Tags:
Journalism of Courage
I turn 24 soon. That places me at an age when relatives who you last met when you were eight years old start calling your parents to talk about your impending marriage. More like your impending doom.
My grandfather is getting on and has this mental photograph of me with faceless husband and faceless baby, standing in front of our house. Clearly, he is not in touch with the current real estate situation. My grandma is more realistic. She says that my parents better start the search now: it won8217;t be before two years that we get the Right Guy. My mother does not consider the horrors she wants to put me through, a traditional Bengali wedding, where I will be heaved up and hurried around a fire by the men in my family, who will swear at me while they perform this noble service.
At this statement, the conversation becomes incoherent. Numerous people are participating, each shouting out their opinion. I run away to the balcony, close my eyes and breathe in the free Kolkata air. My father joins me a minute later. 8220;Do whatever you want. But if you choose to marry, don8217;t expect me to dress up in some silly dhoti. I8217;ve done it once, I refuse to do it again,8221; he says quietly. I look at him and promise him that he can come in his shorts if such a day should come.
