Vedashree Khambete Sharma
Okay, let’s not make a big deal out of this…
Updated: Jun 7, 2021
I’m getting married. For real. Stop laughing or rubbing your eyes or letting your mouth hang open in rabid disbelief. I’m guessing you’re doing one of these things because that’s what most people who heard the news for the first time did. Including, I might add, me.
Now, you’ve read this blog, you know me. You know I’m not the kind of girl who writes about happy things much. I don’t go all goo-goo gushy about Rook or talk about kittens and puppies and rainbow-coloured ice-creams with marshmallows on top. I don’t sigh and sing little Disney ditties about how love conquers all and how it’s the bestest thing ever, yes, even better than a double scoop mint chocolate chip Baskin & Robbins waffle cone.
I. Am. Not. That. Person.
Given half a choice I’d happily just scribble a little “oh, by the way, I’m tying the knot, now get on with your life” kind of post.
But apparently it’s impossible to get married without going a little insane. I mean on most days I’m a little bonkers anyway but throw in a wedding in the equation that you’re packing a whole lot of crazy into one already pretty messed up person. No, I’m not turning into bridezilla or anything. In fact, the whole getting hitched thing just registers now and then. And on those occasions, once I finish crouching in the corner whimpering in terror for a few minutes, I’m pretty much good to go.
Why the drama, you ask? Well, it’s like this. As R (giver of Gaiman and Coetzee and merciless Delhite with a Londoner-than-thou attitude) put it, I’ve been screwed over by Love quite often. In crazy, horrible, scandalous great-idea-for-a-reality-show-on-Bindass-TV kind of ways.
And Rook, bless him, while being perversely into Splitsvilla and Roadies, seems surprisingly unwilling to make my life a slow burning journey into Purgatory. So naturally, I can only assume that once Dame Destiny sees me all married to him and stuff, she’s going to roll back her sleeves and send our life to hell on a Rajdhani.
But do I have the luxury of sitting back and freaking out about ridiculous what-if scenarios like a normal person? No. Because between shopping for wedding stuff, juggling schedules, meeting innumerable relatives and coddling the supernova-sized ego of a very miffed father, I just about have two seconds to myself a week. Which I spend frantically waving at Rook so he knows I’m still alive and willing to marry him.
So yes, I need a place to vent and you, lucky readers, are going to be subject to it.
Be patient. Be kind. And pray for Rook. I don’t think he knows what he’s signing up for.