of little ironies

You know how when you’re little you want your wedding to be just perfect; how you imagine yourself in a bright red saree with a gold border, gold jewelry that is just the right size, hair done up in a neat little bouffant, and makeup that makes you look radiant; how you just know your family and friends are going to fawn over you as you get mehendi applied to your palms; and how much you want the photographs to be beautiful and candid at the same time? You know how you play that gooey-as-hell Kabhi Kabhi song again and again in your head, picturing yourself and your dreamboat in the sequence instead of Amitabh and his ugly consort?

I don’t.

Really. When I was growing up, I didn’t think I’d ever get married. It may have been because I was constantly being told that nobody would want to marry a skinny reed like me, but the fact remains that I didn’t want to ever get married.

Who knew I was going to meet a really nice guy whom my family adored just as much as I did, marry him within two years of meeting him. And then six years later, stomp all over his heart and walk out on him. And then swear never to put myself in that position again. And then fall hopelessly in love with the least likely candidate, someone my family can’t seem to really get used to. And then go on and marry him.

But there I was, packing my bags and getting irritated that we gave in to societal and familial pressure instead of sticking to our guns about never wanting to get married. But now, six hours before I’m to marry him in a really simple blink-and-you-miss-it ceremony, I find myself wanting a fairytale wedding.

Such is life.