About my Husband

While traveling in India, I’ve become comfortable and patient with many things that used to puzzle, frustrate and bewilder me before my trip.  For instance, the question of marriage.  In the US, we are supposed to hold on to our freedom as long as possible, never settle for anything other than the most perfect best, and wait for our Mr. Wonderful patiently and purposefully while entertaining Mr. Right-now to avoid feeling lonely. In India, much like everything else that Westerners tend to hold on to, the concept of dating, choosing your mate and waiting for the “right one” is slowly making in-roads in big cities such as Mumbai and Delhi, but often in secret from the rest of the family, or in “non-traditional” and “modern” families.  The mere fact that the label "love marriage" versus "arranged marriage" exist and are given by the Indian people themselves leads me to believe that the Western approach to marriage is not the norm. 

Instead, on my first bus journey by myself I got the questions: “Are you lonely?  Are you married?” They came from an oversized man squeezed in next to me in the back row of the government (read: cheap, local) bus which I hoped would be empty.  As we continued with our journey, I became aware that I was the only woman not traveling with a man.  While not always the case in the South, where I later enjoyed the same questions again from men invariably wanting to seat themselves next to me, in the North I rarely saw women traveling by themselves, unless they were Western. 

Remembering the one-off stories from friends and blogs about being felt up on a bus, I decided to start the epic of my dear husband in hopes that being another man’s wife may prove to be a deterrent for unwanted advances.  My wedding ring, a gorgeous rose gold band with high quality zirconium, a farewell gift from my Mother, was slipped to the ring finger of my left hand and I began to discuss my one and only:

The man I married, being a very responsible provider, is working hard back home in the US so that we may have enough money to soon have children (thus anticipating the burning question of “where are your children?”).  He just started a company, so he is very very busy and cannot travel with me.  However, he is incredibly fond of Indian food and Yoga, and therefore he sent me all the way to India to learn both before we start a family.  Wise man, that husband of mine turned out to be.  A great provider with a vast network of friends all over India, I wrapped my husband’s tale snugly around me like a protective cloak which came in handy on almost every single long bus ride alone.

The road to Rishikesh alone proved to be laden with lots of questions from my very inquisitive and respectful back-seat companions.  “Where is your bag from?  How much does it cost?”

“I don’t know really, my husband bought it.”  I shrugged my shoulders helplessly.  My sturdy REI travel companion that I carefully picked out before the trip was not the cheapest thing when converted to rupees and I did not want to engage in a lengthy comparison conversation of how much money things cost in the US versus India for the next 8 hours. 

However, my travel mates were of a different opinion: “How much is your watch?  How much is your phone?  Where did you buy it? How much was your hotel in Delhi?” they continued, each one of the group of 4 asking the one English speaker seated next to me to translate.   

“You know, my husband really does not want me to worry about these things.  When I need something, he simply gives me a gift.  As far as my hotels, he has friends all over India who arrange things nicely.”  I realized that was perhaps not the most welcoming answer but discussing the price of everything relevant to my travel and possessions was not the most ideal way to spend the long bus ride. 

After about half an hour, the merits of my husband, the Great Provider grew exponentially as price and origin of the contents of my bag (everything that I would reach for or touch) was questioned and finally exhausted.  A discussion of politics, yoga, culture, music, anything really other than the “story of stuff” would have been welcome, but my inquisitive companions seemed to be stuck on the financial aspects of my travel and belonging, one of the few things I did not with to discuss in detail.  For the very first time in my life I entered the role of the “clueless wife” that I could never fathom, and even began to appreciate some its merits.

 By the time we arrived in Rishikesh, my husband was a polished epic hero whose tale I would continue to carry with me throughout my trip, gaining more comfort and ease with every new “Are you married” question from random male shop owners, hotel clerks, rickshaw and taxi drivers, as well as numerous male bus companions.

 At times the tale of marriage may have distanced me from those who would have otherwise wanted to get a lot closer.  Perhaps it closed the door to interactions and cultural exchanges that would have been very interesting for both sides.  However, contrary to the constant play on words in India, which turned “Are you traveling alone” into “Are you lonely,” I was not.  I was truly enjoying my own company.  I did not need Mr. or Ms. Right-now.  The more I became comfortable uttering the unfamiliar and hitherto scary word “my husband,” the more I was enjoying my own ability and power to take care of myself on the road.  

One day, thought, I will return with Mr. Right, and show him my India.