Yes, I’ll marry you.
I know your name. I know your face.
But not intimately.
We have spoken- bits and pieces of casual conversation, laced with mild anxiety and excitement.
We have spent our lives apart. I do not know your friends. And you do not know mine.
I do not know your family. Except for random information like their names and where they stay and what they do.
I have heard of the country you live in, but I have never stepped foot there.
I’ve dreamed though, a lot.
We will sit beside each other, on the wedding dias.
Watching the fire, with thoughts racing. The priest will gesture, but we will not understand.
Beyond the fire, the sea of faces and colourful sarees and jasmine flowers.
Strangers. Side by side.
In a few minutes, you will take the holy thread from the priest and lean towards me.
With my eyes shut, I will feel your fingers fiddling behind my neck, tying the three knots, sealing our marriage infront of our Gods.
When my eyes open, the world will look different. Everything will look different, and I will feel my cheeks reddening.
You smile, and subconsciously hold my hand, the little girls and women around us giggling.
Husband and wife.
Yes, I will marry you. I will learn about you. Just like how you will learn about me.
Our histories- full and colourful, packed away in little boxes, that we will discover from time to time,
admidst suprised giggles and little flashes of jealousy.
But it won’t matter anymore, for I’ll be yours and you, mine.
I will learn what pleases you. And what doesn’t.
I will learn what makes you smile, and what causes that little furrow between your eyebrows.
I will learn the smell of your skin and the way your neck feels.
I will also learn the sound of your footsteps.
I will learn how our hands fit, in the day and at night.
We will read to each other and walk.
Sunsets will look different, as will sunrises.
Sunday afternoons will be quiet, and we will sit by our window, sip our teas, and count our blessings.
We’ll attend family functions and festivities, husband and wife.
As plates of Indian sweets get passed around, relatives wonder about our unsual union, especially in times like these.
“Arranged marriage, it seems. She, at that! How did she agree?”
I overhear and smile, you too. Later that night as we undress, we laugh.
How did this happen? Strangers only weeks ago, but lives forever intertwined.
It always was, but we never knew.
Destiny.
Yes, I will marry you.
