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The wedding is tomorrow.
You’re 12 years old.
You found out three days ago. Your father told you over dinner, casual, like he was discussing the weather. You’re getting married, Saturday, to the merchant’s son. You drop your spoon.
What?
He’s 40. Wealthy. Good family. This is a great match.
Forty.
Forty years old.
You’re twelve.
You say you don’t want to get married. Your voice is small. Scared. Nobody asks what you want. Your mother won’t look at you. She stares at her plate. Silent. She went through this too. At your age. She knows what’s coming. She can’t stop it. Won’t stop it. This is tradition. Normal.
Your younger sister is watching. She’s eight. She’ll be next in a few years.
This is her future too.
Marriage isn’t about love. It’s about property. Economics. Family alliances. And you’re the transaction. Your father made a deal. Negotiated a bride price. Dowry. Terms. Your husband paid for you. Money. Livestock. Land. Gold. Whatever the agreement was, you were sold. They just call it marriage so it sounds respectable.
The wedding day arrives. You’re dressed in red. Heavy silk. Gold jewelry everywhere. Too much. It hurts your neck, your ears, your wrists. Your face is covered. A red veil. You can barely see through it. Henna stains your hands. Hours of work. You look like a bride. You feel like a prisoner.
The ceremony lasts forever. Chanting. Smoke. Fire. Walking in circles. Seven times. Nobody explains why. You’re numb. Disconnected. Not really there.
You see him. Your husband. Older than your father. Gray beard. Deep lines. He looks at you like he’s inspecting livestock. You want to run. You can’t. Everyone is watching. Running would bring shame. Dishonor. Ruin. So you stand there. Silent. Obedient. Good.
Perfect little bride.
The ceremony ends. Everyone celebrates. Food. Music. Laughter. They’re happy. This is a profitable alliance. You can’t eat. Your stomach is twisted. People congratulate you. What a lucky girl. Such a good husband. You smile. Nod. Say thank you.
Eventually they take you away. The women. Your mother. Your aunts. His relatives. They bring you to his house. Your house now. You don’t live with your parents anymore. That life is over.
He’s already married. You’re wife number two. The young one.
They leave you in a room. A bed. Windows. He’s there. Waiting. Your mother never explained anything. Just said, be obedient and don’t bring shame. The door closes. Locks.
Come here, he says.
You’re twelve years old.
This is your wedding night.
I’m not describing what happens next. You know what happens. It hurts. You cry. Beg. He doesn’t stop. This is his right. You’re his wife. His property.
When it’s over, he leaves. You’re bleeding. Curled on the bed. Alone.
This is marriage. This is your life now.
Morning comes. Too soon. You can barely walk. His mother bangs on the door. Get up. There’s work to do. You cook. Clean. Fetch water. Scrub floors. From dawn to dark. You’re not a wife. You’re a servant. The lowest in the household.
His first wife hates you. She criticizes everything. Hits you when no one sees. Lies about you. His mother believes her. You’re punished constantly. No food. Extra labor. For nothing. For existing.
You want to go home. Just for a day. No, his mother says. Forget your old family. This isn’t home. It’s a prison.
He comes to you every few nights. Same pain. Same crying. Your body isn’t ready. You get injured. Bleeding. Infections. Nobody helps. This is normal.
You’re thirteen when you get pregnant.
Your body is still growing. Pregnancy is dangerous. You’re terrified. His mother is thrilled. Finally, a grandson. You’re useful now. Your value is your womb.
The pregnancy is hell. You’re weak. Sick. In pain. They call you lazy. Labor starts when you’re fourteen. It lasts days. You scream. They tell you to stop. This is normal.
The baby is born. A boy. Healthy.
You’re bleeding. Too much. They celebrate him. Ignore you. You survive. Barely.
You’re never the same. Walking hurts. Sitting hurts. Everything hurts. Forever. But you gave them a son. You’re protected now. Until you’re not.
You’re fifteen when the baby dies. Fever. One day fine. Next day burning. Then gone. They blame you. Bad mother. Cursed. They don’t care that you’re grieving. They want another one. Immediately.
Your husband comes to you that night. You buried your baby that morning.
You’re sixteen when you have another boy. He survives. They’re happy. You’re broken.
You’re twenty when your husband dies. Sudden. Heart attack. You think you’re free.
You’re not.
You’re a widow now. Society blames you. His family takes everything. The house. The land. Your son. They throw you out. Literally. On the street.
Widows are cursed. You’re supposed to die with your husband. Burn with him. You didn’t. So you’re bad. You can’t remarry. You can’t work. Nobody will take you back.
You walk for days. End up in a widow house. An ashram. They take you in. Barely better than the street. You pray. Fast. Repent. For surviving. You wear white. Only white. No color. No joy.
You’re forty now. Forgotten. Existing.
You think about your life. Married at twelve. Mother at fourteen. Widow at twenty. Ghost at forty.
You die at fifty. Alone. Unmourned. Your son doesn’t come. He doesn’t remember you.
You spent thirty-eight years paying for the crime of surviving. Of being born female. Of being married at twelve.
Somewhere, right now, a child is dropping a spoon at the dinner table.
