A Month Gone By.

A Month Gone By.

It’s been a month and a couple days since I got married. For starters, I didn’t even imagine that someday I would be able to picture myself as a wife, to be honest. Coupled with a super low self-esteem and a total lack of reality check, never in a million years did I think I would be settling so perfectly into the role of a wife and a new daughter.

A wife. And a new daughter.

Just how crazy does that seem? Also: notice that I didn’t say “daughter-in-law”? That’s how nice my new family is. Just the other day my new pop made me upma – my favorite – he needn’t have, but he did and it was the cutest thing ever. They’ve also graciously let us stay till our house is done completely. My oh my. Let me go knock on wood a few times before I can actually go ahead and make my point.

My point being, marriage is comfortable. I’d heard a million horror stories, and I’d formed this image in my head that I would make a terrible new addition to my husband’s family too. That I would be a burden and a pain and all sorts of hell. But boy, I was wrong. Before I got married, I struggled with a lot of stuff. I struggled with the concept of acceptance and love and what both of these things really mean. But now, a month later, I can honestly tell you that it’s blissful. You’re not just sharing a home with someone, you’re also sharing headspace.

Sure, you have differences of opinions. You have tiffs. You don’t always get along, but then you don’t have to. Marriage means so much more than just photoshoots or Instagram likes or Sabyasachi lehengas or beach-facing mandaps or Pat McGrath eyeshadow – and you don’t need me to tell you this – but it’s much, much more. It’s about growth. About uplifting your spouse. About always remembering that their image is your image and vice versa. About working together to make the marriage work and at the same time, keeping it effortlessly easy.

And you thought Bengali brides look too loud. I personally think I would have easily passed as someone who were doing a gold jewelry store commercial.

This past couple of weeks have shocked me too. I had no idea my husband and I were twin souls to this extent. And that is the most amazing thing, ever. I’ve been given a whole new set of best friends – my new parents and my new brother – and I couldn’t be happier. The transition from being boyfriend and girlfriend to being husband and wife is beautiful and both my new ma and I have managed to cry our eyes out every time we’ve played the wedding and reception videos. Sigh.

So far, so good. There were very cute surprises along the way – a dreamy Gangtok trip, a Goa trip to attend a wedding, and Valentine’s Day felt super special because we both wore kurtas and went to eat at a random place and looked super boho. FUN.

Hello from my lovely mocktail.

It’s been dreamy and I just wanted to come on here and share things, while I get back to my regular blogging schedule. Hope life’s been treating you as good as it’s been treating me.

Millennials and Marriages

Millennials and Marriages

I asked a few people, who are well into their twenties and thirties, about their opinion on marriage and starting a family. The answers were mostly the same across the board. The group I was talking to did NOT want to get married.

It’s crazy, you’d think that with the wedding industry growing as it is, people would actually want to take the plunge as well – but no. Women say that men change after the wedding happens, and men say that women change too. Millennials are confused as they come, and they say they don’t need any more on their plate. Fair point.

Someone said that people don’t know how to date in their own lane and the same goes for marriage. You marry a super rich someone, who’s had a lavish lifestyle, promising to give them the life they’ve always had, but as soon as you’re married, you want them to tone down so they can fit your mold – that’s not done, they said. Imagine if Rose had ended up with Jack, she would definitely complain at some point about him not being able to give her the life she’d been used to, they said. Another reason why some people don’t want to get married would be the fact that most people make enough to give themselves a comfortable lifestyle – but they cannot cover the cost of having kids and raising them because, to put it frankly: “Kids are expensive.”

A few women that I know have decided to never get married because waking up next to the same person and watching them grow old with you isn’t as romantic as movies make it out to be. At this point, I was going “Yikes”, I kid you not.

All these strong opinions against marriage ended up driving me a little insane, so I asked people the same question on Instagram: and this time, the opinions were divided. Honestly, that’s such a relief because I’m getting formally hitched in two months and I could do with a few people saying they would love to get married, too.

One person said they wanted to do it and didn’t care who the other person was as long as they were good people. Arranged marriages are still BIG in India. A couple of people said they wanted to do it because premarital sex, unfortunately, is still frowned upon. And someone else said they wanted to do it because they were deeply in love and couldn’t imagine being away from their partner for one more second. This made me feel warm and fuzzy on the inside. Go, girl! You get him.

Ooh, and someone else said they wanted to wear Sabyasachi and be featured on the designer’s Instagram page. Girl, if you’re reading this, I hope and pray that it happens one day. And soon. This brings me to the last thing I want to say – What do YOU think of marriages?

50 Word Story: The Wife

50 Word Story: The Wife

They had a commuter marriage. Neither could afford to switch jobs.

On her birthday he stopped at a bar on his way to surprise her. A blonde offered to give him a lap dance.

Nothing could have prepared him for what followed: the blonde was his wife of six months.



I used to get hurt, a lot.

Little things would make me cry,

And then one day, I decided not to

I wanted to be stone cold, I had to try.

So hurt me all you want

Try with all your might

Insult me even when you can’t

I won’t put up a fight.

All I’ll be is cold, stone cold

And as calm as can be

Non-permeable emotionally

Is the new me.

So throw all the cussing my way

Send me old convos and call me a witch

Say I made you do things

I’ll take all the backlash, I won’t flinch.

For My Baby

For My Baby

I hate doing mushy posts, I do.

Any given day, I could deal

With a murder mystery, or two

But none of that feels real

Because the realest thing is you

It takes courage to love unconditionally

And love unconditionally you do

Mood swings, tantrums, come what may

You’re there for me, all the way through

I’ve never really done

A dedicated post to you

I should have, ages ago, I know

It takes a lot to find a good man

Someone that you can hold on to

Someone with a dream, and a plan

Someone who puts you first, above the rest

And I’m lucky and I’m blessed

To be with someone as perfect as you

Thank you for never causing me distress

Thank you for being – well, you.



Do you remember our first date? I do. It was super warm, even for October. I remember how I’d left in a rush, and that I’d given myself a nice little bruise on my thumb from trying to get out the door real fast.

You see, I hated to keep you waiting. And I did manage to get there in time. With literally five whole minutes to spare. I was so proud of myself. It wasn’t much, for a first date, but we both decided on a dinner and a drive because we wanted to talk and get to know each other better.

You said hello and we were both so awkward, but only at first. You, you gorgeous man, you were so good at breaking the ice and making me feel comfortable, my paranoid heart decided against reaching for the pepper spray when you held my hand in the restaurant, for the very first time. Yes, I did carry pepper spray in my little clutch. Dad insisted I bring the taser, but I didn’t. You should be thankful. Ahahaha.

I’m so glad to this day, that you picked the corner booth – it was both cosy and cute. And you didn’t judge me when I ate too much chocolate mousse and got it all over my face. You laughed and said I was adorable.

I can’t believe you actually remembered my birthday even though we’d only officially met the other week. We got super late, and it was getting close to midnight and strangely enough, I didn’t even panic. You excused yourself and stopped the car and got out randomly and I thought, of course there’s a catch and he can’t be that perfect, so I guess he’s going to hurt me now, but no it was you with a cake and candles and balloons shaped like hearts and my Dad and Mum on FaceTime on your phone, all of you singing happy birthday. My heart stopped then. I remember all my fears washing away and thinking to myself, who said arranged marriages aren’t romantic, and the rest of the night passed by in a happy blur.

The connection our hearts made that night, and the way things turned out, oh it was meant to be. And now here we are, two hearts united and happy.

PS: This was based on a friend’s “arranged marriage” story.

The practice is quite common in India, for those of you that don’t know, and people seem to be okay with it. Although there are a million horror stories of failed or unhappy arranged marriages, there are some like the one I just told you, and it’s so heartwarming, you know? Do you know of anyone that had an arranged marriage and is extremely happy? Tell me about it.



Journal entry – April 2, 2019:

It’s been exactly two months as a married woman. Sometimes I wonder if men are meant to lie thorough their teeth while doing their wedding vows. India has this long list of rules and traditions that must be followed before, during and after the wedding. There are the pre-wedding, the actual wedding and the post-wedding cold-feet situations. Cold feet, when it comes to the man, that is. I’m doing fine. I’m doing okay. I’m lying to you.

I’m far from fine.

It was a match made in heaven. At least that’s what everyone said says. He’s well educated and makes good money. And looks good. You made a brilliant choice, they said. I knew I’d made a very far-from-brilliant choice. You see, when you’re in a relationship with someone, you get too used to them. You don’t want to leave and start over with someone new. You ignore the red flags. You put on your armor: you go into battle. That’s what I did, I went into battle. I’d had several – four, to be precise – years of mastering the art of deception. You see, I’ve been projecting happiness so beautifully it’s impossible to say what I’ve been constantly feeling.

The initial days were just as bad.

It was meant to feel amazing. Your honeymoon phase was meant to make you happy. But not for me. I’ve always been the boyfriend and now I’m the husband, in the relationship. He does nothing. Doesn’t meet me halfway. And I can’t complain, because I chose this. I picked my misery and I picked my battle and I’m going to fight it.

He’s on leave from work this whole week.

He’s spent a total of five minutes with me. I’m not a nagging wife. I didn’t call him. He’s been missing since morning. I don’t know where he is, I don’t know when he’s going to come home. I don’t know how many pot brownies he’s going to wolf down with a friend and I don’t know how much alcohol will be downed. I don’t know any of that. It’s also my birthday and no one remembers around these parts. What are wives for, after all, if not to just bear your body weight and your children? What are wives for, if not to just exist, only when you need them? I married myself, it feels like. There’s work, there are bills I pay, and he doesn’t take care of any of that. I’m proud to say, I don’t make him spend. I never have. Almost half a decade with this man, half a decade of being in pain because somewhere I couldn’t walk away and start over.

I guess, marriage is battle. A lost one. That I’ve no clue what or whom I’m fighting for.

Marriage is Terrifying.

Marriage is Terrifying.

I’m in love with the idea of it. Deeply. And I want this. And then at the same time, I don’t want this. I’m talking about, well, a wedding.

A few posts back I’ve actually told you guys that I’m scared of children and that the whole idea of making tiny Sooches literally gives me the chills. But now I don’t think I wouldn’t mind that, actually. It takes a lot of courage to lay bare your thoughts on a platform where you’ve got people reading what you write, but well… here goes.

I do wanna get married, I do.

Someday. One day. Eventually. But right now, all I want to do is run away somewhere with my man and I don’t want to be on one of these things:

The stage.

It scares me, okay? It’s terrifying beyond measure when you’re battling social anxiety and then it suddenly multiplies. To a thousand times of what it ever has been. I remember a panic attack once. At the bank. My friend had to hold me and calm me down because I was sweaty and I nearly had a black out. And it wasn’t even that crowded, come to think of it. Now imagine a full fledged, jam packed, overpopulated beyond imagination, Indian wedding. Sequins and lights all over. Loud music that leaves you with a migraine the size of Antarctica 🇦🇶.

And the people that you’ve never seen – let alone spoken to – who keep coming up to you and offering perfunctory blessings. I can’t deal. I need a paper bag. But wait. All of this is just the tip of the nightmare iceberg. An Indian bride needs to know how to cook to impress her new family. There’s the constant fear of pissing of the mum in law. There’s the cleaning, and more cleaning, and more cleaning. And those Indian soap operas aren’t helping.

I have a million fears. How am I going to adjust? There would be new rules. Every marriage, I’ve been told, comes with clauses. You don’t get much time with your man. How would you cope? Like I said, scary. It’s like diving right down into the bottom of a deep, deep ocean filled with sharks to get at that rare pearl (of happiness and love and warm fuzzy feelings). Oh Jesus.

But at the same time, I do want one of these things. A tiny cosy family gathering somewhere in Rajasthan. Or a beach wedding in Goa. I’d love that. A very close knit wedding. Happy little family affair. And a happy married life.

I’m terrified and yet, I live with such hope. Sigh.

The End of The End

The End of The End

(Read the first part here.)

He was just casually swiping right. And then her photo seemed to jump out at him. His heart stopped. Her profile didn’t really say much. But her legs? They did all the talking.

He left her a message.

She responded two seconds later with a – “That was quick.”

Several messages later, they exchanged numbers. He’d just come out of a relationship and so had she and they both were, subconsciously, looking for rebounds. They wouldn’t admit it to themselves but that was what it was. She sounded cute and chirpy on the phone and she said she loved his voice. And so it began…

The passionate first kiss. He had such a hard-on he thought he would explode. He hadn’t felt that way in a long, long time. Not since the blonde Russian girl in Amsterdam three summers ago. Sex within the week. They did one of those hitched up against the elevator numbers. They didn’t even make it to the bed the first time. She hadn’t been with anyone, not completely, and he had been with a lot of someones and he was more than just an expert. As they lay down, spent and panting, on the thick living room carpet, he looked at her flushed face and dilated pupils and decided she was the one. And to hell and damnation but they were getting married.

Our society being our society, dear readers, both sets of parents said no. More than just said no. Doors were slammed in his face, and her eyes would well up with tears knowing it wasn’t going to be a blessed union. So, a court marriage it was.

They had a happy three month marriage. Then he started getting death threats. That they would kill her if he wouldn’t give her a divorce and forget she existed. He changed his number but they all knew where he lived. He was an asset to the company he worked for and his job paid him well enough to keep them both comfortable but then there’s no keeping orthodox, bound-by-narrow-mindedness families happy.

He decided to fake it, he decided to be rude to her because he knew there were people watching the house. He told them he’d divorce her and that he was picking fights for now. Meanwhile, he applied for a new job in a city that would take them both far away. He bought a gun.

He could see her wasting away.

He was helpless. Families could be brutal. He was terrified of her going out alone. He developed deep rooted trust issues. He’d always been the good boy, who never raised his voice or went against his father. But now, he would. He would kill for her, if needed. He’d pray for his job thing to come through, everyday.

He woke up on the morning of and realised his prayers had been answered. They were moving! Without telling anyone.

He looked everywhere. She wasn’t around. Two weeks passed.

No one would notice the body till dawn broke the next morning, on the pretty beach with the white sands. A little girl vacationing with her family saw it first. A flip flop. Pink, pretty. And the body of the young woman next to it. Washed up on the shore. The wedding band on the cold, dead finger still sparkled, except for that tiny smudged partial fingerprint that didn’t belong to her.

They ran the print. And there was a match in the database. They arrested the guy. Had his phone records checked. In the end, they discovered that the young woman was a victim to honour killing. Both families were involved.

And what about him?

He never recovered.

Note: I did this story to show you how caste system is still deep rooted in our very brown culture. It’s 2018 and people refuse to move forward even now. If love is a sin, I don’t know what to believe in anymore. People need to stop making weapons out of religion and caste and creed and all this trivial nonsense. We gotta try and be human. We gotta stop this kind of jihad. Love is just love. You don’t need external and unnecessary factors corrupting it.

The Beginning of The End

The Beginning of The End

They’d met on one of those shady dating apps. Shady because you never really get what you see on there. Nothing ever is.

They moved faster than a raging hurricane. Only, she never noticed the destruction left in its wake. She knew people usually met on these kind of apps just to go get some. But she was a believer and she had faith. Boy did she have faith.

They met, they seemingly clicked. She overlooked his queries about her sex life and the colour of her panties. She overlooked his sexual advances, a firm believer in the fact that yes, this guy is it. He is it. He stays. Forever.

“I love you“s were exchanged within forty eight hours of having met each other. Three weeks later he’d proposed. Before she even knew it, she was a married woman. It was a sordid affair. Neither set of parents approved. He was, in the words of the society, too refined and she, too crass. Not by her looks, no. She knew how to put on makeup and talk pretty. He knew how to take all that makeup off and talk dirty. It seemed like it would last. At least she’d hoped it would.

In a country divided by more than just borders, she hoped he would be what he’d promised to be. But promises, my readers, aren’t meant to be kept. We’ve heard this clichéd one liner a million times, and she, like many of us, just dismissed it as a mere sentence.

And so they were man and wife. Everything seemed peachy and as she happily changed her relationship status on Facebook from single to married and tagged him, a wave of warmth washed over her. She felt loved, wanted even, for the first time in forever. She never noticed that he would never accept that tag and that his profile had no information about his married life. No photos of him with her. And he wouldn’t let her Instagram pictures of them together because, “I have weird relatives.” She’d protested several times that they were married and to hell with people, but he’d been adamant and she’d given in.

The sex was so good she forgot about everything for a while. He’d make her writhe like a snake and whine like a bitch in heat with all the teasing. When she couldn’t take it anymore, he’d give it to her like every Jason Derulo trash song combined in one. He’d take her to dinner dates at swanky restaurants on Saturday nights, get her flowers when he showed up home late from work, he’d text her as much as he could. He would, most importantly, call. Often. He’d check in on her because she’d be home alone all day, working on her book.

And one day, abruptly, it changed.

He came home at three in the morning one night. Foul tempered. No flowers, of course. She was up, watching Game of Thrones and pigging out on ice cream. One look at his face and she knew something was wrong. She knew she shouldn’t prod and so she didn’t. He didn’t sleep in the bed that night. She watched him as he took his pillow and a comforter and went to sleep on the couch. And that was when the tables turned.

There hadn’t really been much conversation to begin with because it was mostly just physical, but that changed to cold glances and coming home late every night. She asked him what was wrong and he’d said some vague story about having a new boss that gave him hell.

She was understanding enough to end up being the one sleeping on the living room couch, while he slept on their soft king size bed instead. And this went on, night after night. She’d read the texts they’d exchange in the early stages of their relationship, over and over. She’d kiss him goodnight when he was in deep sleep, because when awake – he barely even held her anymore. The transparency that was barely there had now just about disappeared.

So she kissed him goodnight one night. Left no note. Packed a bag. Didn’t see his phone – on silent – go off. Didn’t see the text that would have explained a lot of things about why he’d changed overnight. She took one of his cars and started driving.

Two weeks passed. No one knew where she was.

No one would notice the body till dawn broke the next morning, on the pretty beach with the white sands. A little girl vacationing with her family saw it first. A flip flop. Pink, pretty. And the body of the young woman next to it. Washed up on the shore. The wedding band on the cold, dead finger still sparkled.