Getting married in India is like the collision of two galaxies. You are no longer an individual but a tiny speck in the grand scheme of things. Your marrying another person was just an excuse for the intergalactic collision. Actually you never were an individual to begin with.
But for a brief time when you stepped out of your house, that is your parent’s house and lived away in a shared room or a hostel (in most cases) and before getting wedded, you did live the illusion of being an individual. You were the master of your time. You had choices. You could choose to skip the breakfast and rush to the first lesson at college. Try doing that at home under your mother’s nose. You could choose to stay out a bit later than usual without a worried call from a parent. You could skip bath. You learnt to live within your monthly allowance. Most girls do. But if you are a boy then of course you just got inventive asking for extra pocket money to take your new girlfriend out on a date. Anyway, so after the illusion of grandeur you were getting used to, you come tumbling down to ground zero. You get married. Suddenly you are assigned a whole lot of relationship statuses that you didn’t know existed. The weirdest one to get used to is the word wife. And that you now have a husband. Eeks! What is that thing? “Excuse me, this is so and so… not my husband.” You itch to tell the world. But the words drown in your saliva. Then you are the daughter in law, the dreaded specimen of evilness that exists on Indian Soaps today. You are now the responsible one. So you catapult to a master chef status or a sous chef depending on whether you are part of a nuclear or joint family set up. And the onus of preparing three meals a day plus snacks eventually falls on your inexperienced shoulders. You blunder on and settle into the cooking cycle from which you will never escape. NEVER. Get used to things like an elaborate “escort to the door” ritual even if you are stepping out of the house just to buy grocery. Visiting your mother’s house might suddenly not feel the most natural thing in the world as it was (sob) and could cause few raised eyebrows and polite coughs. If you are really unlucky you will now need permission for a lot of things like going to work or the kind of dress you should wear or visiting friends. That would suck. But usually things don’t get that bad.
But much before that in days after the wedding you routinely play the “guess who I am” game with the extended family. If you have a smart hubby you probably know them already by the time you are engaged. So now you get used to weird names like sister in law… co sister (takes the cake really) and even “aunt” (in all its forms) to pesky little creatures in all age groups. And damned if your husband was the favourite uncle to “them” before you arrived. You better be the best aunt around. So much pressure. Then by the time you have finished one round of visit and getting commented on your increasing weight, thanks to all the elaborate lunch and dinner you are invited to, it’s time to begin the second. But this time get prepared for the dreaded question. So when are you giving us a grandchild/nephew/niece/cousin etc.? Hopefully pretty soon you are forgotten if eventually a “new bride in town” arrives in the family. So now you get to sit in the audience and quiz the new comer. “Tell me tell me who I am?”
It’s about now that you will reconnect with long lost female friends to vent out frustrations, share sob stories. And then tighten the waist band and trudge on. The reflection in the mirror is not of the girl you knew. You have metamorphosed into a married woman. And it is no joke.
Meanwhile the galaxies merge silently and you become an inconspicuous speck in it.
