The Untouchable

Late night. Husband asleep. She sits curled on the couch, flicking through options. The screen on her computer blinks: "The Untouchables" – Watch Again? Why not?

She watch this movie with her husband several years back at the local theatre in Singapore. Left feeling very disturb but several images remain fixed in her mind and a quote “It was how they said the only clean ones left were the ones not yet in the game. Untouched. Unowned.” She clicks.

The familiar sepia tones. The 1930s. Guns, suits, men making deals in backrooms. The good guys trying to hold it all together, only to realize you can’t win if you play by the enemy’s rules.

She watches in silence, eyebrows furrowing. She’s not sure what’s more disturbing the violence, or the cold calculation it takes to stay clean in a dirty game.

Her inner voice: Sometimes, to protect what matters, you have to go beyond kindness. You need edge. Precision. Brutality, even. Not of the blade, but of the spirit.

And then that scene someone says: “You want to get Capone? Here's how you get him. He pulls a knife, you pull a gun.” She exhales. “Brutal,” she whispers. “But sometimes… necessary.”



The next morning, the smell of toasted bread and brewing coffee filled the kitchen. She was halfway through her soft-boiled eggs, while he scrolled absentmindedly on his phone, spoon tapping the side of his mug.

For weeks, his screen had been filled with biodata sheets, birth charts, and blurry profile pics. His aunt had roped him in to play unofficial matchmaker for her three grand-nieces sweet, sheltered girls in their twenties, all “of marriageable age” as the elders called it.

And because he was “the responsible nephew with taste,” she insisted he should help find good husbands for all three. Then, ding. A message. He glanced at the screen, sighed heavily.

She looked up. “What’s wrong?” Another sigh. “Match fell through again. The boy’s family pulled out.”

She blinked. “Why?”

“Different caste,” he said, like it was just weather.

Her eyebrows shot up. “Even when the astrological thingy was all good?” He nodded slowly, chewing on his toast like it was the most normal thing in the world. A pause.

She put down her spoon. Looked at him. “So… what caste are we again?”

He didn’t even blink. “Us? We’re the untouchables.”

She says, dryly: “We didn’t use astrologers or biodata. No matchmaking aunty had to approve of me. And yet… here we are. Twenty years and counting.”

He chuckles but shrugs. “For them, it’s not about love. It’s about tradition. Family expectations. Horoscope matchings. I’m just the messenger.”

She remembered when they finally decided after 13 years to register their relationship to make it official. His side kept asking the same question on repeat, like it would unlock some mystery. “

How did you two even meet?”
You’re so different!”
“You’re from completely different worlds!”

And they weren’t wrong. Culturally, traditionally, religiously they were miles apart. But somehow, they’d found each other on a road neither of them was meant to walk.

Someone once said, years ago. “What did you even see in him? He’s so dark, so unkempt. Not cultured at all.”

They had meant it as concern. Or maybe judgment dressed as curiosity. She remembered how she had replied, without hesitation: “I saw a man. Gentle and caring. Present. That was enough for me.” She didn’t see skin tone. Didn’t weigh grooming habits or social polish. Didn’t need a walking checklist of status and refinement. Some people marry pedigree. She chose presence.

And she never once regretted it. Of course, her family wasn’t thrilled. A non-Muslim? No conversion? No grand ceremony? It didn’t go down well.

But she had long grown too independent to wait for permission. She told her father calm but firm: “It’s either this man… or no man at all.” He had sighed.

There were no arguments he gave in. Love had outlasted their resistance. The day of the wedding? Laughable in its simplicity. Saturday morning: a quick stop at the temple for the symbolic ceremony ten minutes Infront of the sanctum, go around 7 times, exchanges of flowers and such then straight to ROM. Signed the papers. Exchanged rings. Done. No two-hour Hindu wedding. No fire rituals, just a pen, a ring, and some stubborn hearts.

By noon they were tucking into biryani at their favourite Indian restaurant, and by 3PM, they were home in their little rented flat in Sembawang. That was it. That was how it began.

Why choose Saturday, makes things easier he said, people after work come for lunch then go home. Marriage, not made in the stars, but carved out of the dirt of daily life. Untouchable, yes. But unshakable, too.

But the part no one talks about the part she never forgets is the night before the wedding. There were no henna nights. No flower garlands. No friends fussing over outfits or accessories.

She was alone in their apartment, wearing an oversized T-shirt, typing furiously at her laptop. Her thesis on genetic engineering was due the following week. While other brides-to-be were prepping makeup or matching bangles, she was knee-deep in DNA splicing, cell stem therapy and reference formatting.

Romantic? Not exactly. But real? Oh, absolutely.

She still chuckles when she thinks about it. “I submitted a thesis… and got a husband. All in the same week.” She’s no longer moved by whispers. Muslim friends who once sat with her, now gossip behind her back.

But she doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t seek their approval anymore because approval is currency in a system she no longer trades in. You can only be touched if you're still reaching out to be held. She isn't.

In traditional caste systems, untouchables were seen as impure contaminating to others. But here's the twist: She became untouchable not because she was dirty but because she refused to be cleansed by their rituals of belonging.

Her body became her own. Her choices became her dharma. Their silence? A small price for her sovereignty. Being excluded used to hurt. But now? It liberates.

She sees how trapped they still are how they live by lines drawn for them. Astrology, caste, religion, reputation. She is the ghost that walked through fire and came out unburnt. That scares people.

They can’t place her. Can’t shame her. Can’t own her. So they whisper. Because the mind always tries to kill what it cannot control. She doesn’t just survive their opinions she transcends them.

The old her might’ve tried to explain: “I’m still a good person.”, “I still believe in kindness.” “I just… married outside the faith.”

Her Muslim friends backbite and mutter about her marriage, her choices, her refusal to follow the script, and her going to hell, but she is unmoved. Not numb. Not arrogant. Just… centered.

They cannot shame what has already been surrendered. She let go of the need to be seen as “good” in their eyes long ago.

She satback, as her husband continue to talk about the failed matchmaking but her mind drifted elsewhere.
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