The Runaway (from) Bride .. and Family pride!

By show of hands, how many Indians in their 20s, living with their parents, get dragged at least twice a year to weddings of people they never have seen or heard of in their conscious memory, but their parents are inexplicably linked to?

I describe the link as "inexplicable" because unarmed with my mock-test training for the logical reasoning section of the law school entrance exams I took six years ago (which insisted the test-taker identify their direct relationship with the hypothetical aunt of an uncle's sister who is the mother of their dad's nephew's wife's brother), I would've been awfully ill-equipped at deciphering my genetic or more-based link to the hosts of the evening.

This morning I stomped my final and irrevocable rejection of one such wedding invitation (Farman, instead of "invitation" would be a more accurate term here, actually) for this evening, upon my mother.

Show of hands again, how many Indians in their 20s, and teens, and 40s, and 30s and 80s, and any age apart from the single digits basically (in which period the docile young Indian is "pleasing" and "compliant"), regularly play negative protagonists in the staged performances of the drama queen that is their mother?

The invitation arrived two weeks ago. Dressed á la mode in the most in-vogue dazzling golden envelope, bejeweled with.. well what seemed like precious jewels, and accompanied by what I trust to be at least a kilogram of almonds, in a similarly bejeweled box. Each such invitation costs around Rs 700, I learned elsewhere.

It was the wedding of the daughter of my mother's cousin. This cousin last chit-chatted with mum presumably at mum's own wedding-reception, way back in 1987, in the slick ritual of being on and off the stage showcasing the betrothed, in the perfectly timed span of 165 seconds. These 165 seconds include introductions, handing over wedding gift/gift-envelope, getting clicked with the betrothed, and confirming to the hosts that dinner along with dessert has been had.

The invitation was received at my grandmother's since the hosts could afford only so much trips to one part of the town, and understandably so, given the list of 25 lakh (Kidding, there would have been only 25000 ... ummm or a similar figure!) invitees they had to cover in a week. I talk of affordability time-wise ofcourse! Who's talking about car-fuel, and physical energy.. hello 25 lakh invites at 700/- per person!!

My mother had launched into her aggressive bargaining initiative for me to accompany my folks to this wedding, from a week ago. Initially she alternated between lighter arguments about it being a celebrity wedding, and it being an opportunity to try on a frivolous new ethnic-suit purchase while learning in advance about wedding arrangements (If you think THAT'S ridiculous - My "marriagiable" cousin gets a "Why would they come to yours if you don't attend theirs" blurb for the many many weddings she'd rather skip accompanying her parents to, these days!!)

End of the week mum moved on to pithier contentions about family solidarity, balancing selfishness with social duties and finally, this morning, the trump card of them all - emotional blackmail! I was allegedly too self-absorbed to meet the humane requirement of unconditionally subscribing to the few subscriptions my parents impose on me.

I did not relent. I suspect my mother was more troubled at the end of an era, than at my disregard. An era where she vetoed as far as my choice of outfit for these events. If I may borrow some of morning's drama flavor to put this straight - this was the death knell to the part of our lives in which she had quite fondly shaped mine. It was not, really, but overtly seemed so.

The reason why I so adamantly stood by my so-called brutish selfish stand was that my aversion to the idea of such invitations, at every level - be it physical or by-principle - overcame a gnawing urge to be considerate and let my kind mother revel in her triumph at what must seem to her as keeping the family bond.

I couldn't bear the thought of going through another evening of whittling down post-office hours being snail-mailed (read: Navigating Delhi Ring Road and BRT in peak evening hours) to a ceremony which makes up for the only time I see the hosts in my life, and what for - so that my mother's immediate family doesn't badger her with opinions on full-family attendance at events of such importance!

I do like meeting new people and possibly engage them in an interesting conversation, but that remote possibility has a success rating of one per cent in these affairs where most others come reeling under similar family-pressure as illustrated above, and dart for the food and drink more than anything else.

Some of my entertaining cousins I don't mind catching up with were also not going to be in attendance. The duller ones would!

End result, the evening looks like this: You wrap up office, spend 20 minutes dressing up, an hour travelling, two hours of cornering a table and gazing into eternity or at parts of the wedding that seem like eternity (interrupted by delicious hors d'eouvers ofcourse), and an hour of travelling back home. Come back and bunk onto bed.

I am a 23 year old woman attempting a shot at making it to the life I always wanted to live, and so my evenings look this: After wrapping up office work, I enjoy some my-time at the gym, then spend my-time on extensions of things I have recently learned to love doing professionally. I wrap this up with curling up with my-kinda pleasure reads or pleasure writing, and hit the sack.

I would not paraphrase all my "my"s above, with a more politically correct, so to speak, expression because I revel in my rightful self-obsession. To quote liberally from dogmas - One will be incapable of loving others in their life without learning to love themselves enough.

I would also note that my own wedding would involve none of the traditional fanfare that I have witnessed over years and years of growing up in the family. Any mother's cousin who couldn't spot my dad from among a group of strangers at a family funeral, but invites the full family to her daughter's wedding a week later, would have no business attending :P

Most of all I resent having to take my decisions under the pressure of opinions of uncles who after 101 million polite discourses still don't get why I love doing what I do to earn my livelihood, and urge me to change my professional choices.

Why do I not take this self-obsession outside, to where I pay my own rent? Because I am the kind of person who loves coming home to someone you call your own. At the risk of sounding overbearing, a live-in friend or housemate, no matter how pleasant and lovely, is not someone I can really call my own.

The number of people one sheds all masks and outfits are countable on the fingers of one hand. I love cuddling with mum after office, sharing jokes with dad and yelling at my brother. I would love someday to make a home with a husband. You can never have enough of grandma's pampering and a friend I have outgrown my childhood jeans with, is also palpable. These are the people I call my own, and these are the only people who can justifiably claim to know who I am.

I wish to share a home with them, instead of coming back to a mere house, because life is too short to spend living away from your loved ones. I am also ready to bear the costs of such home-sharing in the form of catering to unreasonable whims of these people.

Bring it on, on the weekends but!

I just can't bring myself to tow the line of subscriptions... And more importantly I can't spend an excruciating evening fulfilling the social duty of witnessing random Delhi weddings :P

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