I live in a traditional Syrian Christian Marthoma family. Now my family has undergone baptism and have become Pentecostal. One fine sunny day, my father out of the blue said: ‘go and see a girl.’ I being a perfect idiot went and saw her and talked to her for hardly fifteen minutes. The girl I saw was doing her doctoral program in Biochemistry. And she was reaching her thirties and so the parents were having difficulty to have a suitable groom for her. Though I was having a Master’s in Literature, (a poor criterion to be selected as a groom as most Syrian Christians prefer professionals from the IT, Medicine and Engineering professions they agreed to me because my father said that we owned a school. My father hid a fact from them that is we were steeped in debt. My father had taken loans from private bankers who charged a whopping 10% interest. That is the irony of Indian banking. Many people are not able to take loans from major banks due to a huge bottle neck and red tape. Farmers committing suicide due to their inability to pay loans is common in Indian society. The government cares a fart for the welfare of the lower middleclass and the proletarians. So finally I got married to a person I never knew. My marriage was an arranged marriage. After I got married, it was almost evening. To my shocking irony, all who were guests at the marriage became angry creditors wallowing in vehement protest outside the house. One by one they were pacified and sent off. To my shocking disgust my father even failed to pay off the people who decorated the tent. The bride’s father had given a sum of Rupees Five Lakhs to my father. A major chunk of that amount was spend on boozing durbars of my father’s hypocritical crony friends. The rest of it was wasted on lunch which was spread for numerous invitees. I was completely broke and I did not even have a rupee in my pocket. A Syrian Christian marriage is a wasteful extravaganza. The night with my newlywed wife was a total disaster. She was so afraid that I will force her and she lay away at the edge of the bed. We hardly talked and due to my anxiety was hardly able to sleep. The saddest part of our marriage was we never even got a chance to have a decent honeymoon. The very next day my wife’s family herded me and her to travel to Indore, their hometown which is three thousand kilometers away. It was summer season and we were in the lowest paid compartment of the railway coach. The compartment was crawling with rats and bugs. For two nights and two days we were together like rats having no time for intimacy. When I reflect on all of these, I feel sadness, I feel so lousy, and I curse my soul for being storehouse of rich poetry that is earthy, sensual and romantic. Should I forgive myself for all what happened to me? I can, but then again I can’t!