At last, it happened. It was destined to be—limited arrangements, no prior planning, no class. At last, it happened how they wanted it to happen. I succumbed, sacrificed my ambitions at the altar of greatness. Growing up, I thought dreams had wings, sitting on a white horse I soared past hundreds of brick structures that reverberated with moans as women screamed either after whipping belt clips or thrusting manhood. The night sky was my gateway to a great escape, the starry canopy of jet-black setting a perfect canvas for my winged horse to glide by, me scribbling notes for future stories, eyes twinkling with fresh hopes looking forward to a better tomorrow.

Then, they cut its wings, stabbed my beautiful unicorn to death, strangled my budding desires and I obliged all in the name of greatness. I never shed a tear, I wasn’t even depressed. I was doing it for my parents— the love of my life! The only reason I was still alive! I had accepted the ways of the world long back—you go to sleep disillusioned, you wake up delusional. Good girls never get bothered and they rarely get angry. They are ready to be martyrs, just like I was. When you’re born a woman in Swarupnagar, the reality is a living nightmare.

A month they gave to leave everything held on dear to, a month that afforded time and scope to recondition my intentions. Thirty days were enough for Baba and Ma to take command of my rebellious self and lure me into believing better times awaited. Thus, the news though sudden and met with sorrow and revulsion, brought a cacophony of myriad Me’s into play; layers of my dormant self peeled off to raise voices, voices I never knew existed. On one hand, lay the usual appeal of the city, the temptation of the unseen and a chance of scraping a tumultuous past. On the other, the dread of getting tied down, the concern of sacrificing my ambition, the struggle of keeping my feuding faculties at bay. Opposites clashed, emotions collided, odds were judged.

Lights and sounds, gossip and praise, flattery and contempt, jealousy and admiration, a not-so-melodic cacophony bombarded our cramped, run-down house.

Was I hallucinating?

No. I was just getting married and there was nothing magical about the affair. They wanted a homely girl to serve their basic needs, my parents intended to bag a wealthy son-in-law. The relationship was transactional to start with. Practicality is better presented raw.

“Shame is the jewellery of a woman.” Through the years Ma along with concerned aunties drilled this into my defiant head. And sitting on a peerhi with my face obscured behind a betel leaf, its veiny canopy of green concealing the deep red of my lips and the thousand polka dots of sandalwood paste ornamenting my forehead, I contemplated whether my docile attitude in the form of a bent head stuck with the sentiment. But, docile women make it nowhere.

A resonating conch shell and series of ululations broke the din of deafening giggles; a loud hoarse voice cut through my line of thoughts. “Cover well, your face shouldn’t be seen!”

The wobbly chair balanced by my group of cocky cousin brothers shook in unsteady jerks. On top of it, sitting as if my precious life depended on a cluster of hooligans, I held on to Dada’s frail shoulder with the might of an elephant. Little did I know, it was as precarious as a cup perilously resting on the edge of a tabletop.

The only thing musical about the whole affair was a mild note from the shenai that wafted through the air, it bore a stark discord to the classless filmy chartbusters playing inside; a usual degree of dissonance for such incompatible medley. Loud cheers and booming voices reached a crescendo, it broke my reverie.

“Move the betel leaves, look at your husband.” They were urging me to spare a loving glance at the man thrice.

But, how could I?

Love, unlike many things in bed, cannot be faked!

 Raising my head, I perceived the wheatish face of my would-be: rugged with a hint of stubble, dark brooding eyes that penetrated deep sat on either side of a crooked nose.

“He’s so handsome! Didi, you’re so lucky!” one of my countless sisters squealed in delight.

I feigned a sheepish grin, he chose to remain an impassive spectator; it evoked emotions buried underneath.

Is he as unwilling as me?

The Shubho Drishti or ‘auspicious sight’ ended. An elder sister gave a rough jab from the side.

“Smile, Sonu! This is not an examination hall!”  

I stretched my lips as far as they could go, he remained blankly inscrutable. My uncle encouraged our brothers to lift us. The groom’s friends hoisted him high, they roared with boorish enthusiasm while we grumbled in defeat; he towered over me sealing his place.

“Your husband’s position is always a step above you..keep in mind. Show him respect.”

I passed a silent expletive as Baba's absurd advice manifested in form of a disgusting memory.

Men are hands down vile creatures!

My smug cousin brothers were a wonderful testament to the fact—the pathetic idiots hollered even after their cockiness got dumped in the drains. I knew they were all brawn and no brain, but right then I became unsure of even the former.

Seven rotations around the groom, a ritual complete with leg-pulling and flirty exchanges paved the way for the garland exchange. I put the string of fresh flowers around his neck symbolising my acceptance, he did the same. But, flowers are fragile and their freshness is temporary, I hoped ours ran its due course; my pessimism wasn’t helping.

Even some of the most delicate flowers produce the strongest scent.

I blinked away the negativity, schooled my expressions but the groom’s roving eye struck a chord. A faint quiver flashed across, the way he stole a glance on either side strummed a string.

It wasn’t shyness!

Why is it unnerving?

I should be relieved, we matched each other!

I looked at my mother, her white and red zari saree bought from Wasim chacha’s two penny shop days prior, mimicked a traditional garad six yards in the most ostentatious manner possible. Standing out amongst a sea of costly silk garments, it attracted attention for all the wrong reasons.

I wish it was never worn!

The person I cared for the most in the household, I didn’t want her to be belittled in a group of snobbish city upstarts. Thrown like a mouse among a clowder of cats, she would be thoroughly judged and criticised. She’s too vulnerable for all that.

People draw sick satisfaction from the comparison because their only joy comes from being positioned on top of another, that’s the sad reality. And reality hit like a train wreck when the priest asked, “Who will give away the bride?”

He tied our palms together, my small one resting on top of his; we were tethered to each other. Two areca nuts placed above a betel leaf symbolised piety, I didn’t know the betel leaf could cover my dreams and the nuts crunch my hopes. Fire strengthens the bond and the finest steel is said to go through the hottest fire, sitting in front of the holy pyre with its yellow flames raging from a bed of burning wood, I prayed like the ideal wife—may I burn to be purged of sins, may my resolve be strong as the finest steel!

Pretending is so much fun!

Ah! I was walking the path of optimism!

Did he?

His calloused hands clashed against the smoothness of my skin, their gripping gelidity bringing down the heat that flooded my body as if things were dying even before they were born. My heart protested with heightened beats; I didn’t want the iciness of winter, I craved warmth, I needed life!

Drops of tears cascaded down Ma's cheeks as my father completed the kanyadan or giving away of a daughter. The gesture was supposed to be reversed, though. Baba was making the greatest sacrifice of his life, offering his precious daughter, his treasure, his soul and enlisting the groom, in this case, a stranger nine years my senior, with her responsibilities. Feminists might argue, modern thoughts might defy and brand the ancient Vedic ritual dipped in meaning as sexist, but I differed. For Nayna's father, it was an emotionally charged affair when he let go of his most prized possession, the weight of which was apparent throughout the wedding. It pained to witness both my best friend and her father rendered a sobbing mess. Wiping away those revolting droplets of tears, old Das uncle reminisced with a tragic burn tales of her childhood, the memories though cringy induced a stem of jealousy in me. How I wished Baba would narrate mine with a heart full of enthusiasm!

“Every wish is not fulfilled and everything we get is not what we wished for.”

No, not anymore. I have had this shit for too long!

The way the whole process was executed with mechanical precision spoke volumes of his dispassion. ‘An unmarried daughter is a burden, more so when she’s past twenties”, he used to complain.
If that was true, the least he could afford was to be happy!

Joy is contagious, isn’t it?

Emotion is transformational. It has the potency to propel one to the peak or toss the very same person to the deepest gutters. As the saying goes an Indian wedding is a medley of emotions. Thus, when the look of content on Ma's wrinkled face finally flashed before my eyes amidst the loud holler from Dada’s rowdy friends and unnecessary shrieks of delight from my cousin sisters, I sighed with relief; it was long and deep, spoke of satisfaction after a month of desperation and distress.

“You saved us, Sonu. Now your father can think of renovating this house knowing his daughter is married and sound.”

Entitlement is one hell of a feeling, after all!

Jealous relatives analysed every littered corner, scrutinised each pimple on my face. “Aloka, we know this feeling..parting with your daughter is the hardest..but this is for the best..” they wiped their dry cheeks and grinned in secret on account of Ma’s deep emotional torment. The bitches dared talk big when their position was no better than their husbands' dirty boot soles.

Whispers of blossoming hearsay graced the air, for each story exchanged, a bit of neighbourhood tattle went past my ear, and set amidst the jingling of gold bangles, indistinct notes coming from a distant shenai and to the obvious gaiety of my friends, the truth stood clear and transparent—I was getting married to someone over our standard, it was all that ever mattered. My beauty was selling me off, for it wasn’t our financial status.

The groom passed me a glance, his stormy orbs reflected an angry flame. I stared at him and witnessed the short journey of a small spark from those crackling tree parts, the way it exhibited a faint glow before vanishing mid-space. My chest muscles constricted, I didn’t know what to feel. Unknowingly, my attention drifted towards Ma, she nodded and lowered her eyes—was that shame or disappointment?

An ember smouldered and slowly died out, as a trail of white smoke descended heavenward. A couple of years back Abhik dada, a close acquaintance had proposed to Nayna, my best friend. His love for her was akin to a glowing ember of coal that radiates heat intensely, he had professed. I wondered, with time whether this man would do the same too.

A girl can only hope and I did with twinkling stars in my eyes. Hope— a very strong word, invokes a feeling of expectation, a desire for a particular thing to happen.

Was I hoping too much?

Would the clouds part away to give a single ray of light a chance?

Or would it hide its face again in a thick blanket of an ever-stretching expanse of grey?

I prayed just for the former.

Dada passed a tray of puffed rice, his pupils dilated by a dose of cheap alcohol, and as reluctant as he had been in the whole wedding fiasco, I was glad the duty was performed—that much decency he possessed.

The groom stood with a start, I felt a tug at our intertwined pallu, and with that at my heart.

Glad this drama’s drawing to a close!

While the shlokas uttered in Sanskrit ricocheted off the trees in the distance, the wet grass and the trimmed shrubberies prettified with hundreds of neon lights, I pondered on what storm rampaged that mind of his. We were getting ready for the Saptapadigaman—the journey of life, one they said we should travel in hand, a flawed concept made to exist in the vulnerable hearts of believers.

“You should stick with each other through thick and thin”, the priest advised marking the start.

As if such an equation exists in today’s world!

I scoffed; the poor, bald soul was either blind or plain oblivious.

My eyes fell on Siddhartha’s, they sheltered myriad mysteries, I wondered whether he contemplated the decision. I noted he too was deeply observant of me.

Did we do something wrong at the same time?

Or we indeed were a match made in heaven!

I prayed it wasn’t the latter; one me was enough.

An intricate pattern woven with a dexterity that unites two lives summarises the idea of marriage.

“Adjust with everybody, do not think about yourself, at all!” Ma advised.

In a way, it was true, a part of one has to fall to enable two people to rise together.

But, was it enough?

Would tearing away the very last fragment of who I was sufficed in the long run?

It just might be.

I ought to be dreaming.

Alas! Even my dreams weren’t shy anymore.

This led to a quick question—how long were these promises held on dear tr how far were couples willing to venture to honour them? Marriage is said to be a bond of seven lifetimes, with the fire and wind as witnesses and resonating mantra giving support, I endeavoured to be at my optimistic best.

“Make sure to arrange for the cash and the teak bed”, the groom’s uncle said. It was an order veiled as a request.

 I am to be traded!

“It should have a fine polish with ample storage. Oh! And the mattress needs to be soft”, his mother didn’t forget to mention.

I  stilled in awe, it was beyond us!

Baba flopped pale on the stool, his words died an early death.

“A teak bed is worth thousands!” I protested with utmost sincerity.

“A small price for life-long security. Enticing, isn’t it?” Dada intervened. His concern was as fake as the early onslaught of Norwesters that year. He only wanted my presence eliminated.

Baba sunk to the depths of thought. “Let me see..”

“To us, it amounts to aspiring about exploring the moon while you lie in tatters at night!” I burst out in hysterics.

I shrugged out of the memory, that day I got a glimpse of how far these people could go to uphold a rigged concept of hierarchy. I persevered in making them see reason, intended to bring attention to the fact that demanding anything fell under the purview of dowry, but the efforts were futile.

When the third vow stressed the importance of wealth and the promise to earn it with full honesty, my mind raised considerable doubts about its validity in the long term. The groom’s side had just ruined the sanctity of an institution like marriage and degraded it to a marketplace! It had ended even before it started!

A mild breeze carrying a distinct hint of lingering chill swayed a few dangling garlands. A single crimson rose broke free and fell to the ground. Its twin—the white one remained stuck in agony. March is a strange month, it doesn’t know where to belong. It neither falls under summer, not winter or maybe a bit of both. It is lonely, just like me. And standing at that altar, loneliness was a single feeling that crippled my five senses. Or why else, do those tons of giggling faces painted in extravagant shades of red and pink with flashing jewellery and sparkling robes elude my attention?

A selective lot comprising of some famous gossip mongers thronged the corner.

“Did you see the bangle the groom's side gave?” An aunty nudged her neighbour. “I wonder how come they bagged such a milking cow!”

Huddled together like a flock of birds, their animated gestures and constant chatting piqued my wrath.

What’s with you, bitch? Just because your daughter screwed doesn’t mean all will!

The ingredients were the usual: an extramarital affair, someone’s infertility, the local politician's impotence and his wife's fornication, the neighbour's young daughter's romance with a college rookie or in this case my scanty ornaments and my family's ability to hook a golden egg-laying goose for their damsel in distress.

Some people refuse to possess class.

Thus, despite some hearty congratulations, wild merriment, honest wishes and a lot of pretentious nonsense, most failed to take a note of my dry, lifeless eyes. Caked with layers of cheap make-up, a deep red lip to add to the dilemma and hollowed sunken cheeks further contoured to lessen its conspicuousness, I mimicked a ragged doll while walking round the pyre in soft, gentle steps. Behind me trailed my husband, who at thirty-two, was far older than I could ever fathom.

The recital of vows was matched by consequent circumambulations, simultaneously and in close succession as the glaring fire at the front and the open night sky bore silent yet prominent witnesses.

During the fourth vow, he declared me sacred, rather the priest did. For, he was pronouncing all the words wrong. An extreme urge to correct arose, but I backtracked. “Shame is the jewellery of a woman”, the phrase played in a loop time and time again.

He assured to respect me for I made his life complete, I pledged to shower him with joy and happiness and do everything to please him. And although his phlegmatic disposition from those rigid, unenthusiastic footsteps to cold harsh gaze allowed little to zero display of emotion, from a previous encounter, if it could at all be taken into consideration, things appeared contentious.

Six rotations rhymed with six promises, round about the fire we went, each one ending with an offering of puffed rice to Agni. I lead and concluded the pheras, his white garment locked in a tight embrace with my red shimmery pallu mocked with all mirth. As the final vow meant to ascertain the bride and groom remain true and committed to each other was chanted, a strong kick to the gut, something beyond the reaches of articulation, halted my steps.

I stopped, time froze, people gasped, whispers arose.

“What are you doing?” Ma urged. “Sonu, complete the last phera!” the earnestness in her tensed voice was palpable.

A gust of wind whizzed by freeing a few disobedient tendrils from my unruly bun, it carried a scent of the seasonal flowers. The hungry fire shivered and paled a bit, my shola pith crown protested with jerky movements, while the sudden blast of colder air soothed my parched skin. As resounding conch shells and high pitched vocalisations made from wavering tongues of other married women created a cocoon of positive energy, the penultimate moment everyone was waiting for arrived.

I took a hasty view of the surroundings; a lone chandelier hanging atop struggled to light up the paling blue of the walls, gaudy organza draped across the uneven surface failed to live up to the expectations and the hot, humid weather was as sombre as a gambler’s solemn promise to leave his ways for good. The only feature which stood out in that lurid display of colours was the floral decoration adorning the mandap; the arrangement of assorted white flowers with bits of crimson and pink rose thrown in an occasional ribbon of glittering silver fabricated a world of fairy-tale in a land of harsh reality. It acted as a portal to a universe of hope, optimism and anticipation, the commencement of new beginnings.

A chunk of vermillion fell on my nose as the groom applied the fiery powder on my centre-parted hair in shaky, cold hands, while an older cousin sister covered my head and half of my face with a folded cotton saree.

The veil shrouded both my vision and my destiny.

Wow! The beginning commenced from under the covers!

Was it symbolic of protection?

What am I being protected against?

When the others were breaking in jubilant exuberance, instead of elation, a gnawing ache coursed through my lower abdomen. I didn’t know why but I felt a sense of foreboding.

What if..what if..

My hyper-imaginative mind sought answers and along with those answers came a barrage of questions.

“Let go of your logical mind, women who think too much do more harm than good”, father instructed.

I spared an anxious glance, his apathetic visage with deep-set eyes flickered amidst hundreds of strange faces. Voiceless murmurs filled my ears, stomping heartbeat raided my system.

I wasn’t looking for him!

A peek of Ma's wet eyes settled my fear, soothed my poor nerves. I yearned to be back in her warm embrace for the last time, longed to be her little child again, just hers. I had promised to not cry but those tears were too desperate to listen. “It’s okay..it's alright”, I wished she could say. I knew she would understand the reason behind my dripping droplets, it wasn’t the love I was stepping away from, it was the despair that awaited. I was certain she was aware, all mothers are.

And thus, in front of hundreds, we were proclaimed husband and wife, set on a permanent journey of togetherness. I was officially married. The date was 31st March, the year 2011, two days before my twenty-third birth anniversary.

“Shame is the jewellery of a woman”, they preach. I say, “the best ornament that befits a woman is a smile.”