india is an arranged marriage
INDIA | Tuesday, 29 January 2008 | Views [1475]
(This is an excerpt from a personal
journal entry from the first week when I arrived in India. I sometimes
cringe and curse at the weird way my sentences wrap around each other
in odd-measured rhyme when I get writing. So know that it's
unintentional, but just the way my thoughts get scribbled. You see. A
curse.)
india is an arranged marriage
There
is no courtship with India. The face peering back at yours from behind
the curtain does not bat her lashes or bite her lip. It is the lack of
fear behind her stone stare that makes your heart race with unnamed
emotion. The sterile passport-sized picture of her given to you does
not invoke the vision of her as the mother of your dozen children. Yet
your story with her seems dimensionless and pregnant with a million
incarnations that could be conceived of the union. India is not coy.
Nor is she shy. And you sense a thousand secrets, hidden millennia
deep, when she finally chooses to give your gaze relief. India does not
rank high by conventional standards and comparisons of beauty. But her
features are sharp and distinguished and clues of a character that will
not fade when fairness and years are incrementally dismissed. India
does not flaunt, but neither does she hide. She does not rely on the
skin she shows, but that which she doesn't, to tantalize. India lowers
her eyes. Not in feigned defeat, but in respect to that which she knows
hides under the shadow of Earth's own sari. India does not pretend -- to
know you, or that you know her. She knows that those worlds will take
exponential lifetimes to explore. India hasn't the time to, without
prompt, monologue an explanation of herself to you. But she will reward
each individual and invested question with her most straightforward and
simple truth. For although India is a young bride, she feels no rush to
attach herself to only one of her multiple lives. India dreams. And she
trusts. She still calls it fate and questions those who say it's not.
India raises a candle to the sun. She feels no need to draw the
theories when she can see the likeness clearly. India knows not what,
but, that she doesn't know. She doesn't guess, but answers the biggest
questions, honestly, with her silence. India knows she will grow old
and, with time, wrinkle, but that is not how she remembers the line of
women that came before her. She's comfortable with her youth being shed
and only hopes to inherit the pride of those whose footsteps left the
path before her distinguished and well-tread. India trusts her
ancestors. She counts on their mistakes to give merit to the wisdoms
they pass along, even if the logical connection is ages lost or
forgotten. India has great heart and hope. She sees no advantage in
allowing herself to wander the fantasies of failure. India did not
choose you. Neither did you choose her. Someone, something -- above,
older, wiser -- of this proposal, was the organizer. And yet, the plank
over this apparent divide, was the subconscious consent stated in the
silence from both sides. One can insist on free will and draw a line.
But, as India points out, fate can always draw another one, just an
inch behind. Yes. India is wise. She's an old wife, who has outlived
her partner but lives on to share the recipes -- for food, in love, of
life -- to any of those who bother to lean in and listen to the creaking
treasure chest of her whisper. Perhaps you are circling India now,
taking your wedding vows as she follows your steps around the sacred
fire. You may not have ever seen her face, but you know she is there, a
step behind you. Waiting for you to gather your courage, take her hand,
lift her veil, and finally face her.
Tags: People