The sound of her singing fills the drunken room with flecks of admiration. It is difficult not to admire her singing even if the audience is feigning sobriety. I too enjoy her song. The words say something about love being a road that goes both ways. Some of the couples are holding each other’s hands. I glance across the room to have a better look at some of the couples. Nothing queer to see here. Just a man in a dark suit and a woman holding his arm in a much prettier ensemble.
The audience used to say, “You will only be recognised if you get married”, “You cannot wear this; it won’t be pleasing to a man”, “You should have children with a man who is a stranger and also twice your age”, “You should be with one man and if he leaves you for another woman, it is your fault.”
They don’t recognise (or pretend to overlook) the friends, the roommates who have lived together for five years, the classmates who hide in the library for hours on end, the colleagues who travelled together for decades showing their art to the world. Now, the members of the audience wear masks with the words “The Future is Female” and sell us garbs drenched in the wrong shades of the rainbow. Our pride is supposed to be worth ten dollars per piece at the sales rack.
My family is also part of the audience. They make false promises of support and love while slowly shoving pictures of men on my study table, in hopes of a “normal daughter.” They watch movies proclaiming “Love is love” but call pride a worthless expense. They will never understand the sacrifices that it took to have a little ounce of pride in our identity. They don’t know Marsha, Audrey, Sonam, Gauri, or Laxmi.
Her song ends and a steady stream of applause fills the room. She bows to the audience. They proceed to engage in mindless chatter about stocks and arranged marriages of their cousins. She walks through the crowd, smiling at some audience members. She then turns to smile at me. In her twinkling eyes, I see a future. Without the mindless chatter. Without the tedious ceremonies. Without masks. Just me and her existing together.
Aaditree Sen
B.M.M.M.C
Third Year
Art curated by Angel Rose Thomas
Edited by Dhritimona Bharadwaj and Priyambada Kashyap
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