Two weeks into our marriage, I had a thought that made me chuckle. My wife and I had returned from yet another visit at a relative’s house, tummies stuffed and minds tired from socialising all day long.
Upon hearing the thought, she nodded in agreement.
I was charming my in-laws out of the park!
The more I pondered about it as we got ready for bed, the more it amused me. I wasn’t an especially big catch in the marriage market. I’d seen other in-laws fawn over a new groom who’d graduated from IIM with an MBA, was a successful businessman, or had a fancy government job. In comparison, I was just a freelance writer with a modest income and adequate table manners.
Yet they’d loved my sense of humour, the fact that I was “progressive” regarding household chores such as cooking and cleaning, and my overall friendliness.
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They had nothing to critique, nothing to comment on, nothing to question about me.
My amusement turned into indignation over the next few weeks as I realised the situation was quite different for my wife.
My grandmother would recommend she wear some more jewellery or perhaps swap her pair of spectacles for another one. It wasn’t communicated with malice or disdain like they portray in our TV serials today. But it still offended my progressive ideals.
Why should she have to change anything? She should do as she pleases.
My wife shared my beliefs in principle, but her application was infused with a generous amount of tact and discretion. Where I would be itching to declare in the living room that I was quite happy with my wife’s choice of jewellery to send an unsubtle message to my grandmother sitting nearby, my wife chose a different, gentler strategy.
Where she could put on an additional bangle without it feeling bothersome, she’d do so. And the few times my grandmother recommended she wear a different pair of spectacles, my wife would apologetically laugh it off, claiming she’d left it behind in her house or that it needed to be repaired.
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Months seemed to fly by, as the two of us experienced all the joys that come with a wonderful marriage. I remember feeling annoyed on certain nights when I’d hurry upstairs to our bedroom after finishing dinner with the family, eager to “Netflix and Chill”.
Except half an hour would pass by, and my wife would still be downstairs. With a weird blend of horniness and curiosity, I’d venture back down only to see my wife laughing and talking with my grandmother.
I’d pretend to join the discussion, enquiring what they were talking about, while my fingers wrapped around my wife’s waist would send rudimentary Morse code signals. Two tight squeezes: the universal code for “C’mon, let’s goooo!”
In between laughing with her grandmother-in-law, my wife would nudge back in the other universal signal: “Shoo, wait!”
Several more minutes would pass by, at the end of which my grandmother would be ready to retire to her room. My wife would assist her as she tottered along, ensuring a jug of warm water was at her bedside.
And then we’d scurry upstairs with the zest of teenagers.
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During those months after marriage, if you’d stopped to ask me about it, I’d tell you that my wife was just another woman in Kerala who’d learned the necessity of navigating delicate family politics. She had to talk a certain way, appease certain people, and adjust to their expectations. Yes, it was far easier for her than most other Malayali women, perhaps. The stakes weren’t high. There wasn’t a mean clique of female relatives who’d pass passive-aggressive statements at the dinner table.
But all I could think about was the utopia I’d imagined. My wife being treated just like me, with no one to suggest certain clothing choices, make-up or etiquette when dealing with relatives.
Thankfully, I was too busy enjoying the first few months of marriage to have the time to stop and write an article on PinkLungi railing against this injustice. Which then allowed me to have my perspective dramatically altered almost a year later.
It happened on the day my wife was to leave Thrissur to stay with her family in the Middle East for a while. As the guy driving her to the airport, I busied myself with loading up the car and making sure we were departing on time.
On the other hand, she was talking with all the relatives who’d gathered in the living room, chief among whom was my grandmother.
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When it came time for my wife to say goodbye, my grandmother’s eyes began watering. Now, it’s true that most grandmothers don’t need much for their eyes to begin watering. But this was different. I watched as she kissed her granddaughter-in-law on both cheeks. It wasn’t like how she’d bid farewell to me several times in the past. She wasn’t watching a family member leave; she was experiencing the sorrow of a friend departing.
That’s when it hit me. My wife and I were the classic story of the tortoise and the hare. Like countless other Malayali men, I burst out of the gate after marriage, easily speeding ahead, gaining all the approval and applause from my in-laws, mostly solely by virtue of having a Y chromosome. Every small gesture of friendliness and good humour was elevated, basic decency being considered a wonderful character trait.
My wife, on the other hand, was the tortoise, plodding along, learning how to navigate her new life in a new household. But while I was snoozing upstairs, congratulating myself on how nice of a son-in-law they thought I was, she kept plodding along. From the dining table to the bedroom. With an arm held out for a portly grandmother-in-law to hold onto.
Within the first few months of marriage, I’d established a warm relationship with my in-laws. But it was a superficial one. Or rather, it never went beyond a certain depth. I had to do nothing to change who I was, and more importantly, I never had to sacrifice my time or my energy. Like the confident hare, I simply breezed in and out of my in-laws’ house from time to time, munching on snacks, asking a few polite questions, promising to repeat the whole endeavour soon.
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As I saw tears stream down my grandmother’s face that evening, I realised what my wife had achieved through sacrifice. She’d built an enduring bond with my grandmother, one that would transform into a phantom pain once she departed from the house.
This article was born and nurtured in my mind on that hour-long drive from Thrissur to Cochin Airport. It dramatically reshaped my mind when it came to the lives of Malayali men and women post-marriage. I realised my viewpoint had become too narrow, simply focusing on the bullet points of Western liberal ideals. All I could think of was making my wife’s life just like mine.
Yes, there are countless Malayali women whose lives would be immensely improved by loosening restraints, scrutiny, and commentary from in-laws. Yet, I never thought about what I lost when I enjoyed such a carefree, commitment-free lifestyle.
I lost the tears of a grandmother-in-law who was saddened to see me leave. I lost the chance to form specific in-jokes, to remember particular details of a daily routine that would bring comfort to someone else. Being a Malayali groom was easy. But what’s easy isn’t always what brings meaning and depth to our lives.
As I saw my wife comfort my grandmother with light-hearted jokes, I wished I could have traded every post-dinner haste to satisfy my desire for entertainment and physical intimacy for just thirty minutes’ worth of compassion towards someone else.
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If you’d walked into my house thirty minutes after we’d departed for the airport that evening, you’d have found my grandmother sitting on the couch, looking a little depressed.
If you’d asked her about my wife, she would have spoken fondly about how loving and caring her latest granddaughter-in-law was. If you’d somehow managed to bring up the question, however, my grandmother would have the same response.
Yes, she does believe her granddaughter would look better in another pair of spectacles. But that doesn’t really matter, does it?
