A tale of two wedd ings
ONE INTENSELY private and the other unashamedly public, the weddings of two of Bollywood’s biggest stars, mere weeks apart, have cast both relationships and ceremonies into a comparative global gaze.
Deepika Padukone married Ranveer Singh in a traditional Konkani ceremony on November 14 and a Sindhi Anand Karaj ceremony at Villa Del Balbianello on Lake Como, Italy, on November 15.
Only close friends and family attended the gold-andivory-themed ceremony and only a few pictures were shared on social media.
Padukone, 32, is one of India’s highest-paid actresses and is among Time magazine’s 100 Most Influential
People of 2018. Singh, 33, has been on Forbes India’s Celebrity 100 list since 2012.
The pair reached critical acclaim cast opposite each other in Goliyon Ki Rasleela Ramleela and Bajirao Mastani. Also in Bajirao Mastani was Priyanka Chopra.
Chopra, 36, a former Miss World, married Disney star Nick Jonas, 26, at the Taj Umaid Bhawan Palace on December 1.
That both actresses are Bollywood A-listers who have made forays into Hollywood – Deepika featured alongside Vin Diesel in XXX the Return of Xander Cage and Priyanka stars in the TV Show Quantico – and have famous husbands are the obvious reasons why their nuptials garnered worldwide attention.
The global gush is also to do with the beauty, success and wealth of these women, who are as close to the notion of Indian royalty as it comes.
Because of them, the world is suddenly talking about “mehndi” (henna) ceremonies and “roka” (engagement) and has become enraptured by the gaudy, grandiose and glamorous Indian wedding.
Deepveer, as they’re referred to in the press, opted for a dignified and intimate affair to mark a relationship that blossomed over about 6 years.
A woman in a housedress and Elvis sunglasses directed us a few minutes outside Pignola where we found the Ristorante Pizzeria Le Fiamme. It sits perched on a hill – Basilicata’s endless greenery unfurling before us.
We sank into our wine and pasta. Imagine squares of dough folded into tubes by a lazy second-grader then flattened. These are strascinati. And the strascinati were tossed with breadcrumbs, fresh parsley, tomato sauce and glistened with olive oil – served in a neat dome with the crushed dried peppers on top. It was so simple – crunchy, chewy, sweet, savory, perfect in every way. Strascinati mollica e peperoni cruschi is cacio e pepe without a marketing campaign.
We headed westward to the side of thunderous green mountains, on serpentine roads as monstrous wind turbines churned slowly on the horizon. Curiously, this was also the side of no humans. Lisa, Raffaele and I drove for hours through the Parco Nazionale dell’appennino Lucano Val d’agri, passing a few cars only.
Tell people you are going to Maratea, and they will correct you. “Matera, you mean,” said more than one Italian. Stand your ground.
“No,” you must insist. “Maratea.”
Maratea, a small, coastal town, is perched just above the Tyrrhenian Sea – mountainous and lush, with dramatic black sand beaches. When we arrived, we ditched the car and walked the pedestrian-only streets made of white stones. Maratea is for strolling, stopping for an aperitivo, taking in a view.
The next day we arrived at the Tavole Palatine, 6th century BC Greek ruins dedicated to Hera in the town of Metaponto, by early afternoon. Imagine long rows of connected limestone columns framed by bushes of oleander – pink and white flowers that are fragrant, delicate and deadly.
Just inland is the town of Bernalda, and Francis Ford Coppola’s hotel, Palazzo Margherita. Chances are, if you have ever heard of a hotel in Basilicata, it is this one – a
19th century palazzo Coppola converted into a nine-room luxury hotel in 2004.
“Every 10km, it changes, Basilicata,” said Rossella De Filippo, the hotel’s manager. “Different skyline, different colours, different everything. This is what makes Basilicata special.”
We had met De Filippo in the Cinecittà Bar at the Margherita. I have spent time in Puglia, Calabria and Sicily, but Basilicata is different, calmer.
Onward to Matera
We called Daniele Kihlgren, the owner of Sextantio Le Grotte della Civita, the most luxurious hotel in Matera. Kihlgren is largely credited with advancing the albergo diffuso movement in Italy. It champions the idea that disparate structures, as opposed to a single, monolithic building, can make up a hotel. Albergo diffuso, diffused hotel, has played a big role in preserving ancient towns and structures.
By evening, torrential rain had turned biblical, as Kihlgren drove his motorcycle to meet us for dinner.
The four of us sloshed into the caves of Ristorante La Talpa.
There are meals so gluttonous, so meaningful, so caloric, that they imprint themselves on your personal history. Dinner at La Talpa was such a meal.
People in the hospitality industry reliably talk about the importance of authenticity. For Kihlgren, it is religion.
“When I bought the hotel, the caves were black,” he continued.
“We had to clean it, but we didn’t want to clean it too much. The poor, historical villages of Italy were never thought to be worthy of saving. But to preserve the history is very important. There are 2 000 abandoned villages in Italy.”
I have never actually slept in a cave. And I can now say that it is a wonder early man ever evolved.
A cave, I learned, is a potent, prehistoric Ambien. The deep black, the cool air – ‘sleep’ is a mild word for the slumber you fall into. I woke up 11 (11!) hours later.
I had coffee with the mayor, and soon we were joined by Salvatore Adduce, president of the Matera Basilicata 2019 Foundation.
“I will be brutal: We do not want tourists,” said Adduce, an avuncular gentleman in a crisp shirt and thickly knotted tie. “It should not be, ‘Let’s see a church and eat pasta and try those crunchy red peppers and leave a few pieces of plastic behind’.”
I sank in shame. I disposed of my recycling properly, but the truth is, I had grown quite fond of the crunchy red peppers.
This is the only region of Italy that has an alter ego, the only one that goes by two names. Depending on your age and generation, it is either Lucania or Basilicata, with a painful past and a glittering future as the European capital of culture.
On our last day in Matera, we met old friends for lunch. My friend Francesco is from a small coastal town called Nova Siri, but he and his husband, David, currently live in Puglia.
“You have to remember, I ran away to Rome when I was 18, and I didn’t come back for five years,” Francesco said. “I told people I was from Basilicata, and they didn’t know what it was. Actual Italians didn’t know Basilicata. They would say, ‘That’s in Sicily, right?’”
A waiter arrived at the table, placing a bowl right in the middle. It was a soupy dip of warm fava beans, chickpeas, olive oil and onions.
“This is the food of my childhood,” Fran said. “The beans have to soak for days, you keep cleaning the water and adding herbs. I remember people would think, ‘Lucani are so poor they can’t afford meat.’ But I loved this food. It’s simple, like the Lucani.”
| New York Times