This story is from Atrium’s Spring 2025 magazine, which released April 2025.
In my family home, we never had photos displayed. No family photos, baby photos of my sister and me or wedding photos of my parents. Not a single picture could easily be found anywhere in the house.
Memorabilia were something meant to be stashed away, for they were more poignant reminders of the past than happy memories. It was a testament to what I thought life would be full of: regret.
That’s why it was a big deal when my mom visited her family in Bangladesh in 2022 and came home with a dusty VHS tape of her and my dad’s arranged wedding. For 30 years, my parents had never felt the need to bring a copy or keep one at our own house until now.
I saw the video once during a vacation to Bangladesh when I was 6 and didn’t think much of it, but this time, I was anxious. I was going to revisit the beginning of what would eventually lead to my existence, and I wasn’t sure if I was going to like it.
I sat on the couch in front of the TV as my mom inserted the cassette into a VHS player we had lying around in a closet.
“Film it on your phone if you want,” she said. “This is probably the last time you can see it.”
“Why?” I asked.
“The tape is old. If I play it even one more time, the player will probably destroy it.”
My eyes followed my mom’s fingers grazing over the buttons on the machine as she looked for the start button. I hesitantly pulled out my phone from my pocket and began recording as digitized letters displayed my mother’s and father’s names over a blue screen while a random part — not even the chorus — of “Never Gonna Give You Up” by Rick Astley blasted through the speaker.
Pictures of my parents spun onto the screen with firework animations behind them. It was so early ’90s.
But then I saw my 19-year-old mom’s face, a spitting image of my own, up close and washed with sorrow. Her big eyes — my big eyes — were puffy from crying. Her pointy eyebrows — my pointy eyebrows — furrowed with resignation. Through the layers of white powder patted all over her face ran continuous streaks of tears, dissolving the makeup on her cheeks.
Back then, it was typical for weddings to happen at a relative’s house. In the middle of a small room, she sat on a bed with marigold garlands hanging behind her.
My mom, Shilpi, cowered every time she made eye contact with the camera, only for her aunt’s finger to push her chin up moments later. She was like a zoo animal, a spectacle for her family and new in-laws.
Back in my living room 30 years later, my mom forced a laugh as she watched her younger self cry.
She is the oldest of three sisters and two brothers, born to an educated family in the city. Her mom was a school principal and her dad a banker.
While the family dearly valued schooling, the idea of a woman with an education but no husband did not suffice in 1990s Bangladesh. Status and security could only supposedly be achieved with marriage, preferably one that happens when the woman is very young.
In the wedding video, my dad, the bright one of the family, grinned as he greeted his schoolmates and relatives. Everyone called him by his last name, Ismail. When pronounced correctly, it sounds a bit like the word “smile” — the same one he wore helping his parents and 10 siblings.
With good looks, an impressive ability to learn things quickly and a student visa to the United States, Ismail was his family’s ticket out of the village and into the West. The only thing missing was his marriage. The VHS player screeched faintly, and the video grew distorted as it neared the end — the moment my parents met for the first time.
As Ismail crossed the lavishly decorated room toward Shilpi, his smile faded away. He sat down next to her slowly, as if the bed would collapse if he moved any faster. Shilpi sat still, not acknowledging the stranger who was now her husband. She was to lose her name and now be called Ismail’era bo, meaning “Ismail’s wife” in Bengali.
People were pushing them together, but it seemed like they couldn’t be further apart.
At that point, the tape was unplayable. All that was left was a blue screen. I stopped recording as I pressed my lips together, holding back tears. I had witnessed the beginning of my parents’ lifelong sadness.
My mom ejected the tape and inspected it front to back. She turned the spindles on the cassette and attempted to reel back what spilled from the bottom. After three failed attempts, she shrugged and turned off the TV.
“I don’t know now,” she said with a slight frown and a broken cassette in her hands.
My existence is a product of anything but love.
My mom and dad rarely smile when they’re together. They don’t greet each other in the mornings or when my dad comes home from work. A trivial remark from either of them develops into a fight. But it wasn’t always this way.
Until I turned 7, my parents used to call each other shona, which means “darling” in Bengali. I would tell my dad to kiss my mom on the cheek every morning before work — like the couples in the American TV shows I watched. They sometimes did it to make me laugh, but I realize now my parents’ affection for one another was a show as well.
Their strained romantic relationship infiltrated even my platonic ones. The words “I love you” felt fake to me, even with friends.
When everyone said their goodbyes for the summer in seventh grade, kids hugged and giggled. All I could say was, “Have a great summer!”
As my friend ran to her mom’s car, she yelled, “Love you, Zarin!”
It was the first time someone outside my family had said this to me. I awkwardly waved back and nodded, and she returned my gaze with furrowed eyebrows and her mouth agape.
“You’re not going to say it back?” she chuckled, her tone tinged with offense.
Before I could respond, teachers in the student pickup area yelled for the cars to keep moving forward. My friend drove away, and I played back that moment in my head over and over.
Did I hurt her feelings? Why was it so hard for me to say “I love you” back? Do I not love my friends?
I constantly worry my relationships will fall apart because of my discomfort with intimacy. I didn’t have much faith in the idea of receiving love, so how was I supposed to reciprocate it?
This was a complex waiting to ruin my life, and frankly, I thought it was going to win.
But on my 21st birthday, I realized I had put up a good battle against the emotional trauma evoked by my parents’ marriage.
That day, it was pouring. The wind was strong enough to break an umbrella; the humidity was high enough to leave sweat stains on your clothes. It wasn’t ideal weather for a celebration (or anything else, honestly), but I was prepared. My parents found birthdays unexciting and depressing, so I’d never experienced the typical big birthday fanfare.
Still, my friends insisted on commemorating the day to emphasize how special it was, not just for me but for them. I had settled on dinner at a restaurant, and they arrived with drenched umbrellas, rain-stained clothes and hair disheveled by the gusts outside.
And yet, when they saw me, they each broke into a genuine grin, smiles that soon erupted into a chorus of “Happy birthday, Zarin!” Their excitement despite the terrible weather made me realize I had friends to love who loved me all along.
The love I was so disenchanted with had been with me for over a decade, just not professed through words.
Giggling on the phone for hours, making treats for one another, going on lunch dates nearly every week with people I have known as early as second grade — it all feels just as, if not more, gratifying than sappy words. Giving and receiving time we know we’ll never get back is about as precious love may ever get.
If my life were a tape, the beginning may have looked unpromising, with its subject a distant young girl. In my teenage years, I could only imagine myself on my own in my later years of life.
But now I know life isn’t something you can stash away like an old wedding tape. To be lived, it has to be spent with other people. When I picture myself growing older, I see my friends still in frame alongside me.
I can’t pretend I like affection. I know people would hate me if I did. The question “When’s the next time you’re free?” is my “I love you.”
And I hope that will do. I hope they know that, even though it’s hard for me to say those three words, I feel them all the time.
