Once I Owned a Husband

How much better would it sound, to replace the 'husband' with Ferrari, or an Omega? It would be sad, all the same, with the past-tense of 'own', yet, once I genuinely did own one. Or, people around me made me own one. What? Am I kidding? It was all but that. I was owned. I was forced some ridiculous conditions to fulfill before the marriage, I was advocated of the encompassing love that I would get from the family, and their culture, I was defeated to alter my surname -- into one that is as pathetic to attach as it sounds next to my name. I was convinced that love conquers all, and how liberated I feel now, when I find that it is indeed, not. Not in the name of a surname.

Adultery, alcohol-abuse, anxiety -- none of these were issues that lead to the dignified D-word. The cross is always silent, if you do not choose to listen. Adultery, alcohol-abuse, anxiety -- each were outstanding possibilities to own a husband and henpeck him. But, he owned me instead. With his expectations and lack of being able to standing tall to them. He owned me with his desire, and love, and his overpowering knowledge of everything.

To have a chaotic child, and to have a daughter dressed in invisibility -- there is a difference. Words garb her now, in lovely innocent sunshine and fresh rainfall. She smiles like dew. There are no frostbites.

What is it to own a husband? To have him sign my expenses? To have him question my taste? To have him war over cultural diversity? He becomes the effervescence husband-material. He protects. And pays. Did anyone say I wanted either?

Thus said, I decided I had enough of owning one.

Regret free, I disowned him.

-- Veera. 

(They say it means to be brave. Now they are disappointed that I lived up to my name.)