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As I slipped into a purple dress, I couldn’t ignore the irony of it all. Here I was, carefully selecting an outfit to charm yet another set of potential in-laws, relying on the age-old strategy of affected innocence to navigate the unpredictable waters of family scrutiny. It was like preparing for battle in a ball gown.

That day the anticipation in our house was palpable. The visiting family was the epitome of wealth and status in our community. With a textile empire on one side and a packaging factory on the other, they were the stuff of local legend, the kind of family that could buy a mansion just to use it as a weekend retreat.

With all the wisdom of a 20-year-old, I was, to my mind, sharper than a tack, and to everyone else’s, as stubborn as could be. When they came knocking for my details, in which my preferences for a partner were glaringly absent, I decided to shake things up and demanded to see the guy’s profile too.

My family was taken aback by this sudden display of disobedience but reluctantly handed over the biodata. It seemed my previous acts of rebellion, ranging from silent treatment to waterworks, had finally hit the mark.

Well, well, well, what do we have here, I thought as I glanced through the information. A 33-year-old globetrotting prince charming with a factory fit for a king, courtesy of dear old daddy. Not that there’s anything wrong with a little generational wealth and a sprinkle of nepotism in the pursuit of happily ever after, right?

But what really caught my eye was that studio portrait. It was like a showdown in the Wild West, except instead of gunslingers, we had a man and a camera locked in an epic stare-off, each daring the other to blink first. Talk about intense.

Seeing the picture, my gut was screaming louder than a tween at a Justin Bieber concert that something wasn’t quite right, but did I listen? Of course not. Who needs instincts when you’ve got a dash of reckless optimism and a pinch of youthful ignorance?

Putting my investigative skills — which I acquired after binging four seasons of Sherlock Holmes — to good use, I set to work on finding everything I could through his social media.

My hopes of uncovering a social media trail worthy of a master sleuth were dashed quicker than you can say, “Elementary, my dear Watson.”

There was no Instagram or LinkedIn account — only a Facebook profile with a lone post published five years ago featuring a boat and some unidentifiable shadowy figures.

I clung to the fantasy that perhaps he was just an intelligent introvert, my imagination running wild with visions of deep conversations and profound insights.

But you don’t always get what you dream of, do you?

Picture this — me lifting a glass of juice to my lips as I hear the groom of my dreams saying, “Uncle, I was just in Balochistan last week, such a beautiful city it is.” The glass remained suspended in the air as an ice-cold bucket of reality drenched me — a London university graduate called a province a city. My 10-year-old niece looked at me with pity, as did the rest of my family.

There they lay, in my grandmother’s 90s-themed drawing room, my shattered dreams scattered like a thousand puzzle pieces on the floor, each fragment reflecting a glimpse of what could have been.

Unfortunately, it didn’t end there. Equipped with information relating to his boating-related activity, my uncle cast his line with the bait, “Do you enjoy fishing?”

The potential groom grabbed for the bait with golden retriever energy, launching into details of the sport no one asked for.

At a mention of the ability to swim, his mother jumped into the conversation with lightning speed. “Our children learned to swim at the Karachi Gymkhana,” she said triumphantly.

We are proud members of the Karachi Club and concealing that fact would be unfair, so my cousin fired back, “We are members of the Karachi Club.”

Just when I thought it was over, the potential groom’s mother dropped another bombshell. “Our children enjoyed swimming so much, we ditched the hassle of going to the club and built a pool at home.”

She basked in the radiant glow of her triumph, while my cousin sat in the corner, resembling a puppy deprived of its cherished chew toy. There was no competition with that one.

At the other end of the room, the groom’s father lounged on the sofa, his eyes wandering over the delicacies before him. Clearly, he had mastered the art of moderation drilled into the head of every young woman before attending a social gathering, as he grabbed six items from the overflowing table. He had already eaten dinner before gracing us with his presence, you see.

Having discussed how many connections each side had and what business was best performing during these difficult economic times, they finally took their leave.

My grandmother, with stars in her eyes and a hint of mischief, likely thinking of the BMWs and Lexuses I would be visiting her in after becoming that family’s daughter-in-law, couldn’t resist asking, “So, when can we expect your return?”

Cue the potential groom’s mother tossing me a disdainful look and delivering news of my rejection with a curt, “We’ll be in touch.”

My blood boiled with unsaid words of rebellion but I opted instead for a smile as fake as a designer handbag from Gul Plaza.

As our chowkidar-turned-butler showed them out, I turned to my family, who, like a broken record, reassured me once again, “Don’t worry, it was just a meeting.”

Fear not, dear readers, the leading lady in this bride-to-be saga isn’t taking her final bow just yet. My quest for Prince Charming, who must navigate the maze of family introductions to find me, continues. ———

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.