The Pink Lehenga

 

I have always dreamt of a pink lehenga.

Not because I loved the color...No, pink always felt too delicate for a girl like me.

 But because they said it was the color of a girl who knew her place. 

Gentle. Soft. Desirable. 

A shade that bends but never breaks.

 They said, “One day, you’ll look perfect in pink.” And for years, I thought that meant I would look perfect when I was myself entirely.

You know, it starts long before the lehenga.

 Long before the turmeric stains your skin, before the gold sits heavy on your neck.

 It begins in the whispers of women at weddings.

“Her mother must be so relieved. Finally, someone took her.”

Took her. Like she was a burden too large for one household.

I have seen those women, their bangles jingling as they serve tea, their voices lowered to match the sound of their anklets.

 They talk of their husbands like gods and their sacrifices like hymns, but if you look close enough..closer than you're meant to..you’ll see the quiet rebellion in the way they stir their cups. The kind that stays silent because it knows no one is listening.

I bet, All of us have seen our mother our sister our aunt beg for respect? 

Not love..respect.!

 Just enough acknowledgment to remind her she exists. 

I used to wonder if she ever wore pink.

 If she ever had dreams that didn’t end at the threshold of her kitchen. 

If she ever wanted more than to keep her husband's temper and her children’s hunger at bay.

They tell you marriage is the beginning of a new life, but they don’t tell you that you might have to bury your old one first.

 They don’t tell you about the women who disappear piece by piece, swallowed whole by “compromise” and “duty.” 

They don’t tell you about the nights spent staring at the ceiling, wondering if this is all there is.

But you can’t say this out loud.

 Not in here..

 Not in any home where the walls have been painted with the expectations of generations. 

So when they ask, “Are you excited?”

 you smile. 

You nod. 

You let them imagine the pink lehenga. Because they don’t want the truth.

They don’t want to hear about the women who lose themselves in the faces of men who won’t even look at them. 

They don’t want to hear about the bruises hidden under bangles or the silences that scream louder than any argument. 

They don’t want to hear about how marriage can feel like a gilded cage when the key was never yours to begin with.

And so, I play along. 

“Yes, I’ve chosen my lehenga,” 

I say. Pink, of course.

Because when the world won’t let you pick your battles, you pick your fabric instead.

Nod,

Because isn’t that what we’re supposed to do?

 Dream in pink, even when we know how quickly the color fades?