Flipping through the paper once more, and Mum’s got that look, you know? Her eyes—sharp, scanning those matrimonial ads with that laser focus she gets. Will today be the day? The day I meet ‘The One’—the guy who just, I dunno, gets me, who’ll wrap me up in care and all that understanding stuff. Here I am, nursing my coffee, bitter and hot, and oh my gosh, I can already hear the clink of bangles, taste the sugary wedding sweets, feel the weight of someone’s gaze, someone who’s, like, meant to be mine, and I his.

I kinda shuffle over to join in on the matrimonial quest, with Mum and Dad both deep in discussion. Inhale, exhale, Mansa. The page is just a blur of castes, qualifications, careers, skin colours, assets, and sky-high expectations, but there he is, in my mind’s eye anyway. He’s like a dream—tall enough to be my personal Everest, with that hero’s jawline, and a wallet that’s more stuffed than our Diwali karanjis. Our eyes lock, even if it’s just my wild imagination getting the better of me.

“So, Mansa, what do you want to do with your life?” I can almost hear him ask. I’d’ve this super cool, confident answer ready to go, but honestly? I’m just... floating here, like a lost ship adrift in a stormy sea of careers and homemaking debates. I mean, why’s it so wrong to wanna create a home, to make that my life’s work? But try pitching that in today’s hustle-bustle, go-getter world.

Am I kidding myself here? I mean, probably. But hey, a girl can dream, right? What does marriage really mean to me, and heck, what do I even have to offer in this whole... bargain? I’ve got to figure this out, gotta get my story straight, you know?

The coffee’s cold now, the paper’s just a smudge of ink and crazy expectations, and here I am, Mansa, trying to piece together my own jumbled mosaic of hopes and fears. What’s my take on this ancient ritual we call marriage? I need to, like, grasp that clarity, make it mine, before I’m just another lost face in someone else’s picture-perfect idea of a bride.

~*~

Marriage, it’s like a glossy magazine cover, isn’t it? All smiles, sunset strolls, and dances in the rain. That’s the dream they sell, and I’m buying—no, I’ve bought it, every shiny, happy page. But those other bits, the snoring, the sick days, the silent meals where we’ve run outta things to say, or the bank account that seems more echo than substance—nah, I can’t, I just won’t dwell on that, you know?

Daddy’s girl—that’s me. Always was. Never in need, not with Dad around. A sniffle, a cough, and bam! he was there, worry creasing his brow. Marriage? It’s just a changing of the guard, isn’t it? One protector for another. No need for me to learn those ropes, to stand on my own two feet. Too much effort, too much reality. Let him step in, fill those shoes.

And men, they’ve gotta pursue, don’t they? A glance, a gift, a promise—it’s validation, walking up to me, confirming I’m worth the effort. If they don’t, it’s like a mirror suddenly gone foggy. Where am I in it? Try harder, dress up, laugh louder—whatever it takes to catch that look again, to feel the weight of their gaze like a crown.

I know it’s selfish. There’s a voice, sometimes, in the back of my head, hinting that maybe, just maybe, I’ve got it all wrong. That maybe worth isn’t a prize to be won, or a game where the highest bidder takes home the trophy. But that voice is quiet, easy to drown out with the next compliment, the next pursuit.

Well, let them come, these guys with their promises, ready to play the roles I’ve set out for them. Ready to keep me wrapped in the fluffy cotton wool I’m used to, away from the rough edges of life. That’s the way forward. That’s the only way I’ll have it, isn’t it?

Love, that messy tangle of emotions and vulnerability, it’s like jumping off a ledge blindfolded, isn’t it? Leave my cocoon, my castle of comfort, for what? For butterflies in the stomach, for late-night texts and early-morning doubts? Nah, that’s for the fairy-tales, the films where they don’t show the aftermath, the tears, the second-guessing. It’s all a gamble, and I’ve never been one for rolling the dice with my heart.

Why bother with heartaches, with the pain of rejection, with building myself up from scratch? Why become strong when I can stay safe? Self-esteem, it’s a see-saw, comes and goes like the tide, but why ride the waves when I can stay on shore? Certainty, that’s my motto. Why approach, why risk rejection when there’s a surer path laid out by tradition, by family?

Dad’s got it covered, doesn’t he? He’s got the checklist—bank balance, social rank, top-notch career, the full dossier on Mr Right. That’s the ticket, a smooth transition, one gilded room to the next. Marriage, it’s just an upgrade, right? Bigger house, shinier car, a husband pre-approved, stamped, and delivered.

And if it turns sour, if the walls start to close in, it’s not just me against him, it’s family, a whole team ready to jump in, smooth out the wrinkles. There’s comfort in that, in knowing you’re not just a party of two but a battalion.

Plain Jane, that’s what the mirror tells me, but what does that matter when there’s an alliance to forge, contracts to be signed? It’s not about fluttering lashes but aligning stars, checking horoscopes. Compatibility, stability, these are my watchwords, my guardians against the unknown.

And love? It can bloom later, can’t it? After the ‘Seven Steps,’ in the shared space of ‘yours’ and ‘mine.’ It’s a plant that needs tending, sure, but it can grow from the most pragmatic of soils. So tell my Mum and everyone else I’ve known.

Divorce, that shadow lurking in the corner of every married couple’s room—it’s not for me. I can’t have that blemish, that mark of failure. No, gimme the safety of the arranged, the mapped-out life. Let excitement come gently, let thrill be a quiet surprise as I learn the contours of this life chosen for me. That’s the plan, the only one I’ll allow. Smooth sailing, no storms on the horizon, just a steady course into the sunset. That’s how it should be. That’s how it’ll be, no doubt about it.

The dowry, oh there’ll be one, a huge one, isn’t it? That’s the way things work, keeping society’s eyebrows raised just right, not dipping with pity or disdain, thinking I’ve settled for less. And dear brother, oh dear brother, flesh of flesh, who might swoop in and claim it all, leaving me with empty hands—can’t have that, no way. So, I bring my share, my shield against the world’s and the family’s greed.

But then, there’s him, the soon-to-be hubby. His role is cut out for him—the provider, the sustainer, the rock. My money? My dowry, it’s all mine, will stay mine, forever. That’s my business, my little fortress of independence. His money? Well, that’s for the both of us, isn’t it? If he so much as hints that I should pour my funds into the family pot, well, that’s just admitting defeat, right? A failure, a man without pride or success.

Housework, the chores, now that’s supposed to be a shared affair, fair’s fair. But let’s not forget, he’s meant to wrap me in comfort, in luxury. It’s not just about love and shared dreams—it’s the tangible, the concrete—a detached house in Banjara Hills, or a spacious flat in Financial District, the gleam of a car parked below, the hum of the latest appliances, and a bank balance that exudes security. That’s the checklist, the bare minimum before we even talk about the ‘Seven Steps.’

What’s love gotta do with it, if you’re sweating in the summer heat without AC, or scrimping to make ends meet? Love’s not gonna stock the fridge or turn the engine of that car he’s supposed to have. He should walk through life unburdened by kin, no elderly parents to tend to or siblings to sponsor, free to channel all his resources my way, the children’s way when they come. It’s the Indian way, right? The man provides, the woman flourishes—a delicate flower in a well-tended garden. No, I’m not about to settle, to bend. I’m looking for that full package, the dream that’s been planted in my head since I was a little girl twirling in a pretend wedding lehenga.

He should be older, but not by much, just enough to have carved out a niche for himself, a space in this world complete with the trappings of stability—a cushy job, a charming home, a sleek car. Wait…the salary? It should mirror his ambition, his place in the world—a six-figure sum that hints at fine dining at posh restaurants and weekend getaways. And these details matter, don’t they? They’re the basics, the bare minimum.

Handsome, that’s the next tick on the list, isn’t it? A physique chiseled and ready for display. Let my friends gaze with envy, let them see the prize I’ve claimed. Can’t have a life tied to a face that doesn’t quicken the pulse. No shadows in our children’s complexions, no. They should be like him, light, bright as the future I’ve mapped out. The girl a stunner, the boy a Greek hero.

But beneath the surface, he must be a kaleidoscope of virtues. Intelligence, stability, respect—one moment serious, the next brimming with laughter. How inefficient it’d be otherwise, to not switch in a second from one role to the next? He must be a protector, a cheerleader, a pillar—a man of substance and shadow, capable of holding the world at bay with one hand and drawing me close with the other.

Contradictions? He must make them dance in harmony. For what is life if not a complex symphony, each note carefully placed to swell into a crescendo of affection, commitment, respect? This is the man I seek, the partner I demand—a paragon of perfection in an imperfect world.

But don’t misunderstand, my freedom isn’t up for negotiation. It’s mine, a jewel in my crown, while his is earned, subject to scrutiny. After all, isn’t his liberty the fruit of male privilege? Mine is the right of birth.

And so I wait, with my dowry, my list, my expectations. I wait for Mr Right—the real deal, not just a heart full of promises but hands full of proof. Only then will I step forward, only then.

~*~

So there’s Siddharth, Mr Got-It-All, coming to see me, standing there with his checklist of practical perks and shiny prospects. His eyes find mine, and he’s asking about what I like, what makes me tick. My brain’s doing somersaults, trying not to sound like the plain vanilla girl-next-door, when he flashes that smile, all warm and no rush. It’s like he’s handed me an all-you-can-breathe pass, and suddenly I’m not drowning in expectations anymore.

They’re nibbling on the snacks, but it’s the talk that’s really filling me up. He’s into engineering, making things that’ll last, like he’s got his hands in the very clay of progress. And here I am, teetering on the edge of my seat, thinking, could this guy actually get it? Get me?

It’s almost spooky, like he’s got a direct line to the jumble in my head, asking me what’s the real deal for me, what’s my endgame in life. The room’s all ears, even the walls are leaning closer, but out it doesn’t come—my heart’s wish list, to become his woman.

~*~

Siddharth, my Siddharth, he’s gotta be the living version of my dreams, you know? Not just some guy, but a statue chiselled from the marble of my wildest expectations. He should stand strong, like an Adonis with the heart of a poet, eyes only for me, a steady hand to hold—but, oh, let those hands be rough with the toils of a man’s world.

I need him to be the echo of my laughter, the shadow to my light, always there, with this unspoken understanding passing between us like it’s the most precious secret. Sid, he’s gotta ‘see’ me, really see me—the delicate curve of my efforts to stay as blossoming as the day we met, the subtle art of my beauty, a silent language only he gets. And when my lips part, not always to seek counsel but to, I dunno, just breathe a thought into existence, he should be the silent shore to my gentle waves, absorbing, understanding, right?

And yet, in that intuitive space where a woman’s wisdom lies, I expect him to tread softly. He’s gotta recognize the sacred in what I can’t quite put into words, to listen—truly listen—not with the intent to respond but to understand, to let my instincts be a guide, not dismissed but cherished.

Independence, that double-edged sword I wield so proudly, yet, darn, it cuts when I’m viewed as less, as needing guidance like a child. I want space, a whole galaxy of it, but within his orbit, always. Arguments, those tempestuous waves—I wanna ride them, knowing that the shore is us, unchanging, and after the storm, his arms, the harbour, his words, the balm.

Perfection, it’s this elusive mirage, and yet I fix my gaze upon Siddharth to reach for it, to be the man on the pedestal of my making. His triumphs, they’re a shared reflection, a mirrored glory of my silent contribution. His failures, those are solely his own, a shadow I choose not to stand within.

Birthdays, anniversaries, those dates etched in the calendar of my heart, he just has to remember. It’s a proof of his devotion amidst the chaos of his world. They say to err is human, but in my temple of expectations, Siddharth must be the demigod, always striding towards the pinnacle of my dreams, the roses without thorns, a garden tended with the precision of my desires, blooming in perpetual spring—enacting the narrative I’ve spun, where he is both the hero and the one being saved, all in one breath, in the ceaseless stream of my consciousness.

Ownership, such an archaic concept, yet Siddharth mustn’t dare to cloak me with it post matrimony—it’s unthinkable, it’s preposterous. My world, my rules, an unspoken mantra he oughta inscribe upon the slate of his heart, ‘cause my correctness isn’t a streak but a continuum, my behaviour not just exemplary but the exemplar. He should, must, will adjust, like the moon to the tides, his orbit decided by the gravity of my ways. He’ll learn, won’t he, to let my judgment be his North Star? Morality, society, they’ll din my name in his ear, and he’ll listen—he must.

And his gaze, chained to mine, his desires, a fortress guarded by the sentry of my independence. How could he not? Attraction to others is a mere rustle against the tempest of our union. Work, that siren, it just won’t sing its song within our walls—his career, a distant thunder against the closeness of our hearth.

His time, it’s a gift he’ll wrap daily, hourly, presented to none but me. Dowry, that term’s erased from his lexicon, while his wealth, his future, his all, willingly placed at my feet—for our progeny, for our castle. His habits, sculpted to perfection, a non-smoking, teetotalling social maestro for the world to envy, for me to cherish.

In this trade of love and duty, my sexuality—a gem, rare and precious—is his reward, his treasure. Let him see it, feel it, know it as the pinnacle of our exchange. And should my words weave webs to ensnare, let it be known, it’s for our good, for his betterment. The world, our world, will shrink to the size of our embrace, friends and freedom, those thieves of time, banished from our realm.

But should he stray, should his resolve waver under the weight of my desires, each word I utter will become a dagger, a gauntlet thrown. My irritation, it’ll be a cloak of thorns we both shall wear. Manipulation, comparison, belittlement—these are tools I shall not fear to wield, ‘cause my wishes aren’t whispers but roars that must be heeded. His independence, a myth, as he becomes one with my shadow, our dance a ballet of my design.

~*~

Tick-tock, tick-tock, the clock keeps on ticking, the steady beat leading up to what’s coming, the dream wedding I’ve painted in my mind when I’m alone. And here I am, Mansa, decked out in the dreams spun from the depths of my soul, the vision I’ve carefully put together piece by piece.

The days ahead, they’re like a patchwork quilt of thrills and nerves, a wild ride where excitement and worries do a little dance in my chest. I tune into Sid’s voice on the phone, the tune of his words promising a symphony, but is it the opening act or just a pretty fantasy? Can he—will he—make those notes come alive?

Shopping with Aunt Sumitra, the busy bazaar in Abids a blast of colours, and yet, amidst the chit-chat and the clinking bangles, a hint of doubt weaves like a spider through the silky fabric in my hands. “Can I handle it?” I murmur under my breath, “The weight of love, of a shared life, of little ones tugging at these very saris?” Aunt Sumi, always my guiding light, pauses, her hands squeezing mine warmly, her eyes locking onto the storm in mine. “Life, beta, is an ocean of moments, a gazillion choices. Love builds strong sails—trust, effort, and a touch of magic. With these,” she says, her voice gentle yet firm, “your marriage, your life, will set sail on an amazing voyage,” and her words become the anchor I didn’t know I needed.

And then, the big day arrives, the baraat showing up like a drumroll at the doorstep of my new life. My eyes—they look for Siddharth, spot him across the room, a bright light in the sea of faces. In that glance, all the shadows of worry fade away, fears scatter, and the ‘us’ we could be feels so close I can almost touch it. His gaze, it’s like Diwali in his eyes, full of excitement and promises, and they’re all for me. Our eyes meet, a knowing look, and a calm settles into my soul, a peace that quietly confirms, “Yeah, this is the path.” I’m ready, oh so ready, to start this adventure, hand in hand, breath by breath, with Siddharth, my partner, my heartbeat, my chosen one.

~*~

Siddharth, my dear hubby, my own Sid—yeah, the poster boy for, you know, total devotion. He’s there, always there, like that time I had Covid, not ‘cause his heart’s all aflutter or anything, but ‘cause, well, he’s gotta be. When we’re together, there’s this invisible shield thingy, not made of love or whatever, but of his rock-solid sense of gotta-do-right-by-me. He makes sure I’m comfy, turns on the AC, draws the curtains, tosses over blankets, offers his jacket—not ‘cause we’re some cheesy couple being all lovey-dovey, but ‘cause it’s like, part of the whole husband gig, right? He’s got a proper handle on what I want, what I need, and it’s not ‘cause we’re joined at the hip, you know? It’s more like he’s the watchful guard ticking off boxes on his to-do list. It’s his mission or something, a checklist he’s gotta tick off, super precise, making sure he doesn’t, you know, let me down on his hubby duties. And when I’m feeling low, he’s not cuddling me to quell the dark mood—nope, he’s there, all stoic, like a soldier in the trenches of my funk, armed with jokes and shiny things to distract me—not to hold dear, but to, uh, lift my spirits. And when I’m all worked up, pouring out what’s eating at me, he’s not about to wrap me up in a big old hug that says, “We’re in this together.” Uh-uh, he’s more like jotting down mental notes, getting his game plan on, figuring stuff out—throwing himself into fix-it mode, not ‘cause he feels what I feel, but ‘cause his rulebook for being Mr Right says he’s gotta smooth out any ripples. He’s on it, seriously on it, not ‘cause he’s caught up in the feels or anything, but ‘cause his sense of pride, his whole identity as Mr Husband Man, is all caught up in this idea of doing the right thing, patching things up, and setting our little world to rights, at least the bit that’s ours behind our front door.

Living with the in-laws? No, no, no. A thousand times no, it’s like there’s a voice, their voice, always buzzing, judging, telling me the how-tos and the what-nots of my own life. Their eyes on me, I can feel it, like I’m a thing, not a person. I can’t handle the idea of being treated like a baby-making machine if I might be pregnant. No way, not just a vessel, I have a name, a self. And Sid, oh Sid, it’s gotta be our little world, our rules, not theirs. Can’t have them carving him into what they want, it’s got to be us, our space, our love needing room to breathe.

Comfy clothes, give me those shorts, it’s like my skin needs to breathe, but they see it, the in-laws, and I can hear them, their disapproval like a heavy coat. A sin, they say, and I can feel that weight, but no, I need to be free, to be me. And Sid, bless him, he gets it, he sees me, really sees me. So he makes it work, his folks, they’re not around, and there’s peace, his silent promise to me, our life depending on it.

Rituals, traditions, it’s like they’re in the air I breathe, and I do them, play my part, but belief? It’s not quite there. It’s a dance, a show, to keep my place, to remind Sid, to keep him close to the ground, our ground. It’s like I’m weaving my importance into his life, with every chant, every lamp I light, it’s for me, for us and the kids we might have some day.

Work, a job? Nah, can’t do it, won’t do it. Not in a million years! Got the degree, the convent-schooling, the RP English accent—could land a decent job. But just the thought of nine-to-five feels like it’d suck life out of me. The heat, the dust, the endless stress, I can almost feel the years peeling away from me. Nah, I won’t let it happen. My life’s too precious, and Sid, he’s got enough, enough for all of us. I’ll stay, I’ll enjoy, and he’ll be out there, you know? It’s like his strength feeds into my leisure, it’s how it’s supposed to be.

Sid, he’s the centre, my anchor, he brings it all home. A roof, the car, the shine of new, and the promises of places we’ll see. It’s like he knows, he has to, it’s his name, his role. If he doesn’t, it’s like he’s saying I’m worth less. Like he’s saying he’s less of a man. He’s the provider, it’s his script to follow.

Doing chores isn’t really my thing. Machines buzzing, maids around, servants at hand—and it all gets done without me lifting a finger. So I have time, endless time, to be, to see friends, to live. It’s like holding a gem, this life, and I won’t let it go.

Mum, she’s my confiding corner, every little secret, every piece of my married life, it pours into her. It’s like a warm blanket, her words, her presence, but yeah, it comes with a cost. Sid, he doesn’t know, and it’s like I’m trading his secrets for my comfort. If she thinks less of him, it’s a price, and I pay it, for my peace.

Fights, they crack the air, and I drag my family in. It’s like their voices matter more than the silence between Sid and me. It’s my safety net, while he, he’s out there, on his own, his Amma and Nanna just shadows, fuming, fretting and cursing the day he was born.

And the properties, the things we own, they’re mine, all in my name. It’s like a shield, for the future. Sid’s love, it’s written in land and brick. I can show them off, flash them around to my mates, my whole family. It’s a sign of how we’ve made it, how well we’re doing.

Sid, he’s the journey, my steady, his shield, it’s all around me. And I hold tight to it, my beliefs, my sense of me, in this whirlpool of marriage, I am still me, with every step, every breath.

~*~

Intimacy, it’s like a tricky tango of emotions and power dynamics, you know? The ups and downs of anger towards Sid, sometimes they’re all unsaid. But he, he somehow gets it, even when I don’t vocalise the turmoil within. And when he doesn’t, oh, the passive-aggressive games I play. Stonewalling, the silent treatment, procrastination, sulking, avoidance, non-compliance. It’s like a tune of sly tactics to bend him to my will, to make him see things my way, no matter how irrational they may seem.

Sex, it’s a weapon in my arsenal, a means of control. If Sid dares to oppose me, to resist my desires, I don’t hesitate to withhold it. Excuses just roll off my tongue, a well-rehearsed repertoire. “I’m dead tired,” “Just not in the mood,” “I’ve got a headache.” The choices he faces are stark. Bend to my whims or suffer the torment of sex-privation. I make it clear, oh so clear, that any attempt to force me would cross the line into domestic violence.

Objectification, it’s a weird waltz. I reject being treated as a mere object, yet I hold my body as a prize jewel. A currency to be invested in, nurtured, preserved. Beauty becomes armour, a shield against the threat of infidelity, a fragile sense of security. I tend to its needs, fearing the consequences of neglecting it.

Sex is not just for pleasure, not just for that deep, thrilling connection, but something more practical, a means for life to flourish. It’s the main event, but when kids come onto the scene, it fades, slowly but surely, like some old tune you can’t quite recall. Its meaning morphs—like reaching for something that’s always pulling away, no spark, no fire when fingers brush skin ‘cause love, is it there? Has it ever been? That first flush, that heat, where does it run off to? It just goes up in smoke. And Sid, my dear, he has to brace himself for this, has to grasp it. To demand sex as a husband’s right, how antiquated, how utterly absurd! The tides, they’re not what they used to be—they’ve turned, they’ve changed. Proper shifting currents, that is!

~*~

Five years, yes, five whole years of “When?” and “Soon?” the questions that just hover like moths around a flame, and here we are, still just the two of us—where are the kids that should be? Eyes, so many eyes with their silent prodding, and I swear, I can almost hear them, even when they don’t speak, their curiosity’s like a palpable thing. Sid, my Sid, his mind ever tangled in the webs of his work, he doesn’t see, or maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t feel the weight of their stares, the weight I carry, day in, day out, a weight that’s supposed to swell with life but doesn’t.

Tests, why won’t he just take the tests? I prod, I poke, I insist—’cause it can’t be me, it’s not possible, not with the clockwork precision of my body, my cycle, a metronome of potential motherhood, unfulfilled. Aunt Sumi with her old-fashioned notions, “It’s usually the woman,” but no, not this woman. I’m the epitome of health, of fertility, my body isn’t the one at fault.

And then Sid, reluctantly, he does them, the tests, diagnosis—azoospermia, a word that’s cold and clinical, a word that cuts right into our marriage, into my vision of the future. Betrayal? No, it can’t be, not when he didn’t know—but still, the betrayal sits there, festers. My Mum and Dad, their indignation on my behalf, their daughter wronged, shortchanged. Sid’s solutions are like sticking plasters over a gushing wound—donor conception, adoption—no, they won’t do. Well, if he can’t give me kids, if he can’t fill this void, then he’s no man, of no use. Then what’s left? Split up? Divorce looms, a spectre at our table, and he’ll have to agree, won’t he?

Aunt Sumi’s voice, it’s a drone against the tempest of my thoughts, talking of childless contentment, of India’s overpopulation, but what does that matter to me, to my empty arms, my yearning? Flip the script—what if it were me? No, it’s impossible, inconceivable, ‘cause it’s not, couldn’t be me—I was born perfect. And even if, in some twisted alternate reality, it were, Sid couldn’t, society wouldn’t let him leave me, the laws wouldn’t let him leave, they’d brand him a beast for abandoning a barren wife.

So no, there’s no fault in me, no question to be asked of my body or my mind. I’m as I always was—flawless, blameless, and planning the next move.

~*~

Divorce—a stark, final slap, the word bounces around in my head, echoes in the mind’s hollows... ‘Not so simple,’ Mum’s scratchy voice, it’s like a nagging itch, can’t just drop him ‘cause he can’t make babies—there’s gotta be more, something serious, something to really crush. The lawyer, oh, that lawyer, a serpent with a honeyed hiss, selling emancipation, wrapping slick assurances around my thoughts, dangling rights and protections, the forbidden fruits of freedom just within my desperate grasp, you know?

Toss out the guilt, just shrug it off, like peeling away a ratty, burdensome sweater, and scribble down, down, down the venomous complaints. Watch Siddharth, my once everything, crumple, crumble behind cold bars. The tears, oh, why the tears Siddharth? For the empty cradle or the jaws of my trap snapping shut? His wealth, his dreams, all for my taking, the dowry’s a pittance next to the alimony’s heavy toll—a pound of flesh, a sliver of his forlorn soul for all my silent tears.

The storm inside churns, twirls, a drunken spin of power—these laws, my avengers, my sweet deliverance. The satisfaction’s a bitter taste, a sweet sting, as I watch him break, a man dismantled, now just a hollow husk, and there’s a thought, a maybe, just maybe, he’ll see that his withered life next to me, was mercy, a kindness compared to the gaping abyss I’ve flung him towards.

His money, his house, his once-upon-a-dreams, I’ll seize them as my spoils of war. In this twisted, wicked game, I win it all. But in the quiet, amid the spoils, I catch my breath, and there’s a wondering, a subdued suggestion—could this win be a veiled loss, a pyrrhic victory where the cost of winning is losing what was never truly gained?

~*~

Sitting here, they say I’m free? Free from what—Siddharth, the marriage, or the dream of what could’ve been? It’s all a daze, a jumble in my head, a tangle of what-ifs and what-nots. Marriage, the bloody high cost of it, the ledger in my mind’s eye, it’s all there in black and white, a cost-benefit analysis of a union that was more a transaction than a tale of love. Was it ever love? Nah, it was a business deal, to begin with, and to end with, a cold, calculated merger of assets and surnames, devoid of the warmth of affection.

Five years, a drop in the bucket, yet it feels like a lifetime of transactions, devoid of love, devoid of life. And the kids that never were, the empty space where their laughter should’ve filled the air, Siddharth’s fault, the contract broken. He pays, they say, and I’m compensated. But what of love? If love had been the cornerstone, the absence of kids might’ve been just a footnote, not the headline. Love, that all-consuming force, would’ve seen us through, but there was no love, just a business deal masquerading as a marriage, a social contract with no substance, destined to crumble.

Who’s to blame for this tangle, this mess? Is it me? My parents, or Siddharth? It’s all of us, a collective trainwreck. They matched horoscopes, stars and planets in harmony, but minds? Ha! They were bliming miles apart, speaking different languages, living in different worlds. Love, that elusive creature, never even entered the conversation, not at the start, not ever. It was all taken as a given, that by some divine right I’d be happy with this stranger, that kids would just appear like magic, laughter and life brimming over. But the dream was a farce. The pieces, they never fit, like a child’s puzzle all forced and wrong. No chemistry, just two bodies orbiting in shared space, never touching, never igniting. And everything else stayed the same, more of the same, unchanging, static. And here I am, left with the echo of what could’ve been but never was.

Walking away now, not feeling like damaged goods or an emotional wreck. It’s more like ditching a bad deal, a total flop. Richer, they say, in bank notes and experience. Smarter too, my trust harder to earn, my future dealings—another marriage, sure—will be on my terms, my conditions. I’ll be the one in control, eyes wide open, heart perhaps a touch more guarded. Mum and Dad, ever the matchmakers, no doubt they’re already scouting out a better deal. But this time, I’ll drive a hard bargain. This time, it’s my turn to profit.

~*~

A Note from the Author

“Marriage Musings” and “Man and Marriage” are companion pieces, the latter responding to the former. “Marriage Musings” is written using the stream-of-consciousness technique, practised and perfected by such literary greats as James Joyce, Virginia Woolf, William Faulkner, and Dorothy Richardson. Consequently, the inner workings of the central character, Mansa, are intensely focused on, giving readers a deep insight into her mind.