“He’s younger?” Mom whispered amidst tears.
“Yeah, two years.” I clarified.
“So he won’t marry you?” Dad almost shouted in anger.
“He’s okay with marriage, I’m not. I need more time. It’ll be a Live-In Relationship.” I reclarified.
“What about the baby then?” they enquired in unison.
“I’ll take care of the baby, but what is this, some kind of an interrogation? You didn’t seek my opinions last time around.” I retorted.
“Shameless.” Dad hissed, “How do we show our face outside? Our daughter, brought up in a respectable family, leaves her husband for a younger man. Is this how we raised you?”
“Trust me Dad, it’s exactly because of the way you raised me.” I looked him straight in the eye, perhaps for the first time.
Now, there are orthodox families and then there was mine. Well-educated, urban, and well-off, my parents hardly seemed the conservative types to the rest of the world. But I had no inkling why my parents treated my brother differently and why was I always under lock and key. I was dropped to school, tuitions, dance classes, and brought back safely by my mother, well into my teenage. Even when I began navigating to college alone, a ten-minute delay was met with a volley of questions.
As if I would run away at the first chance I got.
Though, to be honest, there were moments when I felt an overwhelming urge to escape.I was strictly restricted from talking to boys, I remember that day when all hell broke loose, when my brother saw me chatting with a boy, after school. The way I was made to dress, it was next to impossible that a boy my age would cast a second glance at me. It’s not that I had anything against dressing traditionally, but like everyone else, I, too, longed to embrace trendy styles and keep up with the latest fashion.
. But till my marriage, my mother selected my outfits because there’s always certain decorum to be maintained before my father, brother, and of course, people from the opposite gender.
I guess my parents were oblivious to the fact that I was gradually moving into a cocoon – too shy, too afraid, too much of an introvert.
And then there was someone in my college, who incidentally seemed to have a crush on me, and I too was basking in the feeling, but he happened to call up home once, on the family landline and all my calls were thoroughly screened before I conversed. To cut a long story short, that was the end of my love story.
When it came to marriage, my parents followed the same tradition, they picked my husband, they approved his photograph, and they got the horoscopes matched. A month after my graduation, I was married, into a respectable family, to a noble man, a total stranger, whom my parents liked a lot.
He indeed was a good husband, he cared, he shared chores, he took me shopping, he encouraged me to work, he was an ideal husband, just like he was an obedient son and son-in-law.
He loved me in his own sweet way. He wouldn’t object to me wearing makeup, cutting my hair or wearing trendy clothes, but once when I asked for an opinion, he politely commented, “I love the lady I married, simple and traditional, long hair, sans makeup.”
He would call me a hundred times if I ever had to work late, he would sweetly refuse my requests to attend late evening office parties, he was deeply disappointed when I tasted wine at a dinner, he chaperoned me everywhere.
With a heavy heart I realized, I had married my mother.
As advised by the so-called elders in my family, I went ahead with motherhood, to kill the monotony of marriage. The arrival of a baby pushed me into further darkness, being a mother isn’t a cakewalk after all. But I finally settled, in the walled garden that my husband had built around me.
As beautiful and comfortable the garden was, I wished to break those rosy shackles, to fly away, to be liberated.
Arun entered the office and my life, like a breath of fresh air. A wicked glint in his eyes, with ready humour and wit, he was free and wild. He made it so easy to enjoy, he turned out to be the life of the workplace. He was in my team and he would often tease me for my reserved nature. He would instigate, yet amuse me. We happened to interact a lot and I don’t exactly remember when we started developing feelings for each other. I gathered the courage to extend my work time, to spend some leisure time with colleagues, I would now dress up the way I like, he liked. I began breaking my chains, interacting freely and coming out of my shell, all thanks to him. his feelings He was what I wanted to be, he was who I wanted to be with and he realised it too. We were in love and he professed for me. And I was prepared, to leave behind a secure life with my nice husband and explore a different aspect of love and life.
I knew my husband had seen it coming, I wasn’t reciprocating his love the way I was expected to. He was upset, I too was, but he handled it maturely.
But my parents-in-law and especially my parents wouldn’t hear any of it, so here I was, that evening, at my maternal home, summoned to put some sense into me.
“What do you mean, it was the way you were brought up? Was it our fault you decided to stray? Your husband loves you and your baby, he earns well, is financially secure, let’s you work, keeps you happy, what more do you want?” My dad barked.
“Try to step off that pedestal and see my point of view. I like change. I don’t want to feel safe and comfortable all the time. I don’t want someone who simply loves and accepts me the way I am. I want someone who pushes me, challenges me, and calls me out. Someone who excites my mind as well as my body, fearless and fiery.” I pleaded.
“Chi !”, my mother shook her head, “How could you stoop so low? You are a woman, what will people say? Do you reject a stable relationship for excitement? People like you and Arun could never be happy, you don’t understand the meaning of marriage.”
“I don’t Ma, I don’t understand what it means to be tied down for your entire life with a stranger, just because you decided so. You mean, you would have been okay if your son strayed? Moreover, for just once, why don’t you try and understand me, that I’m different perhaps, that I might not always want what you want?”
I could feel my eyes well up, my mother had just cursed me.
“Get out.” My father commanded, “We don’t have a daughter anymore.”
I wiped my tears and rose to leave. With one last look at the house, I had grown up in, I walked away, hoping they would understand their daughter someday.
By Preethi Warrier
Preethi Warrier has completed her Masters in Electronics Engineering and is an Assistant Professor. She is one among the winners of the TOI Write India Campaign Season-1, for the famous author Anita Nair. She can be contacted at : warrier.preethi@yahoo.com
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