My decision to get married at the age of 23 evoked mixed feelings among
my loved ones and well wishers. Most of them were extremely happy for me; some
of them were surprised, their responses ranging from giving advice (“Why don't
you work for a while before getting married?”) to showing downright disbelief
(“This is the 21st century. It’s practically child marriage!”). With child-like
naïveté, I enjoyed my wedding in all its traditional glory, basking in the
attention, glamour and the material pleasure of new clothes and jewellery,
without thinking about the responsibilities associated with the role I was
going to play soon.
“But how will you eat after marriage if you don’t
learn how to cook?” my grandmother was very concerned.
She looked
shocked, as if I’d said I would ask him to go sky-diving. I shrugged and
continued to dodge cooking lessons; having convinced myself that there would
enough time to learn later. A few months later, I regretted my words, standing
in front of a blackened, semi-solid mass in the saucepan which did not even
remotely resemble the cheerfully bubbling and ambrosia-like sambar my mother
used to make.
I thought
married life was going to be a piece of cake after having lived with roommates
for the best part of four years in college. But I have realized now that it is
a whole new ball game. Not having my mother around to clean up after me and my
dad to loudly praise even my unpalatable potato curry helped remove the
rose-coloured glasses from my eyes. Not that my husband ever complained about my
cooking skills: six years of living away from home probably made his taste buds
insensitive to disastrous culinary experiments.
On the
emotional front, the first few months of married life were fun in some ways,
living outside the protective bubble of parental influence. While we lived
together, we were only accountable to the other, and he didn’t mind if the
dishes weren’t washed for a couple of days, or if clothes were stuffed
hurriedly into the closet without being folded neatly. As we grew to know more
about each other, I learnt to put up with his slow, methodical approach to
everything, while he became tolerant of my hastier pace. We gave each other
long ropes, and trod gently on emotions because we were just getting to know
each other and didn’t want to rub each other the wrong way at the beginning
itself.
I learnt
some important things from the first year of my marriage, which was mostly
spent in trying to figure him out, and slowly falling in love with him. I've come
to realize that learning to love someone is like trying to lose weight. You
need to put in a lot of effort, give up things you like and be ready to embrace
things you don’t like. It is a continuous process with both of us putting
effort everyday into learning what makes each other tick, what makes us
happy/unhappy and work towards what, as a couple, we want most out of life. The
warm glow of contentment you feel, after getting to know little details about
the other that no one else knows about, is worth it.
His
treatment of me as a grown-up was something else I came to appreciate and be
miffed about, in equal measure. He gave me my space and let me take my decisions,
but did not encourage my tantrums or demands for attention, unlike my parents.
This meant that he was okay with me eating cookies at midnight and buying
extravagant ‘modern art’, but was not okay with me sulking and lashing out at
him because I'd had a bad interview. From him, I learnt that being patient and
lending a listening ear is very different from using each other as punching
bags.
As we
celebrate one year of having successfully survived the institution, I smile at
the foolish arrogance I had a year ago, when I thought I knew everything, and
embrace the fact that, even after 50 years, I will probably never know. Life
with him stretches ahead like Whitewater rafting, yet my fears and anxiety
diminish in front of his Rock-of-Gibraltar-like steadiness. I look forward to
the many, many, many more years of excitement, joy, sorrow, surprises,
disappointments, fights and hugs, everyday for the rest of my life.
My decision to get married at the age of 23 evoked mixed feelings among
my loved ones and well wishers. Most of them were extremely happy for me; some
of them were surprised, their responses ranging from giving advice (“Why don't
you work for a while before getting married?”) to showing downright disbelief
(“This is the 21st century. It’s practically child marriage!”). With child-like
naïveté, I enjoyed my wedding in all its traditional glory, basking in the
attention, glamour and the material pleasure of new clothes and jewellery,
without thinking about the responsibilities associated with the role I was
going to play soon.
It has
been almost a year since I came to the U.S. of A and slightly more than that
since I joined the maamis' (TamBrahm wives') club. This time last year, I was
free to lounge about in sweatpants at home, eat and spill Lays chips all over
the sofa, sleep for sixteen hours a day and still complain that I never got
enough sleep. I never appreciated my mom’s cooking and often tsk-tsked the lack
of variety in it (“Masala dosa again? Didn’t we just eat that a week ago? And
why didn’t you make any dessert today?”). I pretended to listen with a solemn
expression to my family members when they gave me lectures on propriety and
manners, while silently wondering if the latest episode of Castle had started
on TV. I was quite comfortable being a lazy bum at home, and the biggest
decision I had to make was when (or whether) to start studying for the next
day’s exam.
“But how will you eat after marriage if you don’t
learn how to cook?” my grandmother was very concerned.
“Oh, I’ll just ask my husband to cook,” I said,
nonchalantly.
She looked
shocked, as if I’d said I would ask him to go sky-diving. I shrugged and
continued to dodge cooking lessons; having convinced myself that there would
enough time to learn later. A few months later, I regretted my words, standing
in front of a blackened, semi-solid mass in the saucepan which did not even
remotely resemble the cheerfully bubbling and ambrosia-like sambar my mother
used to make.
I thought
married life was going to be a piece of cake after having lived with roommates
for the best part of four years in college. But I have realized now that it is
a whole new ball game. Not having my mother around to clean up after me and my
dad to loudly praise even my unpalatable potato curry helped remove the
rose-coloured glasses from my eyes. Not that my husband ever complained about my
cooking skills: six years of living away from home probably made his taste buds
insensitive to disastrous culinary experiments.
On the
practical front, cooking was not the only challenge; I knew next to nothing
about housework. I followed the how-not-to route of learning to maintain a
home. I had to go through a bug contamination in the kitchen, mold in the
bathroom and an Australia-shaped eye-liner stain on the carpet, and ruin a
couple of my husband’s good shirts, before I could finally keep a house that
did not smell like stale clothes or spoiled food.
On the
emotional front, the first few months of married life were fun in some ways,
living outside the protective bubble of parental influence. While we lived
together, we were only accountable to the other, and he didn’t mind if the
dishes weren’t washed for a couple of days, or if clothes were stuffed
hurriedly into the closet without being folded neatly. As we grew to know more
about each other, I learnt to put up with his slow, methodical approach to
everything, while he became tolerant of my hastier pace. We gave each other
long ropes, and trod gently on emotions because we were just getting to know
each other and didn’t want to rub each other the wrong way at the beginning
itself.
I learnt
some important things from the first year of my marriage, which was mostly
spent in trying to figure him out, and slowly falling in love with him. I've come
to realize that learning to love someone is like trying to lose weight. You
need to put in a lot of effort, give up things you like and be ready to embrace
things you don’t like. It is a continuous process with both of us putting
effort everyday into learning what makes each other tick, what makes us
happy/unhappy and work towards what, as a couple, we want most out of life. The
warm glow of contentment you feel, after getting to know little details about
the other that no one else knows about, is worth it.
His
treatment of me as a grown-up was something else I came to appreciate and be
miffed about, in equal measure. He gave me my space and let me take my decisions,
but did not encourage my tantrums or demands for attention, unlike my parents.
This meant that he was okay with me eating cookies at midnight and buying
extravagant ‘modern art’, but was not okay with me sulking and lashing out at
him because I'd had a bad interview. From him, I learnt that being patient and
lending a listening ear is very different from using each other as punching
bags.
As we
celebrate one year of having successfully survived the institution, I smile at
the foolish arrogance I had a year ago, when I thought I knew everything, and
embrace the fact that, even after 50 years, I will probably never know. Life
with him stretches ahead like Whitewater rafting, yet my fears and anxiety
diminish in front of his Rock-of-Gibraltar-like steadiness. I look forward to
the many, many, many more years of excitement, joy, sorrow, surprises,
disappointments, fights and hugs, everyday for the rest of my life.
