Marriage as a rainbow

RICHA BHATTARAI

Marriage is such a rainbow. Not the traditional one, the VIBGYOR we memorized so faithfully in school, but something a lot more elaborate and charming and complicated. Where everyone has their personal set of colors, achieved after a similar process – a lot of dazzling, sunshiny smiles, and a short shower of tears. And then, out of this, a brilliant, bright, blinding tapestry of a rainbow.

Red: We are visiting my husband's home for the first time after our marriage. I search frantically for the red kurta with golden threads that Buwa brought for his daughters long, long ago. Almost seven years ago, taken aback by Buwa's shiny choice, we joked that the kurta would belong to whoever became a bride first. Now I smile as I slip it on, and then reach for the soft red sweater I bought to wear on the wedding day, in case it got cold. I wrap the maroon shawl tightly around me, the one I chose out of Ama's collection, because I couldn't bear to buy one more red thing which I would perhaps never even look at again. Red bangles I have aplenty, because in the days leading to the wedding, I panicked that my bangles would not reach up to my elbows, and bought at least three hundred of the jangly things. I remember the tika just in time – we had had a lovely teej celebration at office, where we were gifted a tiny boxful. I pry open one and paste it on my oily forehead.

The only glittery red ear studs I have were gifted to me by a colleague on my last birthday, while another colleague looked on incredulously and said, "Why are you giving that to her, she isn't married!" Now it serves me perfectly, as does the only red lipstick I own (actually, one of my only two lipsticks) – which was, like many things else, purchased almost the moment the groom arrived to fetch me. And finally, I slip my feet – some of the toenails still bearing chipped nail polish – into my red-and-gold wedding sandals. Earlier, I chanced upon an unopened batta of sindoor, and gingerly dabbed some onto my parting.

The entire process quite exhausts me, and does not seem to please my husband, either. He grimaces as he says, "Is it really necessary, all this red?" I am not surprised at his reaction. This is the person who once offhandedly listed things he likes me to wear – skirts, boots, leather jackets – and heels, he emphasized. Black heels.

I'm firm in my reply, "It is essential."

For red is often the essence of a marriage. The glowing red blush everyone says I have on my cheeks. The red of love, of passion, of romance, and beauty. My colleague, married eight years, says her parents-in-laws would want her to wear nothing but red day in and day out. It is the red of my periods, which someone else now knows as intimately as I do, and has learnt to calculate better than myself. It is the maroon of my t-shirt, which he puts on, looks at the mirror, and proclaims, "We should marry people with whom we share not only our hearts, but our build."

And then, sometimes, it's the red of anger, of irritation, of the dangerous spark that flares up for no reason at all. The self has to get accustomed to another being who brings with him a lifetime of habits and beliefs, attitudes and mannerisms. It seems as if this deadly red will start a fire, but soon enough, it turns a rosy hue – the stuff that beautiful sunsets and divine sunrises are made of.

Green: If I were a Muslim bride, perhaps this would be the color that defined my marriage. The color does actually have a strong hold on us. Wedding saris are often interspersed with a luminous green hue, necklaces demand emeralds, and then I was given a green pote too, like everyone else – which I have since lost. Meanwhile, green is also the color of money, and there must be few other institutions that teach us about the value of money so well. After a cocooned adulthood, I had vague ideas about the cost of amenities, and even lesser ideas about how much would be enough for us. The prices of things are beginning to scare me, and there is almost no day that I don't pause and wonder just how our parents provided us with everything we wanted, when I nearly have a heart attack every time I try to buy a kilo of grapes. Already I have had a semi-serious attack after we agreed to jot down our monthly expenses. I couldn't go beyond the fourteenth day because the numbers panicked me no end. The upside to this is that it has made me painfully aware of the value of things. The color also tells me that the grass is actually greener on my side. That, after a tired day, I have someone exclusive to actually listen to me, and soothe away the furrow on my brow. Also, I have always been a possessive person, but post marriage, the green-eyed envy has simply left me.

White: This color again, reminds us immediately of a Christian wedding. But then, it applies to all marriages, which are about compromises and peacekeeping, and raising the white flag when any sort of altercation is even a mile away.

Grey: Fifty shades of grey, perhaps, is what a marriage is most about – and not as the book describes it. Most often it is a content, cheerful shade, the kind which makes you prance home from office and cook together and plan positively for the future. But at times, it can be so dark it turns black. I still can't get over the fact that daughters are raised like deities and then as soon as they are married, they suddenly turn into semi-outcasts. I go into a state of quasi-shock each time I remember society's heavy and unreasonable expectations on me to behave like a proper, dumb, eyes-on-the-ground daughter-in-law. But this gloomy tint lightens, eventually. Things become lighter, and happier, when I realize that I am not traveling alone, there is someone by my side always eager to share the load.

And that rainbow, it pops up as flamboyant as ever.

bh.richa@gmail.comRICHA BHATTARAI

Marriage is such a rainbow. Not the traditional one, the VIBGYOR we memorized so faithfully in school, but something a lot more elaborate and charming and complicated. Where everyone has their personal set of colors, achieved after a similar process – a lot of dazzling, sunshiny smiles, and a short shower of tears. And then, out of this, a brilliant, bright, blinding tapestry of a rainbow.
Red: We are visiting my husband’s home for the first time after our marriage. I search frantically for the red kurta with golden threads that Buwa brought for his daughters long, long ago. Almost seven years ago, taken aback by Buwa’s shiny choice, we joked that the kurta would belong to whoever became a bride first. Now I smile as I slip it on, and then reach for the soft red sweater I bought to wear on the wedding day, in case it got cold. I wrap the maroon shawl tightly around me, the one I chose out of Ama’s collection, because I couldn’t bear to buy one more red thing which I would perhaps never even look at again. Red bangles I have aplenty, because in the days leading to the wedding, I panicked that my bangles would not reach up to my elbows, and bought at least three hundred of the jangly things. I remember the tika just in time – we had had a lovely teej celebration at office, where we were gifted a tiny boxful. I pry open one and paste it on my oily forehead.
The only glittery red ear studs I have were gifted to me by a colleague on my last birthday, while another colleague looked on incredulously and said, “Why are you giving that to her, she isn’t married!” Now it serves me perfectly, as does the only red lipstick I own (actually, one of my only two lipsticks) – which was, like many things else, purchased almost the moment the groom arrived to fetch me.  And finally, I slip my feet – some of the toenails still bearing chipped nail polish – into my red-and-gold wedding sandals. Earlier, I chanced upon an unopened batta of sindoor, and gingerly dabbed some onto my parting.
The entire process quite exhausts me, and does not seem to please my husband, either. He grimaces as he says, “Is it really necessary, all this red?” I am not surprised at his reaction. This is the person who once offhandedly listed things he likes me to wear – skirts, boots, leather jackets – and heels, he emphasized. Black heels.
I’m firm in my reply, “It is essential.”
For red is often the essence of a marriage. The glowing red blush everyone says I have on my cheeks. The red of love, of passion, of romance, and beauty.  My colleague, married eight years, says her parents-in-laws would want her to wear nothing but red day in and day out. It is the red of my periods, which someone else now knows as intimately as I do, and has learnt to calculate better than myself. It is the maroon of my t-shirt, which he puts on, looks at the mirror, and proclaims, “We should marry people with whom we share not only our hearts, but our build.”
And then, sometimes, it’s the red of anger, of irritation, of the dangerous spark that flares up for no reason at all. The self has to get accustomed to another being who brings with him a lifetime of habits and beliefs, attitudes and mannerisms. It seems as if this deadly red will start a fire, but soon enough, it turns a rosy hue – the stuff that beautiful sunsets and divine sunrises are made of.  
Green: If I were a Muslim bride, perhaps this would be the color that defined my marriage. The color does actually have a strong hold on us. Wedding saris are often interspersed with a luminous green hue, necklaces demand emeralds, and then I was given a green pote too, like everyone else – which I have since lost. Meanwhile, green is also the color of money, and there must be few other institutions that teach us about the value of money so well. After a cocooned adulthood, I had vague ideas about the cost of amenities, and even lesser ideas about how much would be enough for us. The prices of things are beginning to scare me, and there is almost no day that I don’t pause and wonder just how our parents provided us with everything we wanted, when I nearly have a heart attack every time I try to buy a kilo of grapes. Already I have had a semi-serious attack after we agreed to jot down our monthly expenses. I couldn’t go beyond the fourteenth day because the numbers panicked me no end. The upside to this is that it has made me painfully aware of the value of things. The color also tells me that the grass is actually greener on my side. That, after a tired day, I have someone exclusive to actually listen to me, and soothe away the furrow on my brow.  Also, I have always been a possessive person, but post marriage, the green-eyed envy has simply left me.
White: This color again, reminds us immediately of a Christian wedding. But then, it applies to all marriages, which are about compromises and peacekeeping, and raising the white flag when any sort of altercation is even a mile away.
Grey: Fifty shades of grey, perhaps, is what a marriage is most about – and not as the book describes it. Most often it is a content, cheerful shade, the kind which makes you prance home from office and cook together and plan positively for the future. But at times, it can be so dark it turns black. I still can’t get over the fact that daughters are raised like deities and then as soon as they are married, they suddenly turn into semi-outcasts. I go into a state of quasi-shock each time I remember society’s heavy and unreasonable expectations on me to behave like a proper, dumb, eyes-on-the-ground daughter-in-law. But this gloomy tint lightens, eventually. Things become lighter, and happier, when I realize that I am not traveling alone, there is someone by my side always eager to share the load.
And that rainbow, it pops up as flamboyant as ever.

bh.richa@gmail.com