THE WEDDING I DIDN’T WANT TO HAVE

One woman shares her story

Ilove going to weddings. Indian weddings are famously known to last for days, with various ceremonies and generations-old rituals mixed with modern Instagrammable moments and, of course, multiple outfits. Seeing everyone dressed in their best, the colours, the hair and make-up, the celebration of love, the coming together of families, and then there’s the food. It all brings me much joy. These are big-ticket events and, although my parents never pressured me to get married, my dad once told me he had put most of his life savings into wedding funds for his children. For him, our weddings and marriages would allow him to show his community that he had parented well.

Yet, as a teenager, I had decided marriage wasn’t for me. I was straddling two cultures: that of my parents and that of London, where we lived. One felt restrictive, the other was liberal, multicultural and full of realities different from what was expected of me as an Indian woman. I spent my teenage years clashing with my dad, fighting against ‘his’ culture, dreaming of when I could move out and be financially independent of him.

When we’re young, it’s so easy to see our parents as one-dimensional. I viewed my dad as a tyrant, stuck in his ways, trying to preserve a culture within me that had nothing to do with me. The expectation of getting married fell into that complex tangle of cultural norms I was rebelling against. I had firmly decided that if and when I decided to settle down, I wanted my love to mean something without the need for a contract or the spectacle of a blowout wedding.

By the time I reached 30, however, I came to understand that what I saw as a culture separate to me was very much part of me. I began to learn how to navigate my identity as a second-generation immigrant and to see my parents as human beings trying to do the same. I still felt the same about marriage, but I started to bring empathy into my relationship with them. It was healing and growing into a loving, mutually respectful bond. This, however, was put to the test when, at 30, I found out I was pregnant.

It was unplanned and my long-term partner and I decided to keep the baby. I knew it would turn my dad’s world upside down, but I found myself unable to let that pressure dictate what I chose to do with my body and life. I was resolute in my decision to remain unmarried.

‘MY HUSBAND BENT DOWN TO KISS MY GROWING BELLY’

He refused to speak to me initially, just as I had expected. When we finally sat down to discuss it, he insisted on the one thing I felt I couldn’t do: marriage. I found it farcical. Why did it matter if I was already pregnant? If it was to save face, surely everyone would do the maths and realise I did it because I was knocked up. So, what was the point of wasting energy – and money – on this illusion?

But, as the conversation continued, it slowly dawned on me that this wasn’t just about saving face. My dad is the eldest son of a widowed mother. He had travelled to the UK in the 1970s to support her and his five younger siblings. They all still remain in India to this day. As part of my personal journey to heal my relationship with my parents, I had learned, independently, about the ways in which widowed women in parts of India become outcasts from the extended family and the community at large. They’re simply cut off from society and forced to fend for themselves.

For my dad, as the eldest son of a fatherless household, honour, respect and social standing were not just superficial badges for pride’s sake. They were deeply ingrained values, hard-won over decades and through the trauma of being separated from his home and his family. I was humbled by this realisation. And, after a few weeks of discussion, my partner and I decided we would, after all, marry.

My pregnancy meant we had to do it quickly and, in many ways, that allowed us to have a wedding that would not have been possible if we had done it the ‘right’ way around. My husband is from Oman and both our families would have expected traditional ceremonies. This probably would have meant a month of festivities across two countries. Neither of us likes to be the centre of attention, so this idea filled us with dread. Instead, we kept it small and non-traditional.

I remember writing our guest list on the back of an envelope. Just 12 of our immediate family and their partners. Our two families had never met, so we held a pre-wedding dinner the night before at my parents’ house to welcome my in-laws who had flown in from Oman for the occasion. In spite of our earlier disagreements, my dad was in his element feeding and hosting his guests, proudly standing back to watch my siblings entertain and charm my husband-to-be’s family. We had arranged to watch old home videos from both families as a way of fast-tracking the months and years of getting to know each other that they’d missed.

On the big day, I woke grumpy and hormonal with a cold, feeling somewhat inconvenienced by it all. As a freelancer who needed to save up for maternity leave, taking time off to get married would mean missing out on at least a couple of days’ work! But that quickly dissipated as I finished getting dressed. I had chosen to wear my mum’s yellow silk sari – the same one she had worn when she married my dad in 1985. As she placed the final pleats in the fabric, I felt a wave of emotion come over me: gratitude and humility at the way my parents were foregoing the grand wedding they had dreamed of for their first-born, and instead putting their best foot forward for this improvised version.

When the vows were read by the registrar, I couldn’t help feeling an internal resistance to the institutional language steeped in patriarchy. It felt unsentimental and contractual. Then the vows mentioned love and loyalty, and sharing in happiness and in sorrow, and I thought, yes, I do want to do these things with my partner. I looked across to my husband and to our parents and siblings behind us, beaming at our coming together, each having made a kind of sacrifice to bear witness to our union. I thought of the small human growing inside me. I felt a rush of love.

There was no exchanging of rings. We made the choice not to have confetti. But the second we were pronounced husband and wife, my husband made a gesture to acknowledge the reason we were there in the first place – he bent down to kiss my growing belly. At that very moment, it started snowing. We threw on our coats and shawls and piled outside to get a group picture. The spontaneity of it is beautifully captured in a photo, along with the glow of happiness on everyone’s faces.

Two years on, I still find it odd to be referred to as someone’s wife. I’m not sure whether marriage has strengthened the bond between my husband and I or had no effect at all. But

I do understand that, for my dad, getting married was something I had to do in order for him to be there for me. If he has any regrets about the way it happened, they are totally eclipsed by the profound, unconditional love he shows for his grandson.