I was six when

the omnipresence of marriage

wove itself into my life as

a basic reality.

It became one

of the constants

of my life

very simply –

an accepted

Holy Grail

of existence.

Stories I saw, read,

ended with couples

billing and cooing

in matrimonial harmony.

Money at home

rolled up and down

and the food we ate and

the clothes on our back

rolled with it,

but marriage – my grandparents’

ancient, beaten and cynical habit,

my parents’ baffling co-existence –

was constant.

And yet, it took me longer

to see how marriage

poured itself

into every crevice in

our home –

to see marriage

in the wrinkles around

Amma’s eyes,

marriage in the piles and piles

of neglected papers

she brought home

from work,

marriage in the limp

in her once-confident swagger,

marriage in the mixture of smells

that floated out of the kitchen

while she learned to make

bisibele anna

And marriage in her soft sigh when

Appa offers to drop her

to work.

I began to see Marriage

in Appa’s weathered hands,

smell Marriage

in the tea he brewed

for Amma before

he woke her up

hear Marriage

in his tired snores

punctuating the quiet of

the night,

see Marriage shining off

his rapidly balding head.

I see Marriage in

Ajji’s gnarled

toes, scrunched up from overuse,

Marriage in the softness of her saree

which Ajja would playfully

wipe his hands on,

tasted Marriage in the half-hearted

sweetness of the

payasam she made

for my diabetic grandfather.

I see Marriage in

the truncated length

and absent words

of the texts

my happily-wedded friend

barely manages

to send to me.

I see Marriage shining

in the eyes of

countless Maushis

and Kakus every time

I tell them

I have news.

I see Marriage in the many

moulds put before me –

factory-refined, standardised

iron brackets that I must bleed

myself to fit into –

which rusted in the attic

but were dusted off

for me to

settle down

into.

I see Marriage in every

definition of stability.

Marriage in every parent’s list

of Tasks To Complete Before Death.

Marriage in countless rose-tinted

aspirations.

Ironically,

the only manifestation

of marriage I have not yet seen

is the only admissible physical proof

of that esoteric contract.

I have never,

ever

seen

A Marriage Certificate.

That singular piece of paper

marked by names

that read nothing like

mine,

which oozes colour and sweat

and blood and tears

into the

fabric

of my everyday existence,

is boxed up somewhere.

Sterile.

Static.

Ageless.

Cover image taken from Little Planet Factory