‘That’s exactly the way one should think about a marriage.’
A small beep on my phone informs me of the gate change.
Maa says, ‘The best thing about any marriage is the girl’s ability to walk out from it if the need arises. You would only be with him if he adds happiness to your life.’
‘Or?’
‘You have walked away from him earlier as well,’ she concedes. ‘We all have.’
I bid Maa goodbye, promising to call her once I land. But for now, I find solace in Maa’s words and the thought of Daksh, waiting in the wings, willing to put up a fight for us. I take a deep breath, feeling a strange peace settling over me as I board the aircraft.
‘Maybe it is a good problem,’ I whisper to myself, the words drowning in the dull hum of the engines. I am reminded of bouquets of fragrant flowers mysteriously appearing in my hotel rooms across various cities and the unexpected food deliveries that found their way to me on college campuses. I think of the little love notes and playful flirtations that were discreetly handed to me by hotel staff and students alike. Classic teenage cringe stuff. But I don’t cringe, my heart dances.
As the plane ascends, I lean back into my seat, a sigh escaping my lips. Maa’s words echo in my head, her faith in Daksh. Shehas a point: What’s the worst that can happen? After all, love isn’t about finding the perfect person, but learning to see an imperfect person perfectly. But a part of me tells me all these fancy definitions of love can quickly go to shit.
I start writing a text to Daksh. It starts with the words ‘I love you.’
10.
Daksh and Aanchal
We pull up to the registrar’s office, our hearts pounding like a runaway train. We are holding each other’s clammy hands, and we don’t let go because isn’t that what this marriage is going to be like? Holding on even when we don’t want to? The cab halts with a jerk, the driver’s nonchalant whistling permeating the tense air inside. We don’t let go of our hands.
‘Good luck!’ he calls out as we step into the sweltering Delhi heat.
Yes, we do need that. But the words do little to quell the nervousness swirling within us.
The line at the marriage registration office is long, snaking around the crumbling building. We get a token and stand in line. Unlike us, most couples mirror hope and happiness, and they are smiling as though they have dosed on a truckful of oxytocin.
‘It won’t be long now,’ says the tout we have hired.
He’s going to manage the witnesses and the paperwork. He believes we have run away and are getting married. He has suggested hotels that take cash and allow long-term rentals. He thinks our families are out there baying for our blood. We want to tell him that it’s us who had fucked up our relationship. In the midst of the crowd of the about-to-be-married, their relativesand lawyers, a group of eunuchs clap and sing. They look at us, their eyes filled with joy and sorrow, and take a beat, for it’s clear we are terrified. We question our motives and challenge our decision. Why marry when the institution itself is mired in patriarchy? But then, we look at each other and we remember. Our histories are inextricably linked. We are meant to be together. If there’s something called fate, we define it. Who, but us, deserves a shot at spending a lifetime together?
And then we remind ourselves of our mantra.
What’s the worst that can happen?
We step into the office, the air heavy with the scent of old paper and ink. There are teetering towers of files with yellowing pages gathering dust and cobwebs. The registrar or judge or whatever he’s called is a gruff man with a bald head. He calls us forward and asks us to confirm our details. When he looks at our witnesses, he sees familiar faces. He must think we are running away. We want to correct him: we were.
‘No family?’ he asks.
We tell him they are busy. The truth is we wanted to do this just for ourselves. If this is a mistake, the memory of it will stay only with us. We are just fooling ourselves that it’s not a big deal when it’s really a... big deal.
Our hands tremble as we sign the documents. Each stroke of the pen a promise, a pledge of our commitment and an implicit agreement that now, running away would be that much more difficult, the heartbreak more severe.
And then, we are married. A simple statement, a complicated truth. Our lives are one. Like it should have been.
As we step outside, a cheer rises from the eunuchs. Their claps resonate in the air, the sound a stark contrast to the pounding silence in our hearts. We have crossed a threshold, and there is no turning back.
We reach our flat, our first home together, a rented place in Gurgaon. We step inside, and the door closes behind us with a soft thud.
We are alone, together. And suddenly, the room is electrified with a tangible yearning, a primal need to touch, to taste, to claim. We always belonged to each other, but that signing of a document means we also own each other. And owning comes with certain consented violence. Within minutes, we strip away our clothes. Our hands explore familiar landscapes with a newfound ownership. This is ours to have, the world can have its things, but this is ours, we mumble as we kiss each other all over. A sigh, a gasp, a moan fill the room as we discover and rediscover each other as husband and wife.
The world outside continues its incessant, boring hum, oblivious to what has just happened. Our story might be among countless others, but it’s better than all of them. How can anyone feel what we feel at the moment?
When we are done, we fall into each other’s arms.
We watch the sunset from the window that the property dealer claimed would get direct sunlight but the sun is only partly visible between two buildings. As we lie there, we make promises. To not be assholes to each other, to love each other, to build a life we could have built earlier. We promise each other that we will always choose love, we will always choose hope, and we will always choose each other.
