Dawn Images

In a whirlwind of anticipation and nervous energy, I stood there, a vision in pink, with a white dupatta adding a touch of elegance to my dress. My makeup, carefully applied with just the right amount of finesse, was like the finishing stroke on a masterpiece. As I gazed at my reflection, I could not help but feel a flutter of excitement coupled with nervousness.

That day the house buzzed with energy. Every nook and cranny seemed to be under scrutiny, and three different fried items were being prepared to be served to my potential spouse’s family.

This was the first time the family of an eligible bachelor was coming to see me. Before deciding to grace our home with their presence, they inspected my profile which boasted my age, height, education, family, my best picture and everything else except my expectations of a potential spouse.

Despite the chaos around me, I could feel the excitement coursing through my veins. Being educated within the confines of an all-girls school and college where the mere thought of cross-gender interaction was considered sacrilegious, I knew I was destined for the path of arranged matrimony.

“This should be easy,” thought the 18-year-old delusional me, who had been told that she was pretty and that is what all boys and their families looked at when selecting a girl for marriage.

Had I possessed the foresight and scepticism of a seasoned connoisseur of the rishta scene, I might have seen through these lies. Alas, I was but a child of 18, completely unaware of what I was in for.

As the clock struck five, I found myself stationed at the window like a hopeful spectator awaiting the opening act of a grand show.

The leading man of this grand tale, however, was nowhere in sight. But I knew that before I could even dream of winning him over, I had to charm the toughest critics of all — the womenfolk of his household. After all, it was their approval I needed to secure, for they held the keys to the kingdom of domestic bliss.

With a determined gaze fixed on the street below, I braced myself for the real performance to begin — the one where I would audition for a lifetime role of being their daughter-in-law.

Half an hour later, a car finally pulled up in our driveway, despite a number of empty spaces in front of the house. Our esteemed guests clearly missed the memo on parking etiquette.

A pair of women emerged from the car, one cloaked in a burqa while the other flaunted a Sana Safinaz creation.

Before they could even entertain the notion of ringing the bell, our diligent chowkidar, trained to perfection in the art of hospitality, swung open the door with all the finesse of a seasoned butler. Meanwhile, the matriarchs of my household stood outside the front door, graciously greeting them when they came into sight.

“Be ready, they are here,” my aunt instructed. I quickly spritzed some perfume and awaited the call for my entry onto the grand stage, aka our sitting room.

My dear mother, bless her modern soul, had strictly forbidden me from partaking in the ancient custom of serving tea to our guests. “We are not that old school,” she declared with a firm nod of her head.

Hence, after 10 minutes of chit-chat, I was summoned and was able to follow the rehearsed script of greeting taught the night before. As I perched on the takht — more modest sofa than regal throne — I couldn’t help but notice the designer bags seated beside our guests. Tory and Coach tags gleamed like status symbols for the masses.

It was all going well, until the questions shifted to my hobbies and education. They asked me about my future plans and with all the innocence of a lamb led to the slaughter, I confessed my ambition to pursue medicine.

“Oh beta, you don’t have to do all that studying! A-level is enough, it has made you good enough to be a teacher if tough times arise,” the potential groom’s mother exclaimed, with a smile that masked a world of expectations.

Everybody else nodded, and so did this simpleton. I still question why I did.

Soon enough, the three delicacies were placed on the table. “Oh, you did not have to do all this,” the potential groom’s aunt said, slipping two of the three varieties onto her plate.

The classic interrogation disguised as casual conversation then began with a traditional question —“Do you know how to cook?”

Summoning the honesty of Bollywood heroines, I admitted, “No, I don’t”. If Bollywood had taught me anything over the years, it was that honesty is the best policy in these times else one might end up getting bad in-laws.

“Oh, they all learn after marriage,” my grandmother chimed in, brushing aside my rebellion with a wave of her hand, insisting that culinary prowess magically materialises post-marriage like a well-seasoned genie emerging from a spice bottle.

The meeting went on with the women boasting all the people they knew through so-and-so connection. Meanwhile, the potential groom’s aunt scrutinised me from head to toe, as if assessing an expensive item at a store.

“Our son wants a simple girl,” she proclaimed, her eyes boring into mine, waiting for a reaction like a hawk eyeing its prey.

My reaction was a poker face that prompted sighs of relief from my family’s side of the room. Internally, I grumbled but I kept my mouth shut for the show, a smile pasted on my face like a seasoned diplomat. In the game of matrimonial poker, sometimes the best hand is the one you keep hidden.

As the meeting dragged on, my thoughts spiralled — everything my friends who harboured similar ambitions had warned me about was happening at that moment. I was being asked to surrender my dreams because being married was the ultimate achievement!

As the door closed behind our departing guests, I said, “I don’t want to give up my dream.”

In response, the womenfolk of my family offered words of solace and reassurance.

“Fear not, dear,” they chimed in unison. “We are not sealing your fate with them just yet. It was merely a casual meeting, as commonplace as morning tea.”

Little did I know, this exchange would become the theme of my life for the next decade — a recurring refrain uttered each time a new family would grace our doorstep with matrimonial intentions.

And on it went, year after year, like a never-ending merry-go-round of tea and polite conversation, each encounter blending into the next like a montage in the rom-com of my life.

———

This is a partially satirical four-part series exploring the adventures of a young woman going through the rishta process. No suitors were harmed in the writing of this series.