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It was a hot summer day, my university had just ended and I was chilling on the rooftop, planning for my next life goal. My life goals were far grander than simply getting married.

My peaceful pondering was rudely interrupted by the shrill ringtone of my mother’s phone, sending shivers down my spine. That ringtone could only mean one thing — the dreaded rishta aunty was calling.

Don’t get me wrong, my parents were not in the business of hiring women to get me married. We only had a couple of rishta aunties on the case, working tirelessly out of the goodness of their hearts. To them, I was like a cherished daughter they wished to marry off to someone of their choice.

At the ripe old age of 22, I had already been subjected to a revolving door of ‘perfect matches’ courtesy of these well-meaning aunties. Let me tell you, their definition of perfect was a bit…questionable.

Not as educated as they claim, check. Parents who exaggerated their financial status, check. Those who showed up purely because marrying into money seemed like a solid financial plan, check.

The logic behind this is that if a family can provide for their daughter, why would they not extend the same courtesy to their precious son-in-law? After all, the couples’ happiness is interconnected.

There are, however, some joys of being a prime candidate in the matrimonial merry-go-round. Like lots and lots of new outfits.

This time, the potential in-laws weren’t just any family, they were my mother’s cousin’s daughter’s in-laws, who had spotted me assisting my grandmother at the park and decided I was the missing piece in their family puzzle.

They had laid eyes on me in the flesh and deemed me worthy, leaving no room for the initial customary inspection by the female elders of the clan. It was straight to the grand unveiling of the potential bride and groom to each other, as if we were characters in some Bollywood romance who would fall madly in love at first sight like Shah Rukh Khan fell for Sushmita Sen in Main Hoon Na. Cue — “chand mera dil chandni ho tum”.

It was decided that the meeting would not be at the house, but instead be held at the Karachi Club Annexe, where they boasted they were members without knowing that we held the same credentials.

Draped in my finest Sapphire attire, courtesy of my parents’ wallet, I embraced the royal treatment bestowed upon me. If I had to endure this circus, I might as well enjoy the perks.

I returned the courtesy by dressing to the nines, applying the right amount of makeup and styling the outfit with minimal jewellery. I had to look good, obviously, what if he was the man I had dreamed of all my life?

Despite leaving the house on time, Karachi’s terrible traffic made us late. By the time we reached, they were already inside waiting for us. I decided this was the perfect time to attempt to fulfil my dream of entrapping a guy with my looks alone.

I hurriedly brushed through my hair, leaving it loose enough to be blown about with the slightest bit of help from the air conditioner.

Well, all of that happened perfectly. My inner Kareena Kapoor sang “Dekha tum ko jab se, bas dekha tum ko yara” and I’d like to believe the guy fell for me at first sight.

I, on the other hand, didn’t have time to fall for him. I was too taken aback by his neon yellow shirt, so bright my eyes hurt. This was the fastest strike one I had ever awarded!

Yes, you read that right — Neon. Yellow. The colour of caution signs and highlighters, not the colour of my dreams. I glanced at my parents, their horror mirroring my own. At least I was not alone in my judgment.

The kindhearted soul that I am, I decided to give him a chance. My reasoning was that I could always work on his fashion sense. The lies we tell ourselves in the pursuit of happily ever after are often difficult to swallow.

The age-old interrogation session, where potential in-laws grill you like a suspect in a crime drama, began but with a role reversal.

“Do you know how to cook, beta?” my potential father-in-law-to-be queried, his tone as serious as a heart attack.

By this point, honesty was my middle name, so I replied with a smile, “No, uncle, I never really had the time to enter the kitchen, you see. I was always busy with studies.”

He nodded, probably mentally jotting down notes and tallying up my scorecard of wifely qualities. Unfortunately, I was quite aware that I did not actually possess many wifely qualities.

Fast forward to maghrib time. Everyone hurried off to offer their prayers. I finished early and decided to take a stroll downstairs. What harm could a glass of fresh orange juice do while I waited, I asked myself.

So, I placed my order with explicit instructions to the waiter. “Five minutes, buddy. I am counting on you.” Like a true professional, he assured me it would be done.

But, the universe had other plans. Those five minutes stretched into an eternity but that glass of juice never reached me.

The rest returned and took their seats, while I silently prayed it was one of those days where the waiter takes hours to bring the simple drink I ordered.

Alas, life is not a fairytale and wishes seldom come true.

The waiter appeared, making his way over with the confidence of a runway model. I watched in horror as he approached our table.

I immediately shot him a look that screamed “abort mission” but he interpreted it as an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

I braced myself for the inevitable embarrassment headed my way as he presented the cursed glass of juice.

“Ma’am, your order,” he said.

The conversation at the table stopped, everyone’s gaze fixated on yours truly. At that moment, I wished for the ground to open up and swallow me whole.

But my dear old dad came to my rescue.“Oh beta, you did the right thing. Let’s order for everybody,” he chimed in, hoping to distract from my utter lack of juice-related etiquette.

Thankfully, my potential father-in-law-to-be jumped in, suggesting that everyone order whatever their hearts desired.

As I sat there, reeling in shame, my potential mother-in-law offered an escape route. “Why don’t you guys go and talk outside?”

But alas, my hopes were dashed faster than a Jenga tower collapsing in an earthquake.

“I don’t think we need to talk, it’s fine, mom,” her son stuttered, blushing like a bride. This bride, however, was not happy. Strike two!

Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, strike three came. Three hours of awkward small talk later, the parents had decided they knew enough about each other to call it a day.

A fierce battle ensued over who would foot the bill, with the potential groom’s side emerging victorious. The bill was handed to the potential groom who took out his wallet to pay. Before he closed the bill box, however, he paused to ask, “Dad, should I also give the waiter a tip?” Strike three!

As we finally escaped the clutches of awkwardness and settled into the comforting embrace of our car, the dreaded refrain echoed into my ears — “It was just a meeting.”

Fear not, dear reader, for this potential bride-to-be refuses to be cowed by bad tippers. As they say, the winner is he (or in this case she) who does not lose hope. For now, I will cling to my dream of finding a king who will make me his queen. I will continue to delude myself into believing that one day the revolving doors of potential will lead me to my happily ever after.

———

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.