Two years ago, I wrote a post in Facebook on the burden of
being a newly married girl. It was not based on my experiences alone; I had
adapted the tales shared by a few of my friends and what I saw in the lives of
my aunts. However, for a reader, it looked like I was rambling and complaining
about my new ‘status’.
My husband did not bother much. In fact, he did not care.
(Maybe he just ignored the subtle signs or simply believed what I said “No,
this is not about us, love”). The post got a good number of likes, and a
reasonable number of comments, ranging from ‘well, said’ to ‘are you okay?’. My
husband got phone calls from a few of his friends who felt his life was in
shambles. My married friends probably rejoiced, (‘haha…welcome to the club), a
few unmarried ones texted (“really, Jumi? Is this what marriage is
about?”)
I got a phone call from my mother in law, who tried to
educate me about the different phases in life and the adjustments every human
being has to go through. She did make sense. But I had too much of unhappiness
nestled in my chest. I had hoped them, my new family and new set of friends, to
acknowledge my wish to write and publish.
Slowly, I learned to confine my thoughts to my diary. I
religiously penned down my feelings, opinions on movies and political
incidents, things I longed to do, my frustrations and unforgettable moments. It
gave me a sense of accomplishment. I went for morning walks and came back to
the silence of my kitchen, my mind full of fresh air, lot of ideas and good
lexes that I longed to write down and show to the world. But I had earned too
many constraints. I would hurt many people and their sentiments.
I was
learning why women were forced to opt for fake names or profiles when they
write.
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