this to family!" Saer yelled as he ran.

Siddanth chased him. Saer dodged around a stone pillar, slipping slightly on the wet floor. Siddanth grabbed another handful of paste from a smaller bowl on a side table. He threw it like a cricket ball.

The wet ball of turric sailed through the air. Saer ducked.

The heavy wooden doors of the courtyard swung open at that exact mont. Shikhar Dhawan walked in. He was holding a small plate of hot samosas he had just retrieved from the catering tent. He was wearing his pristine, dry, yellow Kota silk kurta.

"Hey boys, I brought so—"

Smack.

The wet ball of turric paste hit Dhawan squarely on the side of the face. The paste exploded, covering his ear, his cheek, and the collar of his silk kurta.

The entire courtyard went completely silent.

Siddanth froze, his arm still raised from the throw. Saer stayed crouched behind the pillar. Virat stopped wiping his beard.

Dhawan stood perfectly still. He slowly lowered the plate of samosas. He wiped the wet paste off his cheek with two fingers. He looked at the yellow stain on his fingers.

A slow, massive grin spread across Dhawan's face.

"So," Dhawan said, his voice dropping an octave. "We are playing a real match."

Dhawan placed the plate of samosas carefully on a ledge. He walked directly to the nearest steel bucket of cold water, picked it up, and hurled it at Siddanth. Siddanth dodged, and the water hit KL Rahul, completely soaking him.

Chaos erupted instantly.

The polite Haldi ceremony devolved into a full-scale water and turric war. Yuvraj Singh grabbed a mug and chased Rohit Sharma around the peeta. Feroz and Arjun entered the room, saw the chaos, and imdiately grabbed handfuls of paste to attack Saer. Vikram Deva wisely retreated to the edges of the room, standing behind the stone pillars to avoid the crossfire, laughing at the madness unfolding before them.

After twenty minutes of relentless fighting, the floor was slick with water and yellow powder. Everyone in the room, from the captain to the youngest cousin, was soaked and stained.

The head priest finally walked into the room, holding a large brass bell. He rang it loudly.

"Enough!" the priest announced, his voice cutting through the noise. "It is ti for the Mangala Snanam. The holy bath."

The n stopped fighting. They were all breathing heavily, wiping turric out of their eyes.

Rahul and the staff brought in several large, heavy brass pots. These pots contained water that had been physically fetched and flown in from seven different holy rivers across India: the Ganga, the Yamuna, the Godavari, the Krishna, the Narmada, the Sindhu, and the Kaveri.

Siddanth was led out to an open-air stone bathing area attached to the manor. He sat on a low stone stool.

His parents stepped forward. They lifted the heavy brass pots and poured the cold, holy water over Siddanth's head, washing away the thick layer of turric and oil. The ritual purified the groom, officially marking his transition into the final stage of the wedding process.

Across the lawn, a similar, much quieter ritual took place. Krithika sat in the bathing area of her manor. The won of the family poured the holy river water over her, washing the marigold petals and the yellow paste from her hair.

The sun began to set over the Kakatiya village. The sky turned a deep, bruised purple. The massive Banyan tree in the center of the courtyard cast long shadows across the paving stones.

The guests retreated to their manors to shower, wash the remaining turric from their skin, and change into fresh clothes for the evening.

By 7:00 PM, the catering staff opened the main dining area. They had set up long, low wooden tables covered in banana leaves. There was no buffet line tonight. The guests sat on the floor on long woven mats, and the servers walked down the lines carrying large steel buckets of food.

They served steaming hot white rice, thick yellow dal with spinach, spicy gutti vankaya (stuffed eggplant), fiery chicken vepudu, and cold, sweet pacchadi.

Siddanth sat cross-legged between Dhoni and Virat.

"I cannot get this yellow stain off my fingers," Virat complained, looking at his hands as he mixed his rice. "And my beard slls entirely like raw roots."

"It takes three days to fade," Siddanth replied, easily eating his rice with his hand. "Consider it a free facial treatnt."

"The food is incredible," Dhoni noted, finishing his serving of dal. "Simple, but hits the spot."

"Wait until the reception, Mahi bhai," Saer said from across the table. "This is just the basic nu. We have eighty items planned for the main feast."

As the guests slowly finished their als, washing their hands at the basins set up near the exit, a low, rhythmic thumping sound began to echo from the central courtyard.

Thump. Thump. Thump-thump.

The sound was distant but incredibly heavy.

The guests walked out of the dining area, their curiosity piqued, and naturally gathered around the Banyan tree.

Siddanth wanting to support grassroots culture, he had brought in authentic folk artists traveling from the deep, tribal interiors of Telangana.

A group of fifteen n stood in the exact center of the paved courtyard. They held large, completely circular fra drums. The drums were simple, made of wood and tightly stretched, cured animal skin. These were the traditional Dappu players. They held thick, short, heavy wooden sticks in their right hands, and thinner, more flexible sticks in their left hands.

The lead player stepped forward. He raised his thick right stick high above his head and struck the leather face of the drum with absolute, uninhibited force.

THWACK.

The sound was sharp, incredibly loud, and deeply visceral.

The other fourteen players did not wait. They joined in simultaneously. They began striking their drums in perfect unison. They created a fast, complex, highly aggressive syncopated rhythm that made the ground beneath the guests' feet physically vibrate.

Then, erging from the dark shadows of the towering palace entrance, the dancers arrived.

These were the Gussadi folk dancers, practitioners of an ancient, tribal art form originating from the dense forests of the Adilabad district. Their appearance was staggering. They wore massive, towering crowns constructed entirely of hundreds of real, shimring peacock feathers. The crowns swayed heavily with their movents. They wore thick artificial beards. Their bare chests and arms were painted with stark white clay and grey ash. Tied securely around their ankles were thick strings containing dozens of heavy brass bells.

They stepped into the center of the courtyard, forming a wide circle around the Dappu players.

They began to stamp their feet against the stone floor, matching their movents perfectly in ti with the aggressive, relentless beating of the drums.

Chik-chik-chik.

The brass bells on their ankles crashed together violently with every heavy, deliberate stomp of their feet. They leaned forward, swaying their shoulders, spinning in tight circles as the peacock crowns cut through the air.

They did not use a single piece of recorded music. They did not use microphones or amplifiers. The raw acoustic power generated by the fifteen fra drums and the stamping feet filled the entire 45-acre village set.

Krithika walked out of her manor. She had changed out of the heavy silk and wore a simple, elegant blue cotton salwar. Her hair was left loose, still slightly damp at the ends from the bath. She walked through the crowd and stood next to Siddanth on the edge of the courtyard.

"You actually found real Gussadi dancers?" she asked, having to raise her voice significantly to be heard over the deafening crash of the drums and bells.

"I sent a team to the Adilabad villages last month to formally invite them," Siddanth said, his eyes tracking the n as they perford their complex, rapid circular formations. "They agreed to perform. This isn't a performance for tourists. This is the real, unfiltered sound of the state."

The rhythm of the Dappu continuously accelerated. It grew faster, louder, and more frantic. It was primal and deeply infectious. It bypassed the polite, passive listening usually reserved for classical performances and demanded actual, physical movent from the audience.

The dancers ford a wider circle, stamping their feet and spinning rapidly. The lead drumr broke away from the center pack. He walked directly toward the crowd of cricketers standing near the edge, striking his drum fiercely, nodding his head, and gesturing with his stick, explicitly inviting them into the circle.

Shikhar Dhawan, whose entire personality was built on loud music and dancing, did not need to be asked twice.

Dhawan laughed, handed his water bottle to Rohit Sharma, and stepped boldly into the center of the circle. He did not know the specific, complex steps of the Gussadi tribal dance, so he imdiately resorted to what he knew best. He started doing a high-energy, aggressive Punjabi Bhangra, matching his wide shoulder drops and high leg kicks perfectly to the thumping Telangana drumbeats.

The crowd cheered loudly, clapping to the beat.

The lead Gussadi dancer, wearing the largest peacock crown, smiled behind his artificial beard. He walked up to Dhawan. He didn't mock him. He tapped Dhawan on the shoulder, signaling him to stop the Bhangra.

The dancer stood beside Dhawan. He pointed to his own feet. He demonstrated the core Gussadi step—a sharp, double-stomp with the right foot, followed by a wide, sweeping step back with the left, perfectly tid to the Thwack-thwack of the drum.

Dhawan watched his feet intently. He nodded. He tried it. He stumbled slightly on the first attempt, missing the beat. The dancer laughed, grabbed Dhawan by the shoulders, and physically guided his sway, matching his movents to the rhythm. On the third attempt, Dhawan caught the syncopation perfectly. He began stomping his feet in unison with the tribal dancer.

David Warner, never one to back down from a crowd or a challenge, jumped into the circle next. Warner started doing his trademark, aggressive jumps and punches, mimicking a cricket celebration. Another dancer approached him, breaking down the footwork. Warner, possessing the elite footwork of a batsman, picked up the three-step stomp instantly, laughing as he spun in a circle.

Virat handed his phone to M.S. Dhoni, rolled up the sleeves of his kurta, and stepped into the fray. He didn't try to freestyle. He imdiately joined the line forming behind the lead dancer. He watched their feet, caught the complex syncopation, and started stamping his own feet heavily into the stone floor, aggressively driving his heels down, trying to make his non-existent ankle bells ring as loudly as the professionals.

The dancers, thrilled by the enthusiasm of the athletes, sped up the tempo of the drums just to test the cricketers' stamina.

Saer ran in, grabbed Virat by the shoulders, and they started jumping in a synchronized circle. Yuvraj Singh dragged a highly reluctant Harbhajan Singh into the middle of the courtyard. Within minutes, half the Indian cricket team and the Sunrisers squad were in the center of the Kakatiya courtyard, sweating profusely, trying desperately to keep up with fifteen tribal n holding leather drums.

Siddanth stood on the outer edge, leaning against a stone pillar. He watched his teammates sweat, laugh, and dance wildly under the night sky.

Suddenly, Saer broke away from the circle. He ran over to Siddanth, grabbing his right arm. Yuvraj Singh followed right behind him, grabbing Krithika's hand.

"You don't get to stand on the sidelines at your own wedding!" Saer yelled over the drums, pulling Siddanth with all his body weight.

"Co on!" Yuvraj laughed, gently but firmly pulling Krithika forward.

Siddanth laughed, dropping his resistance. He let Saer drag him into the center of the chaotic, dusty, vibrating dance circle. Yuvraj pulled Krithika in right beside him.

The dancers imdiately ford a tight ring around the couple. The drums reached a deafening, frantic crescendo. Siddanth didn't try to learn the steps; he just jumped, laughing freely, holding Krithika's hand as she spun around him, her laughter echoing clearly over the crashing of the brass bells.

Siddanth looked around the circle. He saw Virat executing perfect tribal stomps. He saw Dhawan trying to teach a Gussadi dancer how to do the Bhangra. He saw his parents clapping from the edge of the courtyard.

The yellow dust had settled into their skin. The cold water had shocked them. The holy rivers had washed them clean. Now, there was nothing left to do but listen to the heavy, heartbeat rhythm of the drums, dance until their legs gave out, and wait for the sun to rise on the final ceremony.