Mother- The Things Given Up

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 * A continuous series with short, written excerpts.
The details have been reworded to my poetic fondness.

Marriage, the inevitable phenomenon in sub-continental culture as it is, should primarily be an occasion of joyous tear-shedding rather than the more miserable cause of it. Women are groomed, and they grow up, solely believing that the purpose of their lives revolves around the notion of marriage.
Once the ring sets it's place on the finger, and the signatures sink into contractual papers, an entirely new chapter begins in the life of a lady who will soon need to forget all she's grown up with.
This forced forgetfulness is not out of positive expectations. It's an unfortunate adjustment that women need to tune themselves to, for life in a different set of four walls, and the attempts of one soul to spiritually tie itself with the one it is now bound to.
*A clarification to the generation now. I am quite aware that men don't entirely think on the same scale as they used to in our societies. Our men are now more open with their thoughts. They welcome women with a strong work ethic, education and other privileged traits that we didn't have before. This goes for the population that is still stuck in the rut.

My representation of life post marriage for women in this East-Asian set up is fairly negative because I don't want to replicate the lies of photographs that our taken on wedding days in these countries. 

-The ecstatic photograph bride with a gleaming grin now wipes her tears and sweat both with the hem of her dupatta.

-The husband who grips the hand of his beloved with utmost intent now holds his ego closer.

-The family photograph that binds the two homes together is outdated to the quarrels between the two houses; the foundations to that house have fallen, the bricks are old, the cement, weak.

💮 THE THINGS GIVEN UP. 

My mother is a lover of enticing embroidery, captivating and modest jewelery, emeralds and, her own sense of fashion.

Prior to her marriage, her life was less of lesson books and more of lifestyle magazines. This, in no way is a judgment of her knowledge or academic excellence. Barred with the challenges of a widowed mother and working siblings, someone in the house had to inherit the traits that would keep the household the sort of home, a home should be.

So, in her time of leisure, her commitments were with clusters of clothing; reshmi kapras to varieties of lawn. She would immediately stitch the bell-bottomed trousers she saw in those glossy magazine pages, and roam in them with no uncultured critique pointed towards her.

The 'uncultured critique' only comes in when women once, become too bold for the homes they go to. The hands of the in-laws already metaphorically grip their throats, but there is also a dupatta hanging across lightly. The dupatta, a cloth that represents all their ambitions, likings and interests, carried less attentively across their chest. 
The dupatta, perhaps the only armor against unfair and unjust societal shame, only for being too expressive of themselves.

'Amongst her rather random nail paints and daring high heels, my mother had to give up a huge part of who she was after entering the contract of 'uncertainty.' 

Gone were her glory days of photography, music, and the entire unified love of art.'

- to be continued