She wore the vermillion dot like a crown that night

Akin to the teardrops she wore like jewels, glistening on her dark cheeks

Thick vines of black henna were perpetually crawling up her slender arms

Suffocating her like intricately patterned gangrene

 

Her dress, fine silk in the colour red

Symbolised prosperity for both the bride

And her so-called Prince but

Red was also the colour of passion

A tint of desire, a saturation of change

Her wish to run away on her bare feet

As strong as her mother-in-law’s yearning for the dowry

 

“Come, child,” called amma.

“He is ready”

For it would not have mattered if the bride was not

The bride walked the gloomy halls of the temple

As if to her living death

Hush. Not a noise was made

The gentlest of sound would activate the loudest of mouths

The cruel folk! O, the cruel folk

They would talk

 

Painted feet danced around the now whimsical temple

Petite waists swayed and sashayed to the sinister chimes of the sacred bells

Her head began to spin

The dancers swirled faster, faster, fasterfasterfaster

Arms spanning outwards like windmills of the western world

The bride had a necklace made of white jasmine

Smelt so sweet, yet so ominous

Looked so lovely, yet so odious

 

She took a glance at her Prince for the first time

Amma has always said He would be strong, sweet, and suave

Amma had also turned her head away from her when she said that

For the Prince was twice her age

His gut protruding

And His face was as hard as coal

He did not smile

He did not laugh with the crowd

He did not clap along to the beat of the melodious music

He was only looking straight at his new bed warmer

He was more of a King than a prince

Waiting and wanting to rule and control his new land

 

She joined Him on the chair of gold and avoided

His fixed glance

The priest beckoned them forward and

Hands joined, they said their holy vows

Salty tears streamed down from her kohl-lined eyes

Sanctimonious of sadness

 

“It’s a new world,” the priest christened

The wife would scoff at this for years to come

A new century, a new generation, a new household

What is the point?

 

They will never be rid of the shackles of traditions

Kept as little birds in cages, in generational prisons

Nor will they ever be free of this society

The endless nightmare living in the patriarchy

Perhaps, one day

When she has a daughter to call her own

She will hope

She will pray

​

Her daughter of hers

Will be a fool

A child who would follow anything asked of her

And would have no opinions of her own

That’s the best thing a girl can be in this world

A beautiful, little fool