vijay nanda antique

The dilemma Two years ago, a good friend of my husband’s invited us to his intimate wedding. At the reception I leaned over the bar to grab some glasses. A woman tapped me on the shoulder and said, apologetically: “You may want to watch your dress – my husband is taking photos of your underwear.” She pointed to the father of the bride, sniggering with another man, looking at photos he’d taken on his phone. I was mortified, panicked and confused. He came over, put his arm around me and said: “Now, now. You don’t want to make a fuss at my daughter’s wedding. It was just a bit of fun.”

I cannot let it go. I am mad at that awful man. I am mad at his complicit wife. I am mad at the guy sniggering at the photos. I am mad at my husband. I am mad at my husband’s friend. And I am mad at myself. And where are the photos now? I feel unrelenting, destructive, all-consuming, anger. Everyone’s actions, reactions and non-actions are ingrained on my memory. It festers like a wound and I’m afraid it will drive me insane. No one did anything – even, and perhaps especially,

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Vijay Nanda

The author Vijay Nanda

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