In a world where marriages are the defining point in your life (and I don’t disagree with that), some people definitely get carried away with its very concept.
I speak with authority.
I am a bride of just over a fortnight.
Married to my beau of over two years, I take great pride in him and his family, who accept me the way I am – a spunky, light-hearted, twinkle-eyed, cheery bride, who still swears by her faded jeans, and who, even when she is in one of her many giggling spells, does not goof up her etiquette norms.
However the hunky-dory picture is marred by comments by acquaintances, sometimes colleagues, all of who have taken it as a matter of my personal impudence and effrontery by not following what they term ‘tradition.’
So I can just barely keep from biting their heads off when I hear comments to the tune of:
Where is your Mangalsutra*? You have one, right? Why don’t you wear it?
You should have at least worn the ‘Chudaa’** for a month. You took it off after a day!! Tut tut (incredulous stare)
Gawd! Doesn’t your husband object? Doesn’t he ASK you to wear them? I’m sure he WANTS you to.
Oooh. How do you step out of your house without Sindoor*** in your parting? (Horrified look)
And one of the most despicable–
You were born in the wrong country. Our country is still traditional (there you go, you have the word again), you know. Why are you such a rebel?
For someone who believes in keeping to herself, far, far away from the public eye; getting thrown pell-mell into the limelight (and not in a good way at that), these days are certainly not the most pleasant ones for her.
I fail to comprehend how people think that I love him less as compared to the average ‘Pati-vrata’**** new wifey who diligently goes out to her regular kitty-parties, bedecked in jewellery, flaunting all the ‘trappings’ of a married woman.
Add to that the aghast looks I get when I proclaim that stories are the only things I can cook, as compared to the more ‘traditional’ cooked fare, and you have all the trappings of my very own personal episode of ‘The Bad Bad Bride’ – Series 1.
Of course, it doesn’t help either that I am surgically inseparable from my (before marriage) garb. So you have the team of people who try to cajole me into wearing ethnic Indian attire to work. The pachyderm that I am, I snub them, refusing to give people the opportunity to double up with unrestrained glee at my expense, by dolling myself up like a previous year’s Christmas tree.
Too bad they wouldn’t get to see me attired in an atrociously-garish, Swarovski-laden something which closely resembles something the goldsmith would only be too happy to display in his stall at the jewellery souk.
Too bad that I can grin merrily, instead of barely being able to smile, for fear of creasing a pan-caked face - a face which has seen all the make-up items in my vanity case being made abundant use of. (Now my face is not sans-makeup, but at least you can see my skin...)
Too bad that instead of whispering coyly and shuffling feet in awkwardness, eyes down, I smirk and stare at them insolently.
Bring it on folks.
See if care!
* An auspicious thread or cord, usually made of a string of black beads on a gold chain
** A set of red and white bangles
*** Red powder (vermilion) applied at the beginning or completely along the parting-line of a married woman’s hair
**** A woman staunchly loyal to her husband
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