The day I got married, people congratulated me with doubts. The day I separated, they consoled me but with silent judgement. The day I filed for divorce, they questioned me unabashedly. Somewhere between celebration, sympathy, and scrutiny, my life stopped being just mine and became something others felt entitled to interpret.
My marriage got fixed when I was 23.
I was a final-year journalism student pursuing my master’s degree and earning. I was running my household and leading a team of ten writers providing content services. But society saw only one part of my life. I was judged for choosing marriage before completing my education. I was judged for marrying a man of my choice from a different religion who was also eight years older. They judged me for choosing Hindu matrimonial rituals, for choosing a humble club over a posh banquet, for wearing city gold over real gold and for various other things I did not know were supposed to be pleasing.
The judgement first came from some of my closest people. Many of them were women my age, older, and much older.
“Please don’t stop studying after marriage,” they nudged.
“Who marries at 24?” they asked.
“What about your ambitions? Well, some women have the ambition to get married,” they said.
On my first day back at college after marriage, I could read disappointment on some professors’ faces. The newlywed bride walked in with sindoor on her forehead, wrists adorned with sankha pola, and a mangalsutra around the neck. What they did not see was that I had joined classes a day after my reception. What they did not see was my effort to attend lectures and all of them. What they ignored was that I stood fifth in my batch while running a side hustle and taking care of the family.
Marriage, inevitably, brought changes to my life. I lost half a dozen friends because I couldn’t meet them. Not because of the new responsibility alone, but because I now lived in north Kolkata and it was Covid. Most of my friends were in the south. Cancelled plans slowly created distance. There was always a silent disappointment in their voices when I deferred a plan. Somewhere along the way, I had become the “boudi” in a group of south Kolkata girls, always ranting about shongshar er daitto. They frowned at the north Kolkata barir bou version of me that I seemed to represent. What they did not see was a friend sharing real-life issues.
Yet, some stayed and they believed in me. They celebrated my cooking experiments, laughed at my mindless vlogs, and watched my lockdown podcasts.
And then came the day I decided to walk out of the marriage.
At 26, when the marriage did not work, we went for a separation. Alongside the grief of a failed marriage came the report card with remarks.
“Married on her own terms, couldn’t even make it work.”
“Married with convenience, left when it was inconvenient.”
“Maa thakle eshob hotey dito na,” said many, bringing up my dead mother and pointing fingers at my dad, who respected my personal choices.
What they did not see was the series of scuffles, the sleepless nights, a relationship eroding, and an unexpected miscarriage.
The fingers pointed with guts.
Now, with the divorcee tag and a cordial relationship with my would-be ex-husband, I move carefully with the world. While the tag invites curiosity I never asked for, the latter confuses people even more.
“Oh, she’s single and lonely; she must need a shoulder.”
And then the direct question: “Why are you still friends with your ex-husband?”
Men who show interest in dating or marriage often question his presence in my life, as if closure must come with a seal pressed down for good. A man once told me, “Your ex-husband cannot be my best friend.”
I told him, “I don’t think he’s looking for one either.”
People ask, they doubt, they point fingers at good decisions, wrong decisions, and even indecision.
“Why did it take three years for you to file for a divorce? Why are you still texting him, calling him? Why do you still have your wedding photos saved?”
The questions of 'why' follow, coming from a place of assumption disguised as concern. Do I need to answer? No. Do I need to clarify? No.
In the run-up to Women’s Day, when we prepare posts, stories, and reels celebrating womanhood, perhaps ask a woman this one question: how many fingers point at you? How many times are you made to feel guilty for your choices — for choosing yourself, for choosing your dreams?
Ask her how many fingers point at her.
Chances are, she will say many.
Some might even say all of them.
