The Cherry On The Cake

1. Meera

I clumsily slid off the tiled roof of my house, hung to the white plastic pipes and plopped down heavily on the carefully mowed British lawn, my Father's chef d'oeuvre. I took off my overly sequined skirt to reveal my sleek black trousers that hung to my skin like a second skin. I hastily untied my chiming ankle bracelets and unveiled my straight black hair that was currently tied in a wise-young-woman bun.

I, Meera Singh was running off my wedding.

I had just planned my running away two hours before the ceremony after the visit of my favorite aunty Nilam who my father likes to call 'the walking shame' to my room. Aunty Nilam had always been a special woman in the family. She always avoided pooja, had continued her studies in college, had fallen 'seriously in love' with countless men, lived unmarried on her own and altered her look and style from chic and wise woman to crossbreeds of hard rock and ultra punk with leather jackets, skull piercings, tattoos on her arms algae green-streaked hair. (Of course, rumours about my aunt turning lesbian had been spread by herself, just to horrify her mother and brother who were my Grandma and my Father). Yes, a bit of a rebel.

By then, you might have noticed that my family was deeply incrusted in orthodoxy. Indian values and traditions were idolized and nobody could ever defy the rules set up by my late Grandfather who had migrated to the European country I lived in. I must admit that the old man was impressive on the black and white picture of him we had in our living room: a moustache that was curved at the ends of his tightly pressed lips, a pointed nose that refined his figures to that of a dictator and piercing eyes that followed you around and x-rayed you to your conscience. If you stared too long at Dadaji, you would either want to confess all the bad and the dirty you did in your life or chuckle nervously, wondering how he would be like alive.

I, Meera was similar to my aunty Nil ,wild and adventurous being my true self but tame, neat and molded by the family rules ,to the eyes of my family. Accepting to get married was just a hasty decision taken when I had seen the tall, slim and handsome guy (my Father's old friend's son) coming to my house getting out of that awesome black mini Cooper carrying a red velvety jewellery box that I later discovered ,contained a lovely 24 karat gold and ruby set. To me this proposal rhymed with wealth and happiness; don't go thinking that I am a wealth-thirsty chap who dreams about swimming in money and having a platininum bank card! I was myself born in a family where wealth was sitting on our couch and watching TV. As I grew old enough to get married (which was 21 years mind you!) I silently wondered if I would ever be happy with a guy if he had no money! Love, to me, sounded like the Bermuda triangle: an abyss of dangers which disrupted any stability and which drowned away balance to deep, buried and unknown waters.

Temptation took over me and I played along the rules and traditions of the family.

Then came aunty Nil who came and shook some untame sense into me and convinced me that I was a complete goldfish to take this wedding so lightly.

"Go see the world on your own," she said while tossing me a wad of money. Adrenaline coursed through me as I threw basic necessities in my backpack and hurried to put on my most comfortable trousers under my traditional skirt.

I clumsily slid off the tiled roof of my house, hung to the white plastic pipes and plopped down heavily on the carefully mowed British lawn, my Father's chef d'oeuvre.I took off my overly sequined skirt to reveal my sleek black trousers that hung to my legs like a second skin. I hastily untied my chiming ankle bracelets and unveiled my straight black hair that was currently tied in a wise-young-woman bun.

(10.04.2013)