Tradition

I do not want to get married today.

Was it a little late to be deciding that?

No, it was never too late. I must believe that.

The music gained in volume, almost tauntingly, ‘The wedding march’. I have been to enough weddings to know that this song had such a deep meaning. A new beginning, the start of a new life with the person you love, the person you want to spend the rest of your time with, in sickness and in health, in good times and in bad. 

To me, it seemed the complete opposite, a chain, a noose tied around my neck, closing in with every step I take. 

As much as I tried to listen to it as music, the thing I loved, it sounded more like a chorus of laughter. 

Ha, ha ha ha! Ha, ha ha ha!

I ignore the gasps and awe-struck looks as I stride down the aisle, my attempt at being graceful must be working. 

I could feel the gaze of my father burning into the back of my head. I did not give him the satisfaction of meeting it. 

Anger boils inside of me as I hear him whisper, “I told you she would pull through, she wouldn’t dare oppose tradition,” 

Wouldn’t I? 

Where my mom’s arm locks with mine seems to blister with my hatred. My father was ‘too old’ to walk me down the aisle, but my mother was young, like me. 

I try to focus on something else.   

My dress reminds me of a cloud. It billows off into folds and waves from every direction, slightly pink in color. It might not be heavy, but the weight of it dragging me down is yet another subtle reminder. My hair is braided tightly to the back of my head, tiny flowers woven into it. I feel the weight of the tiara prickling my scalp painfully. This was my fathers doing, I remember his exact words when he gave it to me;

To remind you, you are just like a princess.

It might seem innocent at first, some father-daughter affection, but I know him better than that, it was a threat, a warning. Princesses were married off to whoever the richest man there was, the one with the highest social class, one to make the family proud, and I was just like a princess. 

My mother’s face pops into my head, but different. Her hair is no longer grey, it’s black, tighter back into a braid similar to mine, her face isn’t worn by lines and creases, it's smooth, her lips full and red. And she wears a dress, much like mine. 

It’s a younger her. 

She went through the same thing, and so did so many before her. I see hundreds of faces, hundreds of girls, some as young as twelve walking down the aisle, their hands bound by a thick chain, they are tied to this life, just like I am. How could she let this happen? How could I let this happen? 

I see them walking into his house, a smile playing on their lips, the pure bliss of ignorance in their step. Little do they know, they will never live to walk back out. 

The revulsion I have towards my mother is nothing compared to what I have for him.

I stare at my soon-to-be husband, loathing shining in my eyes. I wonder if he sees it, I want him to see it.

Ivan. I know nothing of him, other than his name, and what I can see in his face. Hunger. It sends a chill down my spine. I see past the suit and tie, I see past the styled hair. I see him for who he is, a monster, a murderer. How many girls have to die at the hand of this man before someone stops him? 

And yet, I keep walking. 

I take a step, the noose tightens. 

The music engulfs me, pushing me forward. I feel the pull of the rhythm, my body involuntarily falling into beat with it.

Step, step, step.

Tighten, tighten, tighten.

And yet, I keep walking. 

My father's gaze is joined by the hundreds of people there. I sense all the eyes, staring, watching, some not silently.

More gasps, more looks. I don't want them, but all I can do is pretend I’m alone, there is nothing I can do to fight it. 

Why do I keep walking? 

My eyes don't dare stray to where my mother is, right next to me. I doubt the betrayal and rage will stay dormant if I look into her cold eyes and see not an ounce of sympathy. 

My knees wobble as the first step of the staircase leading to my husband passes under my feet.

The second passes a little after. 

And the third, and last. 

I don’t bother to hide my surprise when my mother tugs on my arm. 

I prepare my expression for looking at hers, locking all my muscles in place.

Her expression throws me off, for when I meet her eyes, they are soft with...sorrow.

“I love you very much,” she whispers quickly, “Which is why I am not sorry for this,” 

That reignites my hostility. 

I feel a prickle in my arm when she squeezes it, another warning. She turns on her heels and walks back in the other direction.

It takes all of my control not to run after her at that moment. 

Instead I turn and face the two old men waiting for me. 

One holds a bible, one is my husband. 

I know what comes next. 

He takes my hands and I struggle to hide the wave of revulsion that crashes down on me, his fingers rub circles in the back of my palm. Will his hand be the last I touch? 

How can someone let this happen? 

My arm prickles where my mother grabbed me. I eye the dress sleeve, and then I finally see it, something shiny hidden in the seams. 

“Will you, Ivan Agate have this woman from this day forward to be your wedded wife, in times of celebration, in times of sadness, in times of pleasure, and in times of pain, In times of sickness and times of health? If so, say ‘I do’,” The officiant's voice rings out into the crowd.

“I do,” Ivan’s voice holds no traces of regret. I feel shocked, how were we already here? 

“And do you, Alisha Bedi, take this man from this day forward to be your wedded husband?” 

My whole body screams no, my muscles tense, my fake smile locks in place. All I need to do is for my mouth to scream no as well.

How can one word change so much?

My right hand drops, while I let my left hand trace up Ivan’s side. I can see the hunger in his eyes. I take a step towards him, thrusting my left hand down farther, my whole future rests on gravity. Then I finally feel it. The silver tip of a tiny blade, sliding into place between my outstretched fingers.

A rush of gratitude towards my mother swells inside me.

I love you very much, she had said which is why I am not sorry.

I lean in, the stale alcohol on his breath chokes me, but I push against my nausea, against my disgust. I am putting an end to this. I know what I need to do, I know what my mother wants me to do. I can see myself doing it. The tiny blade, there are so many places I can stick it, through his heart, into his eyes, even across his heel, the main artery there would make him bleed out in minutes. My lips are barely and inch away from his, his breath feels hot against my cheeks. My eyes close. 

And yet, I move closer. 

My left hand shifts upward, the tip of the blade close to his chest. I could stab him in the stomach, the acid from it would burn him from the inside out.

Will that make me just as bad as him?

My eyes snap open.

I can’t be as bad as him, I can’t. 

His lips part, another hot breath licks the length of my cheeks, and his hand grabs mine. I am trapped. 

I want to be free, I should be free. 

But the end does not justify the means. 

The blade clatters to the floor as I drop it. One second that’s all it takes for his eyes to glance downward instinctively, and one more second for my knee to slam into his soft spot. 

He crumbles, dropping my hand. I should run. But instead I take one more second to breathe one more word. 

“No,” 

My hand finds the hilt of the blade at the cost of another precious second. I feel a strange feeling blossom in my chest, freedom. 

I turn to face the crowd, their looks are no longer awe-struck, they are horrified. 

Good. 

“How can you all sit by and watch this happen?” I roar darting down the staircase putting as much distance between me and my...not-husband. 

“How can you let me sell my life away to this monster?” I demand an answer. 

The crowd cringes away from me. I must look insane to them, brandishing a knife, cracking at the seams. 

No one says a word. 

Until, “it’s tradition,” one old white man murmurs.

“It’s tradition,” they all agree, hiding behind the excuse like a shield. 

Tradition?

I don’t quite know what I’m doing until I’m doing it.

Pieces of my dress flutter around me like butterflies as I shred it. My knife cuts through it like butter, my fingers less efficient, but they work. 

I hear cries of disbelief, of outrage.

Good. 

That’s when I run. The dress no longer feels like a weight, all of it destroyed. The noose no longer tightens, it disappears as I flee.

My legs burn and my lungs beg for air. I rip the tiara off my head, pull loose my braids. My heels snap between my fingers. 

I push through the door and vanish into the night. A flicker of light distracts me and a bright yellow colored taxi sits in the parking lot. I lunge at it. 

Throwing myself into the backseat, I bark a random address at the driver who seems to be frozen in shock. 

I should thaw him out.

I toss the tiara over the seat, “Will this be enough?” He takes one look at the diamond encrusted thing, and speeds off muttering something I can't hear. 

I twist in my seat and watch all the chains of my past disappear behind me with the whips of exhaust spitting out of the back of the old cab. 

I will put an end to this, if it’s the last thing I do.