This dispatch comes to you from Jamta, a small town perched among the Himalayan foothills, near Nahan. A search on Google will reveal a number of things one can do in this non-touristy part of Himachal Pradesh. Besides one failed rain-drenched trek; a whole lot of feasting on excellent North Indian food, courtesy the cook at Sirmour Retreat, where we're staying; reading; sleeping; and countless rounds of Watten, a card game played with a special Alpine pack of cards, famous among farmers in Tramin, we haven't done much else.

In exactly one week, I will officially no longer be a "single" woman. We have a date with the sub district magistrate of Amar Colony in New Delhi for July 31, and I will have to learn to embrace my new status as a married woman even as I find ways to subvert it. You could say this trip to Jamta is akin to our honeymoon, except we're not alone, but have my fiancé's best friend and his girlfriend as excellent company. You could say that our wedding reception was on July 20, because we had some of our best friends over in my apartment in Delhi and, under the guise of a house party, celebrated our impending solemnisation as if it had already taken place.
Though we love each other, we're both clear that if we didn't live in different continents, we perhaps wouldn't have opted for marriage, given both of our concerns with the patriarchal nature of the institution. It also pains me to exercise a privilege that isn't available to so many people who aren't heteronormative. But I made peace with it after my fiancé put it in more digestible terms. "Think of it as a sharing of citizenship," he had said to me months ago, when I found myself apprehensive about adopting this state-sanctioned strategy that could potentially open up more doors for me than it could for him.