I celebrated my 40th birthday recently and there was only one thing I knew I had to wear: my wedding sari from my forced marriage, 20 years ago.

And would you f**king believe it, it fit.

I didn’t choose the man or the life it represented when I first wore it. The only choice I was allowed was the outfit. I chose virginal white instead of our customary red. To me, it symbolised purity, compliance, control, none of the things I wanted, all of the things I was expected to accept.

When I took the sari off on my wedding night and saw it crumpled on the floor, I could already see the narrative written for me.

Overnight, I went from asking my parents for permission to now asking my husband. The ritualistic, “can I be back by midnight?”, every Friday night felt like going through PMQs, except Parliament was now made up entirely of my husband, my parents, and a rotating committee of aunties. I could go out, but I had to say where. I could offer an opinion, but only if it matched the pack. I could choose as long as the choice had already been approved. I had a curfew.

It looked like agency. It felt like respect. I cosplayed

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