A Difficult Time

Disclaimer: This is a meant to be a piece of fiction. In this climate, it’s important to recognize the privilege South Asian women have compared to other minorities. However, that does not invalidate our lived experiences and here is just a fleeting moment of feelings.

It’s as if they look at you, in your late 20’s, and see nothing else other than an unmarried woman. No matter how highly educated you are, how well awarded or accomplished, the creativity you express, or how you move in this world. When they look at you, they see nothing but a single woman. A burden. “There must be something wrong with her.” “Are you seeing anyone?” “You should get married soon, child. Your prime years are almost over.” When does the madness end? When will our communities around us see us and feel whole - rather than seeing a single woman as something as ‘incomplete’? 

I walk through the bustling streets of my hometown in India daily. The sounds of vegetable vendors selling their goods, the barks of street dogs, the haggling with auto drivers; all music to my ears. It brings a sense of peace, of mental clarity, of grounding. Without the hazy air and my senses tingling at every second, I wouldn’t be who I am now. But that doesn’t matter, does it? 

I walk in traditional Indian clothing alone, I get glared at - to my surprise, mostly by middle aged aunties who themselves are miserable in their marriages. Having kids with men who do nothing but treat them poorly, without a choice but to keep life at a steady pace, all for the sake of wondering “what will people say?” if a finger is moved in the “wrong” direction. Whatever that means. 

I was lucky enough to be born in a progressive, liberal, “modern” (as we love to say) family. But dumb enough to believe that this progressiveness would seep into all facets of life. Especially, you name it, marriage. Some days I look in the mirror and wish to shatter it. Some days I look in the mirror, wishing I saw the opposite gender. On rare days, I wish to find another use of a shattered shard of the glass. On the rarest of days, I almost fold into the pressure and wish to see myself at the mandap, in a red saree, hands adorned with henna. Some days, I wish I weren’t here. 

Smash.

You’d think as someone who grew up in a culture so revolved around family, “upholding culture”, marriage, and weddings, I’d become someone who was equally obsessed with this patriarchal obsession of giving a daughter away. It did quite the opposite; pushing me in the opposite direction, as if a magnet dragged me far far away from the thought of being “tied down”. Let alone, attached to someone I hadn’t fallen in love with on my own accord. A man that had been ushered in my direction, perhaps because both of us - equally - didn’t have the correct ability (in society’s eyes) to fall in love with again, the correct person. Isn’t it funny how that works? As if one can pick and choose whom to lose themselves in. As if the heart doesn’t wander, while our minds attempt to reel us in. As if the “upholders of culture” have never wanted something that was “wrong”. 

As if our experiences can be wrapped in a perfect bow, presented to us at the right time and the right place. As if our lives aren’t ours to live; ours to breathe in, ours to love.

As if. 

I never understood it; the fascination of women being given away to a man, as if the weight of their world is placed on their shoulders until the tying of the mangalsutra. And when that’s over, the pressure to abide by the “do you have any good news?” calls and giggles from elders, with no sense of boundaries. 

“They ask because they care.” “Take it as a compliment, that aunty wants her son to marry you.” “It’s a natural question to ask someone your age.” 

Is it? Or have we continued to believe that it’s natural, it’s normal, it’s a routine part of life for every single woman? Take the word single, in whichever way you please.

I step back from the mirror. 

My mother rushes into my room, stressed and hassled. Adorned with one of her best saris; not too grand, but not too simple. Ironed and pleated perfectly, matching gold bangles, and a diamond necklace set to match. Of course. She must show her worth to potential in-laws. 

I look into the mirror. A version of myself that I rarely meet; in a sari, jasmine flowers spread throughout my hair, causing the ever-so calming aroma to nauseate me, just a tiny bit. 

Patriarchy manages to ruin the fruits of our earth, too.