Waiting to be married!

MK Agarwal

This is the tale of two men who have been betrothed, but not yet married. 

Anton Chekhov believed that to be engaged is to be in an undefined state — neither one thing nor the other. The engaged man is like a person who has left one bank of the river and not reached the other. He is not married and yet can’t be said to be a bachelor. To put it differently, he has taken leave of the unmarried clan and not yet gained admission into the fraternity of the married. 

The period between engagement and wedding can be wearisome or pleasant. It is for the individual to choose his experience — one of desperation or ecstasy. Let us first consider the case of the desperate man. Every day, this man goes to the house of his fiancée, carrying with him a multitude of desires, intentions, suggestions and phrases. He hopes that as soon as his maid opens the door, he should plunge into a sea of happiness. But it turns out to be otherwise. Every time he is inveigled by the members of the family, made to sit in the living room and converse with an endless stream of pretty lasses and bedecked matrons, while the one he wants to behold (and hold) floats in and out. The whole household is busy with the wedding preparations — what trousseau to procure, jewellery to buy, furnishing to order, hall to book, guests to invite. But, there is not one moment for the two blessed, amorous souls to be together. When he raises imploring eyes, she murmurs, ‘Wait, wait, I shall be back in a minute!’ and disappears. After waiting in vain, he loses patience and gets ready to leave. Lo, she, too, is ready, but with her stout Mama in tow. He fumes in silent rage. 

Now the case of the other man, who is similarly engaged, but more staid and restrained. He expresses his emotions differently. He conjures up the image of the girl of his dreams and holds on to it caressingly. Moving in and out, he is possessed by pleasant thoughts. With feelings bordering on tenderness, he takes out her photograph, and looks at it with a lingering gaze. Overwhelmed, he plans to write her a letter — elaborate and fervent. Sitting in his study and in communion with his day-dreams, he prolongs the process of writing. Five times he begins, tears up the sheets, and starts again. His hand is in no position to keep pace with his gushing thoughts. But he plods on steadfastly. At long last, he finishes the task of love, steps out of the house and carries his treasure to the postbox. After posting it, he hurries back home, gets into bed and pulls up the quilt in the conviction of a reply the day after. Till then, he lives in a state of rapture, a world of dreams and hope.

The above instance is of the yore. In this age of smartphones, one can engage the fiancée in intimate talks at anytime of one’s choice. Who has the stamina for an agonising travel, or the patience of writing a letter? Where is the time for love to take root and germinate, and for fond feelings to grow?