When I brought up the idea of having a traditional Indian wedding alongside our Christian ceremony, my fiancé’s parents looked at me as if I’d suggested something offensive. We were talking about the wedding casually. We’d always had a good relationship, or so I thought. I mentioned how much I loved Indian clothing and traditions, and that I wanted a separate Hindu ceremony to honor my heritage.
They immediately shut it down. “That’s not part of our culture,” his mother said. “It’s against our religion. ”
I tried to explain calmly that we would still have the Christian wedding, and this would be separate.
But they wouldn’t hear it. They called my culture dysfunctional and unnecessary. They said it was blasphemous to worship in front of false gods. They told me the Christian wedding was enough.
I was stunned. They’d always been so nice before. I went to my fiancé, expecting him to defend me. Instead, he said I was overreacting.
He said that at the end of the day, we would still be married one way or another. I tried to make him understand how much this meant to me. That being Indian was who I was. That I’d dreamed of this wedding since I was a child.
“When you marry me, you’ll change anyway,” he said. “What do you mean? ”
“After we get married, you’ll convert. And our children will be raised white anyway.
So it won’t matter. ”
I felt like the floor had dropped out from under me. Four years together, and I’d never seen this side of him. I told him I would never change who I was for anyone.
He got frustrated. He said India was a poor, uncivilized nation, and I should be happy to dissociate from it. He said Hinduism was confusing and complicated, and therefore couldn’t be real. I’d celebrated Diwali with him at my parents’ house.
He’d seemed happy. He’d always said he respected my culture, even if he wouldn’t pray with me. But now his real beliefs were coming out. His parents had only ever been okay with me being Indian because I was raised in America and because they assumed I would eventually convert.
I called my mom, crying. She told me a story about a temple in my father’s native village. There was a stone wall with a 600-year-old inscription about her family. Her family had been in that village, traceably, for six centuries.
She said if we were equals, he would have to wipe out his entire family tree just to erase our single line of ancestors. I waited for him to come home that night. When he did, he didn’t have much to say. Just that he was sorry I couldn’t understand where he was coming from.
I tried. For four years, I’d loved him, so I really tried to make him see why I was hurt. But it was like talking to a wall. He made more dismissive, cruel comments about my culture.
So I ended it. I gave back his ring and his belongings. I packed my things and moved in with a close friend. The lease was in his name, and I wasn’t financially dependent on him, so I could walk away clean.
I didn’t owe him anything. It hurt. I’d had my whole life planned out. Everyone had always told me to get married by a certain age, have kids by a certain age.
Starting over felt terrifying. But I also felt a strange sense of relief. Because I realized I’d rather start over with my dignity intact than marry into a family that wanted to erase me.
