I boarded a plane at 19 with one suitcase — and a marriage contract waiting for me back at home.
My extended family believed I was going to the United States for school. In reality, I was running from the life of a “good daughter” they had scripted for me.
The man I was supposed to marry was someone I had known since childhood — five years older, from a wealthy Sikh family, my sister’s classmate, living on the 14th floor of our high-rise building in Mumbai. He was my first crush. When I was 12, with oily braids and Coke-bottle glasses, I thought he was handsome and charming. I spent hours imagining what it would be like if he chose me.
By the time I was 17, the fantasy had cracked. I was the studious, obedient girl, staying up late to prepare for exams. From my window on the second floor, I could see his car pull into the garage at 3 a.m., night after night, with a different girl in the passenger seat.
While his parents were away at their hill station retreat, he was encouraged to “get his experience.” I, meanwhile, was expected to safeguard my virginity and reputation. The double standard was a cage I began to feel closing in around me. By the time my parents told me they had arranged my marriage to him, my girlhood crush had given way to the sharp clarity that this was not the man — or the life — that I wanted.
