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July 2020 | REDONLINE.CO.UKrelationships
He refused to speak to me initially, just as I had expected. When we finally sat down to discuss
it, he insisted on the one thing I felt I couldn’t do: marriage. I found it farcical. Why did it matter if
I was already pregnant? If it was to save face, surely everyone would do the maths and realise I did it
because I was knocked up. So, what was the point of wasting energy – and money – on this illusion?
But, as the conversation continued, it slowly dawned on me that this wasn’t just about saving
face. My dad is the eldest son of a widowed mother. He had travelled to the UK in the 1970s to
support her and his five younger siblings. They all still remain in India to this day. As part of my
personal journey to heal my relationship with my parents, I had learned, independently, about the
ways in which widowed women in parts of India become outcasts from the extended family and
the community at large. They’re simply cut off from society and forced to fend for themselves.
For my dad, as the eldest son of a fatherless household, honour, respect and social standing were
not just superficial badges for pride’s sake. They were deeply ingrained values, hard-won over decades
and through the trauma of being separated from his home and his family. I was humbled by this
realisation. And, after a few weeks of discussion, my partner and I decided we would, after all, marry.
My pregnancy meant we had to do it quickly and, in many ways, that allowed us to have a
wedding that would not have been possible if we had done it the ‘right’ way around. My husband
is from Oman and both our families would have expected traditional ceremonies. This probably
would have meant a month of festivities across two countries. Neither of us likes to be the centre
of attention, so this idea filled us with dread. Instead, we kept it small and non-traditional.
I remember writing our guest list on the back of an envelope. Just 12 of our immediate
family and their partners. Our two families had never met, so we held a pre-wedding dinner the
night before at my parents’ house to welcome my in-laws who had flown in from Oman for
the occasion. In spite of our earlier disagreements, my dad was in his element feeding and
hosting his guests, proudly standing back to watch my siblings entertain and charm my
husband-to-be’s family. We had arranged to watch old home videos from both families as
a way of fast-tracking the months and years of getting to know each other that they’d missed.
On the big day, I woke grumpy and hormonal with a cold, feeling somewhat inconvenienced by
it all. As a freelancer who needed to save up for maternity leave, taking time off to get married
would mean missing out on at least a couple of days’ work! But that quickly dissipated as I finished
getting dressed. I had chosen to wear my mum’s yellow silk sari – the
same one she had worn when she married my dad in 1985. As she
placed the final pleats in the fabric, I felt a wave of emotion come over
me: gratitude and humility at the way my parents were foregoing the
grand wedding they had dreamed of for their first-born, and instead
putting their best foot forward for this improvised version.
When the vows were read by the registrar, I couldn’t help feeling an
internal resistance to the institutional language steeped in patriarchy.
It felt unsentimental and contractual. Then the vows mentioned love
and loyalty, and sharing in happiness and in sorrow, and I thought, yes,
I do want to do these things with my partner. I looked across to my
husband and to our parents and siblings
behind us, beaming at our coming
together, each having made a kind
of sacrifice to bear witness to our
union. I thought of the small human
growing inside me. I felt a rush of love.
There was no exchanging of rings. We made the choice not to have confetti. But the second we were
pronounced husband and wife, my husband made a gesture to acknowledge the reason we were there
in the first place – he bent down to kiss my growing belly. At that very moment, it started snowing.
We threw on our coats and shawls and piled outside to get a group picture. The spontaneity of it is
beautifully captured in a photo, along with the glow of happiness on everyone’s faces.
Two years on, I still find it odd to be referred to as someone’s wife. I’m not sure whether
marriage has strengthened the bond between my husband and I or had no effect at all. But
I do understand that, for my dad, getting married was something I had to do in order for
him to be there for me. If he has any regrets about the way it happened, they are totally
eclipsed by the profound, unconditional love he shows for his grandson.‘MY HUSBAND BENT DOWN
TO KISS MY GROWING BELLY’
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