To say that my arranged marriage meetings were a bit of a bust, would be the grossest understatement of two centuries.
In fact, after three failed rounds, I was beginning to feel quite like Rocky Balboa, knocked out, bruised – and waiting for a miracle.
But we were hardly done.
Round 4
My mother walked in one day, announcing to me the fourth potential candidate: Behold! The non-Bengali.
Mother: You told me that these Bengali ones aren’t working out too well, so I found this new girl and she is a “non-Bengali”.
(Here’s the thing about us Bengalis. We don’t discriminate at multiple levels, just at one go – if you aren’t a Bengali, you’re a non-Bengali. And this is a blanket term that includes every Punjabi, Gujarati, Malayalee in the country.)
Me: Non-Bengali? That’s not a community, mother.
Mother: She is a Punjabi. She is pretty, smart and independent. I have also confirmed for your benefit – she doesn’t want to give up her career to raise babies, she has male friends and has had two serious relationships before. And don’t worry, this time we’ll go with you, so that you don’t feel intimidated like last time.
Now, the idea of a Punjabi wedding (however, far-off in the foreseeable future) did fascinate me. So I said –
Me: Fine, I’ll go. But remember – this will be the last time. If this doesn’t work out, you’ll let me be and hound me no further.
(Thankfully, she agreed).
Healthy Wealthy Wise?
The following Saturday we went to meet the girl at her home in South Delhi’s posh Jor Bagh. The apartment looked like “The White House” to me – with its lawn and fancy flowers, its exquisite interiors and expensive cars parked in the drive way. I could tell that my mother was impressed by the establishment.
But I felt something was up. These people were clearly the well-heeled, well-off sort; why then, would they want a tall, dark, not-so-handsome, not-so-well-paid journalist for their daughter?
We were welcomed inside by her parents as snacks and soft drinks were served by butlers in uniform. And finally entered the girl.
Here’s what she looked like: Pretty? Very. Her Body Mass Index (BMI), however, didn’t register on the charts (don’t want to be politically incorrect and call her anorexic without proof).
Well, her dad got to the point straight away.
Her Father: I know my daughter is too thin, which is why most of the good “rishtas” have rejected her. But she is stubborn and I just can’t seem to convince her out of it.
Me: That’s her choice. Also, if she and I feel that we are compatible; aspects like body weight shouldn’t matter.
Her parents looked relieved. I turned to my mother, confident that she’d be proud with my response, but eeks! That wasn’t the case. She glared at me like I had just promised to give them my family’s jewels. Clearly, her being on the skinnier side was an issue.
For the rest of the evening, it was just them talking.
Highlights of the Q&A Round
My Mother: Beta, your bum is too skinny. If you don’t eat, how will you bear a child?
Her: Aunty, I am a believer in pro-Ana (which means pro-anorexia, btw). It’s a lifestyle choice. And it’s the same as being gay. Also, it doesn’t affect child-bearing.
My Mother: What is that? You don’t eat?
Her: I do eat, but none of the junk that the rest of the country keeps hogging on. I don’t eat anything from the Indian cuisine. I use certain medication to kill my appetite. And I only eat salads, crackers and fresh vegetable juice, in moderate quantity, twice a day.
My Mother: But Beta, you will fall ill like this. Liver failure, muscle loss, in fact not getting the right vitamins will affect your immune system. I can barely see you when you turn sideways. Here, have a samosa.
Her: No, thank you aunty. I don’t see why you are making such a big deal out of this. I don’t do drugs or drinks. In fact, eating salads is healthy. I sleep enough and I also exercise.
My Mother: But you have no fat to burn? What do you exercise for?
Her: To stay fit, what else.
My Mother: What did you have for lunch today?
Her: I had a cracker and 100 ml of carrot juice.
My Mother: My son had four eggs and eight slices of bread and a glass of milk. Suddenly, he sounds like a monster in front of you.
The conversation went on for almost an hour, but my mother’s attempts to inspire her to have a high calorie diet fell flat. As you can imagine, the meeting didn’t end too well. When my mother asked me what I thought, I had neither a “yes” or a “no” and left it to her to decide.
So, of course, that one was a bust.
(At The Quint, we question everything. Play an active role in shaping our journalism by becoming a member today.)