I’m a chronic oversharer—it’s one of the main reasons I think I have ADHD. Oversharing isn’t exactly a great trait for a “good Indian girl.” My mouth has a mind of its own. I overshare to make other people feel comfortable, but sometimes I leave them utterly uncomfortable with my TMI! They look shell-shocked, like they’re thinking, “Fuck me, glad I’m not her.”
Not long after I got married, I was invited to a wedding. My husband didn’t want to attend. This is an Indian man’s prerogative. If I’d dared to skip a wedding his family were invited to? Oh, the outrage! I’d have been dragged over the coals—not just by my in-laws, but by my mum too. “What will people say? What will they think? They’ll assume you’ve got a past or think you’re not properly respecting your in-laws. She’s one of those girls with too many sisters, no manners, no sense.”
The wedding was for one of my friends, so I took my mum for company.
I turned up still wearing my chooda, a set of traditional red and white bangles that signify a woman is a newlywed. I was a proper fresh-out-of-the-womb bride. I hated the bloody things—they were annoying as hell—but Mum insisted. As we made small talk, people kept asking where my husband was. Mum was quick to answer: “Oh, he’s very busy with work,” implying he was some important, high-earning bloke. Reality check? He was at home, slumped in front of the TV, probably burping his way through a packet of crisps. The aunties, oblivious, patted me on the arm and said, “You’re so lucky—such a hardworking man.”
As the evening wore on, chaos descended on the dance floor. At Indian weddings, the tables come with their own bottle service—booze as part of the centrepieces. The women sit and analyse the table decor, while the men size up the alcohol. Is it proper Smirnoff or some dodgy knockoff? Chivas Regal? Now that’s premium. And as the men walked past tables, they’d casually swipe bottles, tucking them away somewhere inconspicuous.
By the time the booze kicks in, the dance floor becomes a mosh pit. Women hover around the edges, trying to save their feet from being crushed—or dodging the odd drunken pervy uncle. You’d never see a drunk woman in the middle of that chaos; respectable ladies “hide” their drinking in the toilets.
As I was saying my goodbyes, I noticed a woman in tears, trying to deal with her paralytic husband. He was so drunk he couldn’t even stand, wedged into a corner while his idiot friends propped him up. In one hand, he was still clinging to a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, occasionally bringing it to his lips but missing entirely. She told me she was trying to get him to the car, but he refused to move. “He’s never like this,” she muttered, desperately trying to reassure me. But her teenage kids’ glazed expressions screamed, “This is not our first rodeo.”
I knew that look all too well. Growing up, I’d had to drag my dad out of countless venues, sometimes begging his friends to help me get him to the car. Sometimes fun drunk dad would show up—the one who’d clap his hands while speeding down the motorway. Other times, it’d be the angry, shouting, throwing-things dad. He never hit us kids, just Mum. And she was weirdly proud of that, like it was some achievement: “He only hits me, not the children.” What the actual fuck? The fact “hitting no one” wasn’t an option is mind-blowing.
Back to the wedding. I couldn’t leave this poor woman to fend for herself. I offered to help. She was fighting back tears, trying to convince me she had it under control. By this point, her husband had vomited on himself but was still gripping the Jack Daniel’s like it was a bloody trophy. I knew what awaited her at home—there’s a fine line between embarrassing-drunk and dangerous-drunk. I used my best “charming” voice to cajole his mates into hauling him to the car. The woman looked mortified but grateful as I got her kids into the back seat.
Before she left, I said, “Honestly, I’m just glad my husband didn’t bother coming tonight, or I’d probably be rescuing him from the drunken husband crèche too.”
My mum, standing right beside me, jumped in faster than you could say “family loyalty.” “No, no, her husband isn’t like that. Yes, he likes a drink, but he’d never get into that state.” Thanks, Mum, for choosing to protect my no-show husband instead of supporting the poor woman in front of us.
On the way home, Mum turned to me, clearly unimpressed. “Why do you talk about your husband like that? You should stop sharing so much and learn to keep your mouth shut.”
Well, Mum, you’d really hate this. Good thing you can’t read!
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