Twenty-five!
An age that feels like a doorway – half of you still in the familiar warmth of childhood, the other half stepping into the unknown.
I was twenty-five years and two months old when I got married. My twenty-fifth birthday was my last birthday as a single girl, though I didn’t fully realise the weight of that until much later. The house was alive that day – friends dropping in, relatives filling the rooms with laughter, plates clattering in the kitchen, Maa fussing over snacks, Baba quietly ensuring everyone had a chair, a cup of tea, a moment of warmth.
Yet, underneath the noise, there was a parallel world unfolding. Wedding preparations were rushing like a river -shopping lists, caterer finalisations, venue visits, saree trials, jewellery polishing, invitations being written in maa-baba’s delicate handwriting. Amidst all this, Maa and Baba gave me a gold ring. A small, shining circle of love. A symbol of them. I still wear it because it carries the smell of home.
But what no one could see, not in my smile, not in the photographs, not even in the sparkle of my new ring, was the storm of emotions inside me.
We grow up being taught many things. How to study well. How to speak politely. How to respect elders. And as women, especially, how to nurture relationships, how to adjust, how to give, how to belong. Marriage was always shown to us as a beautiful chapter, one filled with companionship, celebration, new beginnings, and the warmth of togetherness.
But no one tells you what your heart actually goes through when the moment arrives.
In the weeks leading up to the wedding, I would often watch Maa and Baba when they thought I wasn’t looking. Maa folding my clothes with extra care. Baba lingering a little longer near my room. Small things, invisible to everyone else, but not to me. I was the daughter who had never spent a single day away from them. Not one. How does one suddenly imagine a life without hearing Maa’s voice first thing in the morning? Without Baba’s steady presence, calm and reassuring?
And then there was him, the man I was about to marry. Someone I had known for only six months. Six months is long enough to feel comfortable, yes, but also too short to truly know how a shared life would unfold. Would he understand me? Would he allow me to be myself? Would I ever feel at home in a place that wasn’t built brick-by-brick with Maa’s affection and Baba’s silent strength?
The excitement and fear lived side by side, breathing together, clashing, blending, and confusing me. One moment, I dreamt of the new life waiting for me, Bangalore, a better job, independence, exploring a new city, building something big for myself. And the next moment, I would feel my chest tighten at the thought of leaving the only world I had ever known.
Every time someone said, “This is your last birthday in this house,” something inside me cracked a little. They meant it lovingly. But to me, it felt like a countdown. A reminder that my anchor was about to loosen. That I had to learn to float, maybe even fly, but farther away from the nest than I ever had.
Marriage, I thought, would only mean happiness and fun. Also a promise. A place where love solves everything. But the truth is, marriage comes wrapped in responsibilities, big, small, invisible, unexpected. It isn’t always rosy. It isn’t always the fairy tale we’re fed in childhood. But it is real. Raw. And sometimes, beautiful in ways we don’t expect.
On the night of my 25th birthday, I sat on my bed looking at the walls of my room, the dresses, the accessories, the books, the memories, the unmade plans. A whole childhood held in four corners. I wondered how life would be months later. Would I come back as a visitor? Would this room still feel like mine? Would Maa still wait for me to wake up late on Sundays? Would Baba still ask if I had eaten?
The truth is, I was terrified.
Terrified to leave.
Terrified to begin.
Terrified to grow up.
But also hopeful.
Hopeful for love.
Hopeful for a new home.
Hopeful for a life I had imagined, drawn on the pages of my diary since school.
Twenty-five is an age of contradictions. You feel wise but also clueless. Strong but also fragile. Ready but also deeply unprepared.
But looking back, I now understand something that twenty-five-year-old me couldn’t see:
You don’t truly “leave” your parents. They live with you in the habits they taught you, the values they built in you, the courage they planted in your spine. Home doesn’t vanish; it stretches to fit the new life you enter.
When I look at that gold ring now, I see more than a gift.
I see Maa’s love, Baba’s faith, and the girl I was at twenty-five, standing on the edge of change, filled with fear and excitement, sadness and hope, tears and dreams, all at once.
And I’m proud of her.
Because despite not knowing what waited on the other side, she took the step.
She chose courage.
She chose love.
She chose life.
All at Twenty – Five..
