Column | Marriage is like a tanga

Phuphee breaks down why the institution needs “two wheels”, otherwise it is just a crazy bull wandering around aimlessly

A few days after I got married a curious thing happened. I was instructed by a number of relatives that I should stop addressing my husband by his name and instead show him respect by calling him ‘doctor saab’. Initially, I thought it was a joke (in poor taste, but a joke nonetheless) but it soon became clear that this was not the case.

During one conversation with an elderly aunt, I enquired as to why me calling him by his name was not respectful enough? And was it not the same when he called me by my name? Should he not call me ‘Saba ji’? I was met with silence and frowns.

I tried to ignore these assaults on my fragile boundaries as best as I could, but after a week or so I knew this would need addressing. It is custom in Kashmir that when a girl gets married and moves in with her new family, relatives from her parents’ side visit for the first week to see how she is settling in. It was luck or divine intervention that the next day Phuphee arrived with one of my aunts.

Once she had had a cup of tea, she told me she had seen a particularly handsome walnut tree in the garden and if I would show it to her. It was warm and balmy, and I instantly felt better, a little stronger, as we took a stroll, but I realised that it had more to do with Phuphee than anything else.

‘Let’s sit,’ she pointed at the foot of the walnut tree.

‘I always feel my mind is sharper after I sit under the shade of a walnut tree,’ she said, taking out a small wrapped parcel and placing it in my hand. She then fished out her cigarette box and popped two cigarettes in her mouth.

‘Right,’ she said, after taking a couple of deep drags, ‘What disturbs the peace of my gash [light of my eyes]?’