Summer of 1984, Hyderabad, India

By Uma Girish

“Tell us, how did your wedding night go?”

The girls swarmed around newly-wed Nazneen, giggling and nudging, eyes aglow with curiosity.

“Was he gentle?”

“Did it hurt?”

“Did you … you know … go all the way?”

Groups of first and second years crisscrossed the college corridors, laughter and loud conversation creating a pleasant din during lunch break. The girls were in a huddle, eager to savor every last detail of Nazneen’s virgin-to-wife graduation.

My ears too were ravenous for every juicy detail, but a sense of privacy, perhaps dignity, held me back. Nazneen was my best friend but there were boundaries one didn’t cross, not even in the name of friendship.

I watched a faint pink blush creep up Nazneen’s creamy skin. Her shy, brown kohl-laden eyes flitted from one inquisitive face to the next. She stuffed her ocean-green chiffon dupatta into her mouth and smothered the giggles embarrassedly.

Nazneen (who is 19) and I were second year students. The one extra qualification she now had was, she was a week-old wife. All her life she had been raised to set her sights on making some man a good wife. The day you become a beautiful bride will be the most important day of your life, she was told.

“Don’t you want more out of life?” I asked her, as we sat munching roasted peanuts in the college canteen.

“What more can one want other than a good husband?” she countered.

Only six months ago she had rushed up to me clutching a photograph of the man her parents had chosen for her. A 5cm X 7cm photo that showed plump cheeks, dark greasy hair, pale skin, and long eyes framed by square glasses.

And now, here she was, coy and struggling to tell the tale of losing her virginity to the first man in her life, her husband.

I remember the day Nazneen first waved Salim’s picture under my nose.

“Do you know this guy?” I asked.

“He lives in Dubai. My parents tell me he’s tall,” she said.

My heart missed a beat.

“Have you spoken to him?”

“Not yet. I will, when he calls. But we’ll only see each other on our wedding day. It’s our tradition,” she’d said, as if it hardly mattered, eyes caressing and fingers fondly tracing the edges of the photo.

I could hardly believe what I’d heard. Some corner of my logical brain warned me that the Harlequin Romance man was a myth. But I still needed to know what books my man read, the music he listened to, and what he felt in the space inside when he saw a beggar on the street.

At 19, Nazneen knew as much about men and sex as I did about life on Jupiter. And yet, she seemed unconcerned about dumping her education to link her destiny with a complete stranger. When she flipped the pages of an economics textbook before mid-term exams I could tell she was going through the motions. All the while she allowed herself to be programmed by her family.

She would marry a man she’d see just minutes before the wedding ceremony, relocate to Dubai, and morph into a willing, obedient wife, producing meals and babies for the rest of her life. My heart rebelled at the very idea, but Nazneen was as cool as the soft pastel chiffons she wore.

Was she even thinking about how she might feel when his hands started to walk all over her skin? When he peeled off her blouse and panted at the sight of her pale breasts? What if she didn’t enjoy sex with him? There would be no turning back. It would be a life sentence in the bedroom.

Over the next months I watched her excitement build to fever pitch. During break she would search me out, bright-eyed and heady with love, her eyes wandering dreamy, and whisper that Salim had called or sent her a gift. She was beginning to fall in love with the idea of being in love. Unfortunately it was the only way a Muslim girl from a conservative background who was expected to marry in the traditional manner could introduce romance into her life.

I watched as she fueled her long-distance romance with photographs, letters and conversations. In the pictures she showed me, Salim leaned against a Subaru, generous midriff spilling out of his trousers, his eyes grey and expressionless.

Dubai, to a starry-eyed 19-year-old, must have seemed like a piece of paradise. The dream vision of glittering malls and elegant glass-and-steel high-rises dazzled Nazneen, whose reality was the hot, dusty streets of Hyderabad and the haze of diesel fumes in the air. It was no wonder she saw Salim as Prince Charming, about to rescue her from a mundane life and sweep her off to a magic land.

At the engagement ceremony that preceded the wedding, Nazneen looked like a princess straight out of Arabian tales. Her coppery curtain of hair shone like silk. On her palms and feet were intricate motifs of the moon, stars and flowers in red stains of henna. Chunks of gold adorned her neck, arms and ears.

Salim’s gifts – a box of almond chocolates, red roses, a bottle of Eterniti – arrived through the evening. The bride and groom sat in different rooms, as was the custom. A thin, gold veil hung over Nazneen’s face. In the Muslim tradition, the bride, on her wedding day, must look no one in the eye until she sets eyes on her husband. Friends and relatives lifted the veil and held up her face but Nazneen’s eyes remained downcast, chin dropping to chest as soon as the viewing was over. Groups of women sang and danced around her. The air was filled with boisterous festivity. Brightly dressed women oohed and aahed over each other’s shimmering outfits and jewelry.

When the mullah indicated that the auspicious hour had arrived, Salim was led in by his friends. He sat facing Nazneen, but a thin white cotton sheet formed a screen between them. The mullah started to chant in a singsong voice. The sheet was lifted at the appropriate hour, when all the planets were perfectly aligned.

A family elder positioned a mirror between bride and groom at the correct angle. It was here that Salim’s and Nazneen’s eyes touched, a modest smile creeping up their faces. Soon the bride was overcome by shyness and her head dropped down as Salim’s eyes feasted on her creamy skin and hennaed feet.

A week later, Nazneen was back in college after a whirlwind honeymoon. And here she was, being pestered by the girls to recount every sensual detail of her first night with her husband. I crept away, leaving behind the secretive glances and shy whispers.

My feet moved in the direction of the tamarind tree, my favorite thinking spot. Were Nazneen and Salim right for each other? A bunch of stars said so. And that was all that mattered? To the families? And the young couple?

Does love conquer all? Apparently not. Not if you knew Sushma and Anoop, a couple whose courtship was the stuff of fantasies. But their marriage lasted a mere two years. Is love after marriage possible? It is.

Marriage is a gamble, Mama once told me. Some pick the right ticket and hit the jackpot. Some think they’ve won the lottery and later discover their numbers are all wrong.

I offered a silent prayer for the girl who had walked into her future, with Salim by her side, the man she laid eyes on, minutes before she became his wife.

Uma Girish is an internationally published freelance writer based in Chennai, India. Her articles and features have appeared in seven countries in publications such as The Christian Science Monitor, Massage Magazine, Women’s eNews, Emirates Woman, Tots to Teens, Solitaire, and Good Housekeeping. Her short stories and personal essays, published both in India and overseas, have won awards.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Thursday, April 26th, 2007 | Email This Post

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