(17 Apr ’11)
Other than his name, I
knew nothing about him. Even that I overheard, no one told me what it was.
Indeed, throughout my wedding ceremony, it was as if I didn’t exist, like
someone else was going through the experience.
Our priest had told my parents
that his family was looking for a ‘match’. He was described as ‘skinny, very
intelligent, no temper (what a lie!), well dressed, ok-looking and
wheat-complexioned’. I was witness when my mother repeated this to a neighbour.
No one told me anything, leave alone ask. My father didn’t believe in talking
to the family, but I didn’t find that unusual for none of the fathers I knew
talked to their children in those days. It was the norm. I wanted to know,
though, and the more they hid from me, the more fiercely curious I became. It
was my marriage that was being discussed in whispers: ‘The boy is in the Air
Force.’ ‘He lives in Assam, but the quarters and the salary is good.’ ‘He comes
home for deepavali every year.’ ‘No vices? Yes, he drinks liquor, it seems, but
nowadays these boys…’ ‘A wife like Tara will do him good. Our Tara will make
sure he won’t drink.’ ‘They want a wife who will follow traditions.’ ‘Our Tara knows
all the pujas, shlokas, rituals. They will have no problem.’ ‘She’s been
looking after the house since she was a teenager.’ I hung around, eavesdropping
as much as I could. For the ceremony, I guessed, I would have to wear a nice
sari, lots of ornaments, as I’d seen my cousins do. Classmates used to giggle
about the first night, I smiled with them, ignorant and innocent of what it
meant.
The engagement was a
brief, fleeting event where I didn’t get a chance to even register his
features. I was busy serving, flitting in and out of the kitchen, helping Amma
with the chores, clearing the table, answering silly questions: “How much sugar
would you use if you had to make payasam for ten people?” “How much washing
powder would you need if you had to wash three saris?” The general talk was
about booking the hall, visiting the ancestral village on so-and-so convenient
date, checking out the auspicious muhurtam, deciding upon the caterer (menus
were fixed), booking tickets for the journeys, etc. No one really cared whether
the groom or bride felt or thought anything at all. I threw a glance at my
‘to-be’, found him staring at me and I fled from the room in embarrassment. I
was literally pushed back into the room when ‘those people’ were to leave… and
I had to touch everyone’s toes.
He had to do the same
to my family elders and that was when first our eyes met and held intimate,
unshared moments of togetherness. Naturally, my pilot memories of him are of
and from silly angles.
The weeks that followed
were hectic. Tailors and jewelers had to be visited. Banks, too. No idea where
so many relatives turned up from, the house was so crowded, the bathrooms
forever occupied, the kitchen full of smoke and smells and me… I was bombarded
with tons of advice: “Make sure you look after your mother-in-law well.”
“Behave like a cow for five years, then reign like a queen.” “Don’t even think
of wearing those new-fangled clothes. They will think we haven’t brought you up
properly.” “Brown is a decent colour. All your blouses should be brown, grey or
black. They go with everything and you are not so fair that you can wear pink
or green.” Indeed, my gorgeous silks with brocade borders were worn with white
petticoats with frills at the bottom and those hideous, ill-fitting blouses.
When I grumbled about
how mismatched they were, one aunt teased: “Who’s going to see them? It’ll be
so dark.”
Muffled laughter.
“What-what-what?” I asked, a bit boldly. I was getting pampered with oil
baths and flowers and yummy food and attention. It had done wonders to my
confidence, for sure.
“What-what-what?” I asked again.
My mother shushed me up and said
something I have remembered for many nights, something long decades away, I can
still recall with crystal clarity: “No matter what he does to you, don’t
scream.” Everyone looked away, some seriously, some shyly, some stifling
laughter. But no one contested that advice, nor added to it.
Those words had shaken me up considerably. Conditioning demanded that I
don’t question anything.
Through the ceremonies, the sticky, humid activities, the hunger, the
tiredness… through all the stroking of my head by elders and holding of hands
by my cousins, I had just one thought jogging through my mind: whatever he did
to me, I wasn’t to scream.
The first few nights, there were too many relatives for us to be
together. Indeed, I didn’t even know we were supposed to be together. So naïve
was I. Sigh. Finally, the excitement settled down and we were given a room to
share. The fact that I’d have to change in front of him unsettled me terribly.
I was too shy to say anything to my mother-in-law or even my sisters-in-law, so
I decided not to change into another sari. Those were pre-nighty times. He
didn’t bother, just took off his trousers and shirt (horrification!! I didn’t
know where to look) and wore his pyjamas. Then he looked quizzically at me,
indicated that I should sleep next to him and waited for me. I took a lo-ong
time, and crept onto the mattress only when he was asleep and I was drop-dead
tired.
It was a couple of days later that we touched. Held hands. Came closer.
Every morning, the rest of the family gave us strange looks. I hadn’t screamed.
I hadn’t had any reason to. It was many days before he did that something and
when he did, I didn’t want to scream.
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