A Few Words…

Girls and boys in India grow up with dreams in their eyes; dreams that have largely been planted there by their mothers. If there is one challenge every Mom desperately runs after in an attempt to catch it by the neck and bring it into her living room, embrace it, and then pats herself for the coup—it is that of finding and seizing the perfect spouse for her children! She pursues the challenge—unfettered and undaunted, innocently believing that her own ward being the ‘bestest’, deserves the most eligible and perfect groom or bride (as may be available).

Almost everybody marries in India. Well, men and women marry all over the world, but their marriages are no match for ours… Ours are all about fun, masti, relatives, gifts, glitz and good food, while theirs are solemn affairs minus any brouhaha! Moreover, the roles that enthused Moms in India play in arranging the weddings of their darlings is by no means a feat possible for mothers elsewhere to accomplish. 

It is to assist the doting and warrior-type mothers who are otherwise also sufficiently braced up for the challenge, that the tech-geeks unassumingly brought the magic of the ‘www.com’ at our doorstep. Numerous online portals have mushroomed and added spice and variety to the hitherto a-little-dull process of match-making.

The scope of the search for the most perfect, alias—the most beautiful/handsome, slim/well-built, tall, fair, loving, independent, gracious, well-educated, polite, professionally well-established with brighter horizons and one who believes in traditional values but is equipped with a modern outlook and belongs to an illustrious and humble family girl/boy—has indeed become wider and substantial.

Hurray!

Go, Moms, go… The challenge is all yours! The online matrimonial portals are yours to use in your gallantry missions! Grab the challenge with both hands, for your grip shall now be firmer too!

Come on,

Click!

The Chuckles

It was a fine day with the sky bright and blue when I left college that day. Clearly, I had not anticipated the blah-blah…boo-hoo…boooosh awaiting me at home.

As I entered the living room, Mom’s opening lines were:

‘Do you realise that you are not getting any younger? You are 37 years old, for goodness sake! What have I done to deserve this? Why must I listen to all the scathing remarks thrown at me by the whole world? Oh God, when will you listen to my prayers? Did I do anything awful to deserve this?’

Before you wonder what I did to invite such melodrama, the reference was to my single status, and the resultant heartburns it was giving to the whole wide world outside.

It is not that I have always been single. My status was indeed ‘married’ for a few years, until it changed to ‘divorcee’, about four years ago. When it was single till the age of 30, people kind of sympathised with me. There simmered a dash of hope in their eyes about me. After the divorce, I had innocently presumed that I would be single once again. Technically, I was, but I was mercilessly robbed of the comfort zone that came with the single status. At first, a few accusing glances were shot at me, and then a few murmurs about why the marriage must have not lasted and then the piteous looks followed and stayed. Poor girl, there is a full life ahead and she is a divorcee now—dozens of eyes seem to be saying that.

A set of three loving family members; a steady and valued job at a college; and my happy-go-lucky temperament seemed to be of no consequence to the ‘well-meaning’ Aunts and Uncles in the family and neighbourhood. Did they pity themselves? Could it be that my happy status was a bit too much for the inconsolably married souls? Anyhow, the comfort zone I had (despite the looks) managed to create for myself was being snatched from me bit by bit since months.

In fact, I had seen it all coming… Over the past few months, Mom and Papa had been at the receiving end of some stern looks of accusation and something to the effect of how-can-you-sit-with-ease when a divorced daughter in her late thirties is sitting at home. Soon, Mom started murmuring words of discontent regarding my present status. The nudging, at first, was mild and directed more at Papa. Then, the intensity of her words and emotions became stronger, the sighs louder and the sarcasm sharper!

That day, when my visibly-upset Mom started it all over again, my mind was working on the frailties of her nervous system and the math of it all. Probably something to do with a nerve which kept getting over-stimulated every fourth or fifth morning with frustrating regularity? And the stimulated nerve ballooned to its zenith by mid-afternoon, and unless a big fat verbal dose came pouring out, uninterruptedly, for about 30 minutes—the nerve simply threatened to burst. Wary of the grave consequences which would ensue if the bubbles of anxiety were capped inside, we wretched souls (three of us, excluding Mom) listened to the regular outbursts in nervous silence. Our heads were usually bent low during such solemn episodes. Solemn, yes…but, only when Papa, my younger brother Shaurya and I—the glum souls, allowed it to remain a monologue.

On those rare days, when any one of us chose to reply or to present counter-arguments—the scene at home became a war-zone. We, the warriors, were soon wounded…dashed to the ground and within less than an hour, ambushed! Words, bold declarations, scathing comments, anguished remarks and sighs of resignation flowed high and all-around.

The above scenes were often catalysed by any boastful invitation card announcing the wedding of a younger cousin or of a younger girl or boy in the neighbourhood. Why did these giggling girls and half-witted boys announce their weddings with such pomp and gaiety?

The hubbub usually started when one of those nosy aunts who loved to rub salt on wounds, dropped in to say a harmless ‘hello’. By the way, even a scene in one of the soap operas on television sometimes sufficed in igniting the fireworks! Any of the above triggers usually occurred just before the onset of a weekend and our plans to spend it cosily tucked in warm blankets, were dashed.

On that day, Mom was rambling on, and I was wondering who the villain was this time? Was it another wedding card? Or, a casual visit by an Aunty? There was a brief interruption, when Papa—unaware that the big fat and too-familiar oration had started—meekly popped in the kitchen and reluctantly asked Mom if it was possible to have pakoras with chai? Poor Papa! He was caught in the crossfire. Mom gave him an accusing glance and roped him in, without much ado.

‘How can you be so cool? I must say that something is either seriously wrong with all of you or probably I am the only sensitive one here… No, there will be no pakoras made in the house, until Binnie is married. With all these fried savouries, she will put on weight and all the curves will make her look older than ever. As it is, the lines on her face are giving me sleepless nights….’

Papa had become a wise old man over the years. Mom’s verbal outbursts had given him an uncanny ability to either foresee when an outburst was on its way or if he did miss on that, he had mastered the art of wriggling out of the firing range, unscathed. He did the latter very smoothly at that minute. I was still taking a lot of time and had not acquired Papa’s skills.

Mom was in no mood to relent easily. The spotlight fell on me, once again.

‘Binnie, is there no mortal on this Earth who shall fit the bill? Why are you so stubborn? Why can you not compromise and settle for someone who is a normal man? Oh God! With the long list of expectations you are carrying in your head, how are we ever going to find that superman?’

And then, the final blow fell!

‘Pummy Aunty is also much worried on your account. Yesterday, she came and gave a sensible idea. She suggested that we ought to register you on shaadi-ka-laddoo.com. Well, it has given me a lot of hope… We will have wider choices now.’

I protested at this fresh salvo and told her in no uncertain words that I was not going to trust proposals from the virtual world. At first, I tried to reason calmly, but Mom was on another plane altogether. I had to fume and fret and stomp my feet and bang the door while I walked out of the kitchen. All of it was in vain, though.

*****

‘Binnie, Pummy Aunty and I have already registered you on the matrimonial site. If you don’t have an iota of sensitivity left in you so as to understand my woes, it is fine! I will check the proposals and filter them out for you… Hope you will show some decency and engage in polite conversations with those whose numbers and details I will be sending you. We are not your enemies here. Look at your age! Who do you think will take care of you when we are gone? Can I expect you to be at least a little considerate towards your aging and worried parents?’

A grim scene suddenly flashed before my eyes: An 85-year-old me—teary-eyed and alone in a large house, suffering inconsolably from an undiagnosed disease and trying to lift a glass of water… And, crrrrrraccccc…the glass falls down.

I felt a chill down my spine. I looked expectantly at Papa, quietly urging him to take over. He shot a pleading look back, and then winked at me with a smile.

I managed a small, a very small smile in return.

Mom came out of the kitchen with a plate full of cookies that she had baked in the morning and placed it before Papa. There was relief in her demeanour. Perhaps, she too had been anxious about my reaction to being registered on the site. The weight seemed to have lifted off her chest. With a look of resignation, I picked up a cookie.

‘Binnie, would you like to see the photograph of yours which we have uploaded on the site? It is the one in that short, beige-coloured skirt with a navy-blue cardigan—the one that you wore while you were in Bhutan in January this year,’ Mom added with a chuckle.

The cookie crumbled—a little in my mouth and a little on the lap.