Back in the day weddings were typically held in school halls, town halls, or leisure centres. The reason? Because they were so bloody big! Usually, there would be about 600–1,000 guests. We only had 300 people, so we had the luxury of hosting ours at a hotel. Novel!
So, we decided to make a night of it. Most of our close friends and family stayed at the hotel with us. After the wedding reception, we spent the wee hours drinking at the bar—we’d come well-stocked with leftover wedding wine. We finally got to our room around 5am and began the delicate process of removing all the hairpins from my hair, peeling off the lengha, and shedding the mountain of jewellery. Then, of course, came the mandatory consummation of the marriage. We spent a thrilling 56 minutes trying to remove my blouse, and 4 minutes on the job! We finally passed out around 6am.
The next morning, the plan was to go to my husband’s house before leaving for our honeymoon. Tradition trumped logic: we had to drive past both the airport and my house to stop at my husband’s. Our flight was at 5pm, which meant checking in at 2pm. Fine. Fine. FINE!
As a married woman, I was expected to dress in full regalia. The outfit my mother-in-law had chosen for me was the ugly moss-green suit. As it was received so well at my chunni ceremony. It was itchy, and the chunni was worse—embroidered but unlined, leaving rashes down my arms. I hated it. I was tired, tetchy, and hungover. So, I chose something simpler – a back up outfit.
I ended up doing my makeup in the car because we were, obviously, running late. My sister, brother-in-law (BIL), husband, and I were crammed into my BIL’s banged-up pocket rocket of a car, speeding down the motorway. The only mirror I had was a tiny blusher compact—completely useless for precise red lipstick or winged eyeliner.
I turned up looking like a clown. My husband was suited and booted smelling lovely, and I looked like a toddler who’d raided her mum’s makeup bag. As the traditions were performed at the door, my MIL leaned in and whispered, “Why didn’t you wear the suit I bought you? I knew you didn’t like it!” I kept my mouth shut—she was lucky I was even dressed. And with all the candles around, my hangover breath was basically a fire hazard.Honestly, she was lucky I was wearing clothes. And with all the candles around, my breath was practically a fire hazard.
We dropped off the wedding cards and cash gifts at their house. I also left all my wedding clothes and jewellery there. My sister and BIL then dropped us at the airport. We were under strict instructions from my husband’s parents not to stop by my house, even though it was on the way. Apparently, leaving from my maternal home would cause the earth to fall off its axis. And of course, I was the girl—why would I want to see my own parents?
Finally, we were off on our honeymoon, blissfully asleep on the aeroplane. For four weeks, I didn’t think about any of it.
When we returned, I didn’t get to go home. We went straight to my husband’s house from the airport. My parents didn’t meet us there—they didn’t want to encroach on my “new life.” The anxiety was real. When we arrived, my husband flung open the suitcase and started handing out gifts. I just wanted to go to my mum’s, and lie on top of her on the sofa with all my familiar smells. Instead, I stood there, jet-lagged, trying to play the good daughter-in-law while my husband played Father Christmas. It was a full-on Oprah moment: “You get a gift! And you get a gift!” Except this time, it was my husband dishing them out.
My FIL unwrapped his sheepskin slippers, thanked us, and loved them (I’d chosen them). Then came my MIL’s turn.
Now, some context. On our honeymoon, my husband had bought duplicates of everything I got for my mum. At first, I thought it was sweet. But it soon became obvious—he didn’t have a clue what his mum actually liked. He didn’t know her preferences—colours, sizes, anything. I bought my mum practical things: honey, aloe vera juice, beautiful shell-inlay table mats to replace our worn ones. My husband bought his mum the same things. Actually, no—he also got her a tea towel. He’d seen her use one once and thought, she might like this.
When she opened her presents, she said, “How come my gifts are for the house? Why don’t I get something just for me?” I was mortified. Never in my life had I seen such a reaction to holiday gifts. In my family, a fridge magnet was a perfectly acceptable souvenir. What more did she want? She was gently ushered away by my FIL while I stood in the kitchen, mouth open, wondering what life decisions had led me here. No one questioned her reaction. They all acted like it was normal. I just wanted to go home.
The next day, my MIL asked me to sit down and open the wedding cards and gifts. I said I’d do it during the week, but she insisted I do it in front of her. After the drama from the day before, I thought, “Just get it over with—what’s the worst that could happen?” My mum had already called to say she’d deposited all the wedding cash gifts into my account. She’d even rounded it up to the nearest thousand with her own money.
So, we sat down. The wedding cards were placed in front of me, and my FIL, MIL, and SIL sat with a pad and pen. As my husband and I opened them, I had to call out the amounts and the names of the givers. The money was placed in a pile, and my MIL recorded everything. Occasionally, she’d chime in with, “We gave their daughter/son more/less.” It was the most awkward experience of my life—more awkward than walking in on my parents “getting their freak on.” I’d have gladly relived that moment 100 times over.
When we finished, my MIL asked where the rest of the money was. She meant the cash and cards I’d gotten. I told her my mum had deposited it all in my account. She sighed, rationalised it, and said it should be fine since she hadn’t given cash gifts to my family. So, I’d be allowed to keep that portion.
She pocketed all the money from cards addressed to both me and my husband, claiming it was repayment for money she’d given at other people’s weddings. “If I gave the money, I should receive the money,” she declared. Then she turned to me and added, “When you start giving money, you can keep it.” She also took all the shagun given to my husband at the gurdwara after the Anand Karaj.
Next, she went through the gifts, asking which ones she could keep, with leading questions like, “You won’t use this; shall I just keep it here for now?” I’d never seen such thirst in action. I blindly nodded, agreeing to all her requests.
It was the same at the dinners we attended as newlyweds. These were hosted by family and friends. I’d be paraded around like a Bollywood Barbie while my husband rocked up in jeans and a shirt. At the end of the night, we’d receive gifts—suits, saris, earrings. My SIL would also get a small token gift. In the car, she’d open hers and squeal, “Oh my goodness, I’ve always wanted ones like these!” Back home, she’d guilt-trip her mum into letting her keep them.
I didn’t even open mine. I’d just hand them over, change into pyjamas, and wait for the house to settle.
Then, when the house had finally settled, I’d jump on the bed, full bounce, pretending my husband and I were having sex. It was the only way I felt I had any control—awkwardness for awkwardness. Fair game.
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