Is Bidaai just another ritual?

Growing up I never quite realized the full depth of the emotional turbulence involved. The final goodbye, the lingering touch, the last glance of those age-old faces, the deep torment in parents' eyes, the anticipation of the unknown.

Here I was, lost within a platter of sadness and merriment, taking in the beauty of our small accommodation with wide, curious eyes: the cobweb at the corner which was swept away three days ago as a last-minute clean up before the big event, the ruined plaster that made the walls appear tie-dyed with a splash of myriad colours, a Burma Teak bookshelf which showed off my collection of classics with pride. A wooden cupboard at the side belonging to my great grandfather stood elephantine like the Eiffel Tower, its curved edges fanning into floral patterns. The polish had blackened with time but the memories were intact. Baba said it saw World War 2 and narrated to us the power of resilience.

"An excellent combination of strength and pliability, that's how you should be", he often stated.

And as I sat dishevelled on a maroon velvet chair with the red Benarasi falling in rumpled pleats as a sloppy mess at my foot, I conjectured resilience alone would hardly take me anywhere. An unkempt hair and messy vermillion bore testament to my current status, the white raw silk fabric of his shawl interlaced in an intimate knot with my saree signifying our united souls bore witness of the life-altering event. I watched in choked desolation when a posh car ready to whisk us away arrived with a loud honk. Wreaths of varying textures with crisscrossed ribbons that reminded me of star crossed lovers hugged its pristine white exterior, customized garlands of fragrant roses set in pastel hues of mild yellow and pink prettified the sides. A glittery board attached to the back with "Happily Married" written in bold cursive looked incongruous to the drama that unfolded in the form of marriage. The loud display of wealth and status though vaunted by neighbourhood people, especially covetous aunties and indolent, highly moralistic uncles was a stark mismatch to the whole surrounding and stood baring all teeth against the nakedness of a remote Indian suburb.

Blessings have to be the most tiring of all rituals, the reason- most are half-hearted and are countable times generous. I gulped with difficulty as sweets after sweets got stuffed into my mouth with force, courtesy to infinite blessings from some well-wishers and pesky adults. I passed a meek look at my husband sitting beside me, careful of keeping up with the façade of shyness. His otherwise sharp visage which was cold the day prior sported a vexed expression as if he wanted to be anywhere but here.

Sinister and comic -being positioned at two extreme ends, they can never go together. But, looking at the torpid state of some and pretentious exuberance of few others mingled with the look of deep affliction on Ma, I could only define the assortment of contradictory frames through a single phrase-sinister comedy.

"No job after marriage", the groom's side had declared. They wanted a domestic plain Jane and after much scouting, I fitted the bill. There was a strong impulse to ask why. I didn't study non-stop during my school years for nothing! But, glaring red eyes from Ma paused the attempt. It was Ashirbad, the day of blessings. In Hindu tradition, elders from both the groom's and bride's side go to each other's houses to bless the would-be married, in this case, they strictly announced to come first, adhering to norms regarding an elevated social standing. His mother arrived with three others decked from head to toe in gold. A single necklace crafted in the shape of intertwined leaves and flowers taken out from a rustic jewellery box, that in all probability, looked a century old was placed around my slender neck.

"Nothing less than the best for the bride of Siddhartha Basu", she declared. "A family heirloom, it would cost a minimum of lac in this age", she mentioned for the umpteenth time.

Sitting with head bent and clad in a modest pink saree enhanced by golden accents, the very last from Ma's debilitating collection, I wondered whether the woman ever got tired of parading her wealth or her status. Come to think of it, the way she cocooned my parents in extravagant exhibitionism of sheer affluence and opulence, didn't do justice to her otherwise stolid gestures. To be honest, I was often curious about the reason behind the same.

Where the mind is without fear

and the head is held high

Rabindranath Tagore, the person who had given me strength in times of despair, who had been my dawn in extreme darkness, his words shone brightly in front of my eyes. My mind was without fear and I intended to hold my head high, then what was stopping it?

The answer was quite simple.

"Don't put your chin up", Ma suggested the day before. "Don't see them eye to eye, you're to look at the ground."

"But, where have I wronged?" I asked in shock.

Submission is the most wonderful gift a woman can give to her man. It is to be earned, then cherished and nurtured, not exploited!

When will society understand it is us, females who gift men the power of dominance!

"Your daughter is too ambitious!" Baba often complained to Ma. "Ambition doesn't sit well with the family." One thing I always noticed was the difference in his addressal, for Dada it was never 'your son'.

Thus, through my peripheral vision when Baba's unemotional and to an extent stone-cold face caught my attention, I remained poised and placid. But, the heart is a wicked witch. Restrained whispers tugged at my heartstrings, pent up emotions pined for release, wordless thoughts came out in the form of soft sobs. I knew sentiments are barely recognized in society, but here I wasn't talking about the dam outside, I was talking about my family, the core of my survival!

I warred with my feelings, clashed with the truth, battled with the fervour of a veteran all in the vain pursuit of proving my thoughts false and no matter how confident I pretended to be, deep within the thousand layers of poise, there stood a little girl anxious for her father's love, longing to be accepted by people in general and a hoard of critiques in the form of close ones in particular.

At least once Baba, come and embrace me!

Another sweet was shoved inside my mouth, this one had evaporated milk, crushed nuts with coconut and something else my foggy brain failed to analyze. It was neither a ladoo nor a normal sweet, more of a dessert accidentally caught in between the genius mind and hands of a master confectioner. As I took a bite, the whole item fell apart and the bland concoction left a bitter aftertaste. I watched the loose bits of desiccated coconut dust off from the round sweet- loose and flaky; It sent my mind into a spiral of turmoil. A kick to the gut, another clench in the abdomen, a series of awkward coughs and my inside was a battered mess.

Will things disintegrate like this too?

The hunch gave rise to a mind of dubiety.

"Oh my God, look at you! So beautiful!" A loud voice emulating the shriek of an attacked cat pierced my eardrums, I breathed out deep in disgust.

It was another one of those peeving middle age aunties with a serious middle-aged crisis.

"Now that you're married, I hope you'll learn something out of the context of your textbooks!"

Nayna's mother had to poke her mile-long nose everywhere, nothing less than the worst for the most obnoxious woman on Earth!

I remember years ago, back in high school we had gone to a friend's sister's baby shower. She used to live in Mumbai with her husband but had returned to her in-laws after pregnancy. The poor woman was in her final stage and the weather being hot and damp, she changed into a kurta salwar later. What I couldn't agree with was why Nayna's mother, the revered Dolly aunty groaned about her conspicuous bump when her mother in law didn't have an ounce of problem regarding the same!

"It's not justified to showcase your belly like that, what will people say? That girl has no shame!" those sentences had drilled a hole into my soul.

Again the very word-shame.

You are born to be shamed, you live with shame until you are turned to nothing but shame!

For a second, riding on impulse I wished I could say women need to be shameless and particularly immoral at least once in their lifetime for a reasonable cause. Problem was, I wished..

The pale blue walls of our ancestral house were dying and needed an immediate makeover, patchwork just wasn't doing the deed anymore. A blotched paint here bared bricks there to rusty grills in broken wooden windows and blackened ceiling due to years of accumulated soot, the whole building clenched and gritted its teeth standing against a backdrop of apparent posh mannerisms exhibited by the other side. In absence of hundreds of lights, chandeliers and gaudy fabrics from the night prior, its rough and bumpy red oxide floor manifested a sombre and dulled image silhouetted against an expanse of expensive silks and rich cotton.

Whistling conch shells and a series of ululations brought back reflections of last night. The garland exchange, the bright hue of the fiery red powder, the vows I uttered, mother's occasional sobs followed by Dada's delinquency and my cousin sisters' endless sexual innuendos, the density of the truth, with time settled dark and deep.

I am married!

The scarce knowledge I had about the man, I doubted whether it was enough to carry his last name throughout my entire life. Somewhere down the line, I might have opted for security over ambition, might have morphed my thoughts to suit the needs. I wondered what was his reason to say yes.

"Your Abhik dada used to be a stalker, he would watch over me when I returned home from school..cool! Isn't it? He was bowled by my charms." Nayna's giddiness used to be infectious.

She had had a quick escape.

Money promises position and position gives you privileges.

No one dared utter a word in public when Nayna painted the little town red, the rendezvous culminated into marriage soon after. Her politician father made sure the plates were wiped clean and his daughter's character certificate remained as untainted as the river Ganga.

Only I bit the dust..or did I? Wasn't I selfish?

Can I ever forget him?

Guess not..but..

A few grains of rice and a special type of grass plucked specifically for the blessing was put on my head, the person mumbled a thought, I didn't know who it was. In a dazed state, I bent down to touch his feet and lo and behold the frigid orbs of baba fell upon me. Tempestuous light brown eyes encountered his remote and detached ones, for a second I desired with utmost concern that his complacence was faked in a bid to appear strong and composed. I placed my palm on both of his legs and sent a silent prayer to God that things work out fine. I watched my husband brush off the dripping rice grains and tender greens in disgust, his face contorted in revulsion and with extreme apathy, he bent and touched Baba's knee.

The perks of seizing a wealthy groom! No acknowledgement, no respect, just endless humiliation.

"Heard Prabal da gave dowry", someone whispered from a crowd of so-called well-wishers.

"How else could he send his scandalised daughter to such a wealthy house? I'll any day bet he's the winner here."

Swarupnagar has a mind of its own. On one hand, it objectifies and demeans women who enjoy male company. On the other, it doesn't blink twice before thrusting her into the lap of a stranger just because she's married. The signed documents may hold immense power in civil court, the hymns may energise the bond, but can the mind be controlled?

No matter the number of terms and conditions, the mind is always unshackled, free.

The heart wants what it wants.

Amongst all the sins my parents had committed, giving birth to a girl might be one. And among all the sins I had committed being born a female was definitely the one.

"Why can't I study further?" I blurted in awe, the reaction from everybody was mortifying. Horrified beyond belief, my mother tried her level best to pacify the situation. And could I forget Baba's strong jaws clenching further at my blatant display of sheer audacity?! Standing at the corner Dada was armed to discipline, should the situation demand.

"What is the use of studying so much? Will your parents be able to afford it?" My maternal aunt put forward her suggestion.

"Grown-up girls ought to be learning some household chores, it will at least help when you go to your in-laws." The advisors were everywhere.

Society demands a girl grow up fast and, society also conditions a boy can frolic his time away. Society prescribes a girl to strictly follow some moral code, while for a boy the norms cease to exist.

I was a late bloomer, and the first sign of cramps did not happen till I was 14 going on 15. People said I had become a woman. I had no idea what it meant but understood one thing, just a few years more, proposals of marriage would start swarming in. In the place where I lived, there wasn't a dearth of self-appointed counsellors. I pondered with keen concentration how and when I transitioned from a carefree girl to a lady while my brother still basked in the age-old glory of youth. On one hand, he was brought up as the next man of the house, taught to rule while on the other pampered to death just because of a minute alteration in the chromosome. I was matured at seventeen while he was nibbling as a lad at twenty-two.

"He's the torchbearer of your bloodline, Prabal", the villagers said.

Baba's chest puffed with pride. The result-Dada wore his masculinity as a birthright.

I looked outside, there he was standing-a skeleton of a man, showing rows of ruined, cavity-invaded teeth to a group of like-minded ruffians, giving out plumes of smoke from long cigarette sticks and ogling at Siddhartha's distant sisters like they were delicious, roasted turkies. Disgust overwhelmed my emotions.

Can't he behave for once?

What will they say when I go to their house?!

Mother came forward and without a word pulled me into her warm bosom that whispered words of a loving embrace.

"I wish you never have to go, but.." she broke into sobs.

Her shaking hands, coarse from constant use of cheap detergent and water, circled my waist while the other brushed away a few drops of drizzling tears.

I inhaled, Ma smelt fresh, to an extent sweet, just like a mother ought to. I snuggled close to seek refuge, from what or from whom I could not quite conclude.

The world was closing in, lots of faces with unreadable expressions, too many heads with too little concern, so much of unwanted suggestions and plenty of crocodile tears; it drew a pretentious landscape. The dulled glow from cheap hazacks and economical carpets procured on rent from the local decorator painted a dismal portrait. The sky was overcast, since early morning the postcard-perfect stretch of blue had darkened into light grey until it turned to tar black. It was a day of lowering clouds and the canvas set in muted tone wept like a grieving widow, its veil of darkness shrouding my heart with a cape of foreboding.

Soon, the rain started hurling assaults; did it sense my mood?

A split appeared, then a ray of blinding light and the sky broke into a thunderous roar. I trudged towards the awaiting car, its drooping flowers lying in a battered mess. My heavy footsteps clashed against the pot holes filled with muddy water, the rain was leaving imprints behind. I walked ahead, the tenebrosity was broken by frequent cries and sobs, my mind mimicked a candle, melting into nothingness while still giving off light.

A woman came forward-one of my cousins, widowed a couple of years back. I wasn't aware of her presence, obscured behind lots of important people, her existence lost relevance. A white saree as pale as death hugged her bony arms and legs. A sunken face sat on a nutrition-deficient frame, it was as grim as her dulled skin but the eyes demanded attention-they were fiery and shone with intense conviction.

"Why were you standing there all alone! Piyali Di?" her presence was like a drop of water during a period of intense drought.

We used to be playmates during childhood but drifted apart as years rolled on. Thirty six months ago I heard she got married and a year later was thrown out to befriend the streets with an infant as company. Her in laws blamed her for their son's sudden demise, they thought she brought an evil omen.

"Are you mad!" a condescending sneer enveloped her flaky lips.

"Don't you know, us widows are only suited for funerals and not marriages! We are harbingers of bad luck", she sighed.

"Just be sure I want the best-"

"Please, Piyali Di!" I stopped her, my chest constricted with fearful apprehension.

"You know I would love to have you visit me. I understand the pain of.." the words got lost in oblivion. I swallowed a cry.

Her small arms came around my back and wrapped me in a warm embrace. And in a voice replete with earnestness and determination, she uttered, "I'll just give you one suggestion. Perfection is an unattainable idea..based on perspective..it isn't necessary to set yourself against a standard, no matter how demanding a situation is or how imposing people are. Do not react, respond. Try to be the best version of yourself, life shouldn't be wasted in a vain pursuit of idealism."

The words numbed time, resonated and resounded with ferocious serenity. Her stillness was disconcerting; it radiated an aura of chaotic calm. Someone offered a platter of rice, I had no idea who, I didn't care to know. They asked me to throw it thrice backward, repeating each time I had repaid my parents' debts. Out of all the customs which were significant in more ways than one, this struck a nerve.

Repaying parents' debts?!

Farewells are inherently sad but was there a need to make it this pathetic? From when did the degradation actually start?

I thought feminity was a quality, but I was wrong. Feminity was no quality, it was as much a disability as masculinity was vanity.

And so, when I actually hurled the grains backward, though my cracking voice uttered the needed, my mind spelt the complete opposite.

Parents' debts can never be repaid and I'll be back.

Two days before I promised not to cry and yet when the tears pooled fast messing with my sight, I made a quick note to self. Women don't want to elbow their way to the top of a man's world, just a conducive atmosphere where both have an equal role to play is what we aspire.

Really, is it asking too much?