An Indian Arrangement Asks: “What Is Wrong With The Boy?”

My mother’s words challenged my refusal,

“What is wrong with the boy?”

True, there was nothing wrong in him,

Nothing wrong with me, either.

We were just two boats that had been tied together

And told to cross the ocean of life.

Without oars, without love,

We were expected to survive, somehow.

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He was shy, with a nice smile,

Made small talk and had a good job.

Left alone in the living room to talk,

Befuddled fireflies inside a burning lantern.

We talked of everything but love,

Two people pretending to briefly be friends,

Discussing our marital future like a business enterprise.

The air felt heavy, old and sterile.

In crisply ironed clothes, he looked earnest and sweet.

But he left me cold, and I left him tired.

We talked without communicating.

Knowing the rules, we played the game.

There was no fault in the boy

And none in our stars.

Surely error lies in seeking to control

Love, that immeasurable transcendental.

With this in mind, I choose my path.

No longer can life feel so arranged, so enforced.

My defiant ‘no’ unleashes hell.

The boy understands, my mother does not.

She threatens, begs, cries and cajoles.

My father looks on in disappointment.

Unwillingly, I leave the comfort of home

To find the peace that independence brings.

Image source: Still from Thappad, edited on CanvaPro

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