Erasing the Boundaries

The other day, I received a marriage invitation of a nephew, who was marrying a Bengali girl in Chennai. And that moved my memory pointer to many long years back, when I got married.

“Punjabi?” – I assume, that would have been the reaction when I broke the news of my love for a girl in Delhi.  I hailed from an orthodox Tamil Brahmin family but since we were settled in Kanpur, the outlook of my parents was more liberal. Nevertheless, this one, coming from their most obedient, understanding and compliant son was a bit of a shocker for them.

For many years people, on either side of the Vindhyas had carried misconceptions. So, it took me some time to explain to my parents that the girl was not a ‘Punjabi’ but was actually a ‘Bahawalpuri’ – which was a princely state bordering Sindh, Punjab and Multan states of the current day Pakistan.  Similarly, my wife had to explain to her relatives that I was not just a ‘Madrasi’ but was a Tamilian. And that I was not a nerdy but was as fun-loving, witty and normal human being like them.

During the post-marriage receptions, a common question that haunted us was on our honeymoon plans. While I told her relatives that we were heading for the Nilgiris, my wife shared only the plans of Madurai Meenakshi Temple with my relatives.  So that was the start – and I was sure we had not only understood each other but also the constituency that both of us needed to take care.

The initial days, moving in her family circles was a cultural shock for me - when drinks flowed on any occasion, be it a marriage or a small kid’s birthday.  I was not a teetotaler but never had such family sessions.  So, I had my anxious moments in the beginning but soon adjusted to the openness of this society well. 

My wife, on the other hand, has become more pious.   The walls and the curio at home are full of Ganesha and Nataraja idols.  She keeps close track of the ‘Nombu’ festival, when she religiously changes the sacred yellow thread around her neck.  And she doesn’t forget to light a lamp every evening in a corner of her kitchen. My daughters, however, did go through some dilemma in their early school days.  In their school forms, they wrote their surname as ‘Iyer’ and the mother-tongue as ‘Hindi’ and that left their teachers bemused. 

But I continue to have one grievance –  I had anticipated stuffed ‘Parathas’ for my breakfast every morning but my wife turned out to be a health freak. Leave aside the ‘Parathas’, I even lost a Tamilian’s birth right of a spoonful of ghee on my sambar-rice.   Nevertheless, we have well adapted to each other’s native lifestyles over the years. And there is little doubt that she makes the best ‘Upma’ for my break-fast and I can toss the best Omelet ever made on earth.