by Devasiachan Benny
Good evening everyone. Please relax. I am unmarried — but stable.
I know. Shocking.
In my village, this sentence alone can cause mild panic, emergency rosary prayers, and at least three phone calls to a distant aunt who “knows a very good family.” Marriage here is not a personal decision. It is public policy.
Roads may have potholes. Hospitals may lack doctors. Oxygen may run out in cities. But marriages? Marriages must happen on time. Preferably before the parish notice board starts asking questions.
In my village, everyone knows everyone. Not just by name — by horoscope, salary range, ancestral land disputes, and suspected personality flaws. Privacy is a myth. It lives somewhere between unicorns and dowry-free weddings.
The most common greeting is not How are you? It is:
“Why are you still like this?”
Like what?
Alive?
Unmarried?
Thinking?
Marriage is the eighth sacrament. The unofficial national exam. Clear it, and society claps. Fail it, and society assumes there is something deeply, medically, spiritually wrong with you.
Now let’s talk about weddings.
Weddings are not weddings. They are economic stimulus packages. Entire industries survive because two people decided, or were gently forced, to say yes. Gold moves faster than emotions. Caterers earn more in one weekend than poets in a lifetime. Dowry is banned by law but alive in spirit (now rebranded gift, blessing, adjustment, or my favourite: just small things for the girl’s happiness).
Small things, of course, include:
- Gold that could anchor a ship
- A car that requires Equated Monthly Instalment prayers
- Black market cash that mysteriously disappears before it can be sniffed by a Government banking system.
Parents spend their entire lives saving for one glorious day. Before the wedding they are stressed. After the wedding they are broke. During the wedding they are royalty. For six hours, poverty is postponed.
I was raised well. My grandmother taught me kindness, humility, restraint, forgiveness. Unfortunately, these values worked.
And that is where my problems began.
Because a good name in a small village is very dangerous. It turns you into an asset. Suddenly you are no longer a person, but a profile.
My phone rings like a stock market. Unknown numbers. Semi-known relatives. Fully committed matchmakers. They ask critical questions:
“How tall are you?” “Fair or original?” “Which country?” “Visa?” “Permanent or temporary?” “Any problems?”
Problems? Yes. Too many calls.
I feel like a customised Big Mac: Tall, decent, values-based, minimal habits, foreign exposure (available with or without settlement). Would you like fries with that? Or perhaps a National Health Service nurse?
I am promised everything. A settled life. A good girl. A better fridge.
And gifts. Definitely not dowry. Because dowry is illegal. This is just money, gold, land, car, and emotional blackmail — completely different.
When I politely say no, society becomes imaginative.
“Maybe he is too educated.” “Maybe he is confused.” “Maybe he has commitment issues.” “Maybe something is wrong.”
Yes. Something is wrong.
I am not in a hurry.
Priests call. Nuns call. They give excellent marital advice despite never having tried marriage themselves. Their concern is genuine, their persistence legendary. It’s like customer care: you cannot disconnect.
I listen politely. I nod spiritually. I continue living.
I have lived abroad. In London, people live first and explain later. They study, fail, work strange jobs, fall in love, fall out of love, live together, then decide. Marriage is not a deadline but a discussion. Weddings are smaller. Understanding, larger.
Back home, I meet a daily wage worker saving every rupee — not for joy, not for rest, but to buy a car for her daughter’s future groom. She calls it duty. I call it tradition with excellent PR.
I chose a different life. One meal a day. A mat on the floor. Less comfort, more clarity. I try and help people in hospitals and in crisis. People often mistake me for staff. I take it as unpaid promotion.
People might say, “You forget about yourself.”
No.
I remember myself too clearly.
When cities choke under poisonous air, and oxygen becomes a paid subscription, I am reminded that nothing here is permanent. We are all oru pidi charam — a handful of ash, temporarily renting from the universe.
So forgive me if I refuse to rush into marriage to satisfy a market. Family is responsibility not a Key Performance Indicator. Love is alignment, not urgency. Marriage should never be an insurance policy.
If that makes me an outcast, so be it.
I am not a commodity or an investment. Not WhatsApp-forwarded biodata either.
I am one of one.
My story will continue to simmer gently on the stove. Occasionally my unique ingredients will boil over the lip of this endlessly entertaining, perfectly confused, beautiful pan of cultural soup.
(Copyright Devasiachan Benny, 2026)
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