My childhood was a balancing act performed on a tightrope stretched between two worlds.
At school, I was the girl who brought "funny-smelling" food in Tupperware and who wore henna to class after family weddings. I laughed at American sitcoms with my friends but came home to melodramatic soap operas in my mother tongue. English was for the classroom. My native language was for prayers, elders, and kitchen conversations. I lived in constant translation—not just of words, but of identities.
My weekends were split between science fairs and temple visits. One day I was learning about space exploration; the next, I was sitting cross-legged on the floor, folding samosas and listening to my grandmother talk about the stars in a completely different way—how they affected marriage prospects, health, and luck.
This dual identity wasn't always comfortable. I didn't fit neatly into the American mold, nor did I feel wholly accepted when we visited our ancestral village during summer holidays. There, my accent was too Western. My opinions too bold. My independence too loud.
But the discomfort was familiar. Even oddly comforting. I learned to adapt. To code-switch. To be two versions of myself, sometimes in the same conversation.
That constant duality seeped into how I understood relationships.
In Western culture, I saw dating as exploratory, even romantic. People "fell in love," "clicked," "broke up," and tried again. It was a journey. In my own community, dating was hushed, hidden, even frowned upon. Love came after commitment. Not before. If it came at all.
I once asked my mother, "Did you love Papa before you married him?"
She paused, stirring the pot on the stove, then said quietly, "I respected him. And that grew into love. A different kind."
A different kind. Those words stayed with me.
I wasn't sure I wanted that kind. But I didn't know if the kind I wanted even existed in the world I came from.
That was the paradox of my upbringing: the more I was exposed to choice, the more I realized how much of my own was being negotiated in whispers behind closed doors.
By the time I reached my early twenties, I was fluent in both worlds—but didn't fully belong to either. And marriage? It loomed ahead like a checkpoint on a road I hadn't entirely chosen but couldn't fully avoid.
The morning light filtered softly through the sheer curtains, casting a gentle glow across the room. My heart fluttered in a way I hadn't expected — a mix of nervousness, curiosity, and an odd sense of anticipation. Today was the day I would meet Ayaan.
Growing up, I had always imagined meeting my future husband in a way painted by movies or novels: by chance, during some spontaneous adventure or through a shared moment of laughter. Instead, here I was — dressed carefully in a modest yet elegant sari, the scent of jasmine in my hair, sitting in the cozy living room of my parents' house, waiting for a stranger to walk through the door.
The doorbell rang, sharp and sudden.
My mother gave me an encouraging smile as she opened the door. There stood Ayaan — tall, composed, with an easy smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. He stepped inside, his gaze polite but measured, as if trying to read a book whose pages hadn't yet been written.
We exchanged the usual pleasantries — greetings, compliments, the obligatory questions about family and work. I noticed how he fidgeted slightly when he spoke about his own dreams and ambitions, revealing a side that felt vulnerable beneath his polished exterior.
There was a subtle awkwardness, a dance of words and glances, as we both navigated the thin line between strangers and something more. Neither of us wanted to admit the weight of expectations resting on our shoulders: the hopes of our parents, the cultural traditions, the implicit promise that this meeting would lead to a lifetime partnership.
As the conversation unfolded, I felt a curious mix of relief and uncertainty. Relief that he seemed kind, respectful, and genuine. Uncertainty about whether that would be enough — whether love could grow from this careful beginning, or if we were destined to be just two people fulfilling a duty.
My mother brought tea, breaking the silence, and the warmth of the cup between my hands grounded me. I looked across at Ayaan and caught a fleeting smile. Maybe, I thought, this was the start of something real.
In that moment, beneath the surface of tradition and expectation, two people began to see each other — not just as the future bride and groom, but as individuals embarking on a shared journey.