From this day forward…

...Till death (or divorce) do us part.

I got married to the same man three times. Once in a Christian exchange of vows, once in a Muslim Nikah and once in the court of law. All the three ceremonies were versions of each other in that, seeking each other’s explicit consent and blessings of the divine, vowing to be by each other’s side, in sickness and in health, in good times and bad, as friends and families stood witness, and all concluding with the same declaration: ‘Husband and Wife’.

It was a special marriage bound by special marriage laws. 

The three ceremonies, however, did not account for a pandemic and an ensuing ‘new normal’ that awaited us in the future. It took three court visits and a judge’s pronouncement to dissolve the three ‘marriages’.  

The dissolution was as uneventful, as the weddings/marriage/union was eventful. A most meaningless end to the most meaningful experience of my life, this far.

It took me three years and some months to realise and come to accept, this most debilitating of all my personal losses. Three of the longest and the shortest years of my life. The journey from ‘It could never happen to us.’ to ‘Is this really happening to us?’ to ‘It is happening, there is no longer an us…’ was painful and filled with large bouts of insufferable self-pity and egotistical misery.

The marriage may have dissolved, the loss, however, is everlasting. The consolation of this irony is that it makes for some dark humour and deep, meaningful conversations alike. It forces one to take some important, albeit gut-wrenching inventory about the self and life. Along with acceptance of a failing marriage, comes the most difficult of all acceptances. That of one’s own self. The good, the bad and the ugly. With that, the deeply uncomfortable work of learning and unlearning, afresh.

On the day of the final hearing…

Kindly throw the used teacups and bottles of water in the trashcan. Keep clean.

On the day of the final hearing, the day itself was warm and humid, the chairs in the court rickety and the fans noisy. There was shiny, pale yellow paint peeling from the dilapidated walls. There were swarms of people, embroiled in their own miseries buzzing around like bees. We all moved around in a glazed eyed stupor from floor to floor, room after room interspersed with long, arduous periods of waiting in between.

This time, the public stood witness to our very private tears. Flashes from my wedding day(s) and the extraordinary memories of the ordinary days of a happy marriage in its first four years out of a total of seven and our friendship of ten solid years kept interrupting me incessantly.

Much to my surprise, the world didn’t stop for a minute of those unending hours.

On the day of the final hearing, there was a court-appointed counsellor who urged us to reconsider, offered to give us an extension of time all while ensuring the paperwork was in order. There was our common lawyer, one who kept asking me to remember all the dates and events, documented in the filing, as they were. There was the judge who took the memo of being judgmental, very seriously. Like a strict school principal, he made his disdain about ‘two highly educated people making an unfortunate, grave error’ very apparent.

As we sat in the counsellor’s office, I noticed we had an audience of a lone doll made with candy wrapper, a precious souvenir perhaps, kept pressed under a sheet of glass on an otherwise bare table.

On the day of the final hearing, the Supreme Court of India decided that it was not its responsibility to extend equal marriage rights to same sex partners, that it was the State’s responsibility to debate the pros and cons and its morality in the parliament before that.

On the day of the final hearing, the Al-Ahli Arab Hospital in Gaza was bombed by the Israeli government (who later conveniently retracted claim of this unprecedented brutality). The oppression continues, as do the atrocities in the name of land, on innocent men, women and children for now over 3 weeks and 75 years.

On the day of the final hearing, the world did not stop moving for even a minute.

To be fair, the world and its deep-seated conditioning prepares everyone for the notorious B.I.G. Big intense griefs. What to expect when the unexpected happens and other cliches, etc. etc. etc.

What it does not prepare you for, are the tiny and loud pops of oddly specific accompanying griefs that sneak up on you after a deep loss, when you least expect them. During the most banal and routine parts of your existence. Especially, amidst the routine. Constant companions that never leave. Talk about loyalty. Sigh.

What it cannot and will never prepare you for, is that the world doesn’t stop for a minute. Your life, as it falls apart, and regathers itself, it does so, alongside millions of oppressed men, women, and children.

The world does not stop for anyone. And so it is and that is how it goes.

On the day of the final hearing, my parents came down from Delhi to be there for me, as only parents can. My sister wrapped up her meetings early and they all sat in a coffee shop near the court, as my brother stayed on call with them, while they all waited for me to get done. I met them, I spoke to my brother, I spoke to some dear friends, I had a very forgettable meal. On my way back, I noticed flowers that sprung on the side of the road, from within the cracks in the concrete. When I got back home, my best friend’s toddler greeted me with a big smile that’s specially reserved for me. Per his usual routine, he played peek-a-boo with me and carried on with other important matters that keep an 18-month-old intently busy, as they do. Our cats on the other hand, let us know, in no uncertain terms that they weren’t pleased about our long absence during the day and the food was not the appropriate temperature of their liking. My forced affection towards them was met with a disdain that surpassed that of the Judges’.

There’s nothing quite as humbling as a sleepy cat’s lack of interest in your day.

In the night, I prayed a prayer of gratitude, forgiveness and beautiful patience for all that had been, all that was and for all that is to come. That the world did not stop. That it will not stop, no matter what.

From within the recesses of hopelessness, day makes way for the night and hope always springs eternal. And so it is and that is how it goes.