2002-07-04 | 1:57 p.m.
no,this can't happen to me.

I got married last night. In traditional Bengali style. Sitting coyly in one corner, a leaf covering my face, my body draped in a red and gold sari, my face adorned with chandan. Flowers by my bare feet, gazing into lustful flames. Gold jewellery weighing me down - bangles, earrings, nose ring, tikli . The purohit moshai sitting across me, his eyes closed, his lips forming incomprehensible Sanskrit/Bengali chants. Sweat trickles down my overly made up face as I look all around nervously. I see faces - familiar and unknown - peering down at me. Some smiling, some on the verge of tears. I look to my left, to try and discern my imminent husband's face. But everything beyond the curtained hat is a haze. I try desperately to remember his name. Manish? No, I couldn't be marrying Manish. I would never do that. Then, I suddenly remember the words of my mother. "It's better to be married than to not be married." There is nobody. The body in the white dhoti-kurta is faceless. Probably illusory. I'm not getting married to anybody at all. I'm just getting married. I stand up panicking. "I don't want to do this." I scream out, and some unrecognisable relative places her hand on my shoulder and smiles. "It's only natural to have cold feet". She says it in Bengali, but it sounds like English to me. Right about then, the sun penetrates the blinds in my room and gently reminds me that I have to be up by 10.

Now more than ever, the blocks of time are meaningless.

deja vu? | jamais vu?