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
Darcel Anastasia Al Anthony is a second-year undergraduate at NUS majoring in English Literature with a minor in French. She takes every opportunity to talk about her favourite Harry Potter franchise, but in her free time also engages with freelance journalism and volunteers as much as she can. Concerned with the welfare of others, she writes to shine light on the often overlooked.