No Dispute.

I look effing beautiful.
No dispute.
I feel like an over dressed Barbie.
No dispute.

I am going to call you. I’m going to face it. I’m marrying an effing adorable guy. No dispute.
But all I end up doing is thinking about you.
No dispute.

You are so sorry. You have skinned your bones grovelling. You have been a classic case of effing bastard. No dispute.
You the last guy on the planet who deserves a girl like me, you’re good when you’re a toy boy, you’re perfect when you’re an off and on lover, you have no soul. No dispute.
But you still call and look for chances. You think, like things, even people can change.
There is always a chance.
No dispute.

So I am going to call you.
Thirty minutes into my marriage vows weaving a thick garland of roses around my neck and my old life snapping shut like the doors of present in the face of an intruding wayward past.
I need a chance more for me than you.
No dispute.

‘Twenty five minutes, is all you have,’ I say softly into the phone, ‘that is all you have. Or, I’m gone.’ I tell you.
‘Come and get me. Come and get me out. But twenty five minutes. Only. You know I mean it.’
You know that tone. You heard it the last time when I walked out on you. You heard when I refused you forgiveness.
Do you remember what you did?
I remember.
One cannot help but remembering – good, bad, the ugly, the treachery.
The power play, the lust, the dying embers, the vestiges of love.

I walk out in to the sunshine.
Yellow and orange shine on my skin like sun rays galloping, freewheeling - somersaulting on my brown skin.
I refused to cover my head. It is my marriage. Why should I cover my head?
I want my hair naked. Shiny, black, shimmering – tiny sequins planted upon raven cascade of steamrolled, rebellious curls of yesteryears.

‘Gandharva Marriage’ – my mom wanted me to have the marriage where the Gods were specially invited to lap up the grandeur and the sense of heightened ceremony.
The chants are loud and yellow and orange are in full blossom.
The ‘Brahmins’ from the Ram Krishna Mission are busy with invoking the ‘devs’.
It’s quite the feel good.

My eyes wander to the main entrance – studded with canopies of fresh flowers – flourishing with satin trimmings. I am imagining you pulling up at the main gates and climbing out of your SUV.
I imagine me turning around and still watching.
I imagine the world coming to a standstill.
The noise, the chants, the invocations – the exhortations. The plebeian ways of simpletons.
The ruse of marriage – the farce of social commitments – the endlessly tedious grind of promises made with the Gods in sitting.
I imagine lifting off my ninety grand ‘lehnga’ and kicking off my golden sandals. I imagine the sweet summer grass kissing the soles of my feet before an errant, deviant flight.
I imagine natural whispers clapping dervishly, the wind whipping, the sun beating down more violently.
Nature loves the erring. Nature loves the wild.
Nature prides the runaway bride.

My mom shuffles close to me and gently leads me away. The ‘havan kund’ is smoking incensed smoke.
The smell reminds me of ancient yagya rituals where the power of the unknown was invoked through concentrated energies focussing on the intemperate, uncontrolled – akhand.

‘What’s the time?’ I whisper to my dad.
He looks at his watch and mumbles something.
I look ahead and walk.
I bend low and sit cross legged next to a version of a Greek God in the middle of ancient Aryan mystique.
The Brahmin looks agitated to me. It’s as if he is possessed.
The chants grow louder. The thunder in their voices – collective enigma can scare away even the Gods.
A thousand petals blanket me like colourful snow.
The ‘Gandharva’ rituals have begun.

From the corner of my eyes I see your Mitsubishi pull up in front of the entrance.
I get a glimpse of your alligator skin boots and your coarse khaki trousers – and your feet running.
The coming to stop just metres away from the incense and smoke, and petal showers and – an end.
You quickly scan your watch.
26 minutes.
One minute too late.
You look imploringly at me. You cannot see me.
You feel a sense of deep regret.
You look around frantically. Someone, can anyone help – please?
This is not right. This girl... she ... loves me? Maybe.
But this girl is mine.
You just stand there and do nothing.
You were always such a loser.
No dispute.

I don’t feel the rush of Gods here. Another false ritual.
I don’t feel the trembles of future entering and leaving me – I’m their testing ground.
Future, future, future. It’s looking for a new home.
I don’t feel flattered.
I don’t feel humbled.
Not euphoric.
Not overjoyed.
Not sad.

Through the maze of smoke and flowers I look at his face. Instinctively he looks back at me and nods. I see the certainty of future already have found a home in me.
But I don’t love him.
And I don’t love he who is the deer caught in the headlights of one minute too late.

I don’t love.
I don’t hate.
But I’m getting married.
No dispute.