This is a bit of creative nonfiction I just finished. It needs a GOOD sense of humor to be read! The piece is considerably exaggerated and cannot be taken too seriously. =)
My parents, unable to tolerate the drama that kept unfolding in front of their eyes, decided that it was time for some old fashioned intervention. Now their idea of “intervention” translates into “arranged marriage”. When I discovered that my initial tight-lipped approach failed to work, I took to ignoring them. When they persisted despite the cold shoulder, I shed crocodile tears consciously dabbing the corners of my eyes. My play of emotions failed to soften their hearts, and I finally took to my bed weeping and wailing. A towel was unceremoniously tossed in my direction and I was told that it was unladylike behavior for a young woman who was about to get married. The choice was ultimately mine – get hitched or stay single forever.
So as I began my search for graduate school courses in international law, my mother scouted matchmaking agencies for suitable boys. Within a week, the matchmaking bureau in proof of their efficiency and high success rate, faxed over a list of potential husbands for my mother's perusal. Mind you, I was not at all involved in this process, and my required input was minimal. Furthermore, the agency recommended that my parents initiate any contact, which meant that they would screen the candidate by speaking to his parents. I scoffed inwardly. That would not guarantee my future security. For all I knew, parents covered for their children all the time, the guy could turn out to be a total psycho and I would only find out after the wedding.
Round One:
The candidate looked good on paper. With a stable job in one of the top investment banks around the world, a senior level posting in Bombay, and "money in the bank for the two of us", he was a dream candidate. Although his photographs seemed to bring up the four cheese pasta I had earlier in the day, I agreed to begin preliminary discussions. He wrote polite and practical emails to me, with no pretentious undertones. One Saturday night, no plans in hand, I found my instant messenger blinking with a message from him. It was Mr. Moneybags. He seemed just like his emails, socially awkward, straightforward, and unemotional. He monopolized the conversation, by asking pointed questions.
"Will you consider moving back to India?" he asked.
"No." I replied. Career and further education were my priorities.
"How important is marriage to you?" he continued.
I gaped. "Is that a trick question?" A question with a question.
"No." He was not amused. Needless to say, neither one of us were keen to continue the correspondence. I felt strange, it was as though I just had had a cyberchat one night stand without even meeting my partner.
Round Two:
One day the telephone rang, while I sat chewing on my hair absent-mindedly at the breakfast table. After a night of hard partying with my girlfriends, picking up the long distance call was probably one of the lesser sensible decisions I have made.
"HALLO!" boomed a man's voice at the other end." I jumped two feet in the air.
"HALL-LO?" I sputtered, albeit equally loudly. The average Indian is affected with the long-distance loud-voice syndrome. Most common symptom is the loss of decible control.
"I am Mr. J calling from India. I saw your daughter's profile in the magazine and I like it very much. I would like for our children to meet. Are you willing?" Still loudly.
"You are speaking to the daughter," wryly. My voice had resumed normalcy.
"Oh. Oh." He was not expecting me to pick up the phone.
"Okay, let me tell you about my son. He has a bachelor degree in engineering from XXX university, and he has done his MTech from YYY university. He is now working as the Assistant Vice President at ZZZ Bank, which is one of the top banks in the world..." his voice trailed off.
Both of us were equally stunned. I finally broke the awkward silence. "Why don't I get my mother to call you?"
"Okay."
"Bye."
Needless to say, Mr. AVP at Bank ZZZ did not make the shortlist. Despite being blessed with allegedly decent brains, he seemed to exhibit typical stereotypes associated with the average male Indian export - inability to hold a conversation, pencil-thin moustache, a paunch from drinking too much, and stalker potential from the number of calls he made to us after 10pm.
Round 3:
The third one left a confirmation that all the good ones were taken and the leftovers were either completely gay or borderline cases. I was forced to meet with a potential's nucleus family at an uncomfortable dinner during my visit to India. I faced the party with an air of resentment, naturally, as the playing field was unfair. They had the pleasure of scrutinizing my every move, while I squirmed uncomfortably in my seat. I was attacked with ferocity and jest. "Do you talk a lot? X likes girls who talk. What do you do? How much money do you make? Do you enjoy cooking?" It was horrific.
On a slightly eerie note, the family seemed to exhibit seemingly bizarre characteristics. They had cutesy pet names for everyone, praised one other to the skies, and stories of the potential's mischief, which everyone seemed to find adorable yet only I seemed to find childish and irritating, were narrated to me with dramatic purpose. How X teased his mother by cooking meat in the house when she observed religious fast, or how he tortured his poor grandmother by pulling apart her up-do, or how he constantly contradicted his brother's statements - made him sound more as an abusive psychotic and less as an endearing tease. I held myself tightly and submitted to the torture until the end of the evening.
Much eye-rolling and back talk followed after every meeting. My parents, upset that I had curled up like an earthworm, were convinced that nobody would ever want to marry their daughter. My mother was devastated at my string of rejected suitors and wrung her hands at the ceiling (at some spiritual entity I assume), and prayed that word of my fuss should not get out, or the line of men waiting for my hand in marriage would disappear.
I did a quick overhaul of the situation. The whole experience feels as if I am starring on a Mad TV spoof of The Bachelorette. As my hopes head toward a steady decline, it would not hurt to have a few non-moron options. My parents have set out to integrate me respectably into Indian society - by singling out single boys to relieve me of my singleness. In the past, being single had its disadvantages, but the raw clarity of the circumstance cuts through me like poison racing through my bloodstream. I want to be anywhere but here.
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