Shaadi A short story By Katherine Buck My father didn’t propose to my mother when they got married. His family did, to her family. Both families became aware of each other through an acquaintance and the match was deemed appropriate. At that time my father had several job offers abroad, so their engagement wasn’t very long. They met a couple of times before the wedding (always with chaperones, of course). They had a traditional Indian wedding and soon after they left for the UK, where my father had been offered a very good position in a young firm.
Once, when I was about 14, my mother told us more about their marriage after my sister and I had bothered her with quite a few questions. She told us that she and our father had actually gone to the same university though she had been a freshman when he was a senior. Although they were never part of the same social circle, she had known who he was. They never spoke; she never knew that my father had been interested in her for a long time. He just never had the courage to talk to her, being too scared of her possible rejection. Instead he went to his father and told him all about her. His father, in turn, combed through their family’s acquaintances to help my father out. A marriage offer was made and after that everything was settled. My mum seemed pleased when she finished telling her story, almost like a young girl. Her story was enough to help me dismiss my white friends’ comments (influenced by their own parents) about my parents. Apparently an arranged marriage like theirs caused quite a stir in a predominantly white neighborhood. However, I decided to pay no attention. To me there was no right or wrong answer. My parents’ way was just another way to be married. I never actually linked myself to the idea of arranged marriage, though by the time I was of marriageable age, my mom would sometimes tell me of a nice Indian guy who was looking for a bride. I always rejected her proposals, saying “Not now.” My mom would just tut impatiently, but never said anything because she knew that I would choose somebody in the end. And I did. Just not whom she expected. I’ve been in a relationship for over 3 years now. I never let my parents know, because I knew they would have a hard time accepting Ricardo, my Portuguese boyfriend. It just felt natural being with him; it felt right. He was my best friend and after 3 years together we knew it was only the beginning for us. We knew what we wanted and where we wanted to go. But overall, we knew we wanted to be together. Meanwhile, my parents kept pressing me to choose an Indian husband. They found a most promising candidate, Rahul. My parents were so interested in him, they did something they had never done before: they invited him over to our house for lunch. He was well-mannered and well-spoken. He had his own business and it was going well. He knew just the right compliments for my mother’s cooking and the right stories to tell my father. He was everything a mother could ask for as an Indian son-in-law. He also seemed more interested in my parents than in me, so I was quite surprised when he addressed me. “You work as a veterinarian?” I nodded a reply; that seemed to satisfy him. He continued talking with my parents. That afternoon, my sister came to my room. “I think this is the one for you, sister, he is just perfect…so unlike white guys who get what they want from you and then leave you for someone else. He’s so much better than that Portuguese scum you’re dating.” I ignored her insinuations and scathing comments about my boyfriend. How many guys had she dated in her life….hmm, how about none? “Not for me; you can have him.” “What is wrong with you? Mum and Dad are working very hard to find you a good husband and you cannot find it in your heart to appreciate it? “I didn’t ask them to.” She stared at me. Hard. “You’re not the sister I know…you’ve changed; now you’re acting like those white girls. Those free-spirited wenches who go after whatever strikes their fancy, throwing themselves around, taking no heed of the world around them. Take a good look at yourself, sister. In case you haven’t noticed, you’re not white.” She left, leaving me in shock at her tirade. I felt extremely hurt that my own sister wouldn’t understand me. Why was she so upset that I wanted something for myself and not what my parents wanted for me? Was it wrong of me? Was she right, had I changed? Wasn’t I always like this? I pondered my sister’s words, and the more I thought about it, the angrier I became. Who was she to judge me? I was not what she thought me to be; I wasn’t trying to be white. I was just trying to be myself. What is so wrong about that? I had a lot of questions and almost no answers. I couldn’t marry Tariq just to please my family, but I also couldn’t think of running off with Ricardo just to please myself. However, there were no half-choices; whatever I chose I would have to commit to it fully. “Rahul just called. He wants to know whether you would like to get coffee. He knows a really nice place nearby.” My mum looked so pleased, it was as if she were the one being courted. “I can’t go, Mum.” Her smile vanished. “What do you mean, you can’t? You have no work today and I don’t see you doing much around the house! You’re always saying ‘no, no, no’…child, you’re not getting any younger. It is about time you think of marrying. Rahul is a decent man; he is your match.” I thought my next words carefully. “I met someone, Mum…I’m in love with him.” What followed was the worst hour of my life. My mum refused to accept what I was telling her. She refused to believe that she had raised me to be such a bad daughter, that I would consider marrying someone other than an Indian. She refused to even meet Ricardo; she echoed all of my sister’s prejudices and added some of her own. It dragged on forever. By the time my father had returned from his errands, my mum was in tears and I was quite close to them, too. My father was silent, and he looked grave. I implored him to hear me out, to really listen to what I was saying. “I can’t marry Rahul, or anybody else, when I’ve already been claimed by someone else. Dad, you must understand me; you went after the woman of your choice. You decided whom to marry…you were lucky enough that your choice was within your family’s boundary. I’m sorry I had to cross that boundary, but I am lucky enough to have found someone with whom I’d willingly spend the rest of my life.” Still my father said nothing. Something in his eyes gave me some hope but it was gone in a moment. The silence was only broken by my mum sobbing “Willful girl!” and “Disgrace!” When he left the room I knew it was over; there was no more to say. Later, my sister came with advice. She offered no sympathy or consolation. “Stop being so ridiculous; just marry Rahul.” When I offered no reply, she continued, “If you go with that good-for-nothing Portuguese, no one will stand behind you, you know that, don’t you? You’ll end up alone.” Her face was full of concern for my future. She meant well. Would she forgive a sister? “I won’t be alone.” a
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The Taida Student Journal has been active since 1995 with an ever-changing roster of student journalists at NTU. Click the above link to read about the authors Archives
May 2024
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