One Indian Girl(79)

‘I am hiding my daughter’s achievements. So we get more boys to choose from. That’s all. I am not taking away your achievements.’

‘So if I were a son?’

‘Obviously, we would put your salary first. But now we have to be careful.’

I smacked my forehead. How do I get through to her? I wondered if I had made the biggest mistake of my life. Maybe Neel was right. I was not meant for all this nonsense. I missed Neel. I wanted to call him so bad.

‘Are you there?’ my mother said.

‘Yeah,’ I said. My heart ached as I thought of Neel holding me at night.

‘I am coming there,’ my mother said.

‘Where?’

‘London. I am going to spend some time with you. We will do this together.’



‘Enough, mom,’ I said. She tossed another parantha on my plate.

I didn’t want a husband. I needed my mother with me in London. So she could cook me hot gobhi paranthas every Saturday morning for breakfast.

‘Why do you stay in Chelsea? Southall has so many Indians. Better, no?’ she said.

‘Have you seen the park view outside? See how charming this is,’ I said.

‘But do you get achaar and chutney? In Southall you get it. Sharma aunty told me.’

‘You get it here too,’ I said. I tore open the second parantha. ‘Just stay with me. Forever,’ I said.

‘See, even you miss having a proper home. Is this even a life? Go to office early. Come back late to an empty house.’

‘Mom, I have one of the most wanted jobs in the world.’

‘And I have one of the most unwanted jobs, but I love it. Taking care of my family,’ my mother said and gave me a glass of lassi. She kissed me on the forehead. I hugged her.

‘I love you, mom.’

‘I love you too. Now show me the responses. You have made me wait all week.’

I had modified my profile on the matrimonial website. I had removed obnoxious bits like ‘husband to take care of me’ and ‘no liabilities’. And added: ‘successful career at one of the world’s top investment banks’. I also mentioned I wanted a secure and easygoing man.

‘Fine,’ I said. I opened my laptop and logged in.

‘Fifty responses, very good,’ she said excitedly. ‘Open them.’

‘Opening, mom. Be patient.’

The first query came from a Mohit Ahuja, from a business family in Delhi. They owned three restaurants, Mohit managed one of them.

‘No,’ I said.

‘Why?’ my mother said. ‘They look well-off.’

‘I don’t want to be with someone who runs a family restaurant.’

‘What nonsense!’

‘Mom, see the qualifications. BA from some random university. No. Next.’

We continued scanning the responses for the next few hours.

‘This one is ugly. I can’t wake up next to a man like that,’ I reacted to one.

Mom came up with one of her wise sayings: ‘There is no such thing as an ugly man.’

Just to get back at her I rejected some men due to their ‘looks’. Others didn’t make it because they had jobs in India where they earned a few lakhs a year. Despite all my feminist leanings, I didn’t want to be with someone who made so much less than me. Why does a woman feel a man’s income is more important than hers? Maybe because it is important to men, and very few men are secure enough to just let this issue be.

‘No, mom. He lives in Bulandshahr. Joint family. Family business. No, no, no,’ I said as my mother showed me another candidate.

I was realizing by now that sifting through prospective grooms was harder than valuing distressed assets.

‘You are not doing this properly,’ my mother said as I rejected a guy because I didn’t like his printed Hawaiian shirt.

‘But I hate that shirt. How could he wear it?’ I laughed.

‘He is a doctor. We are shortlisting him. You can choose his clothes after marriage,’ mom said.

We finished at 4 in the afternoon, with a shortlist of ten potential grooms to be contacted further.

‘I’m tired. You want to step out for a coffee?’ I said.

‘Sure,’ she said.

We walked to a Pret a Manger café near Earl’s Court tube station. My mother held my hand.

‘We have done something together after a long time,’ she said.

‘Yeah, bonding over shortlisted grooms,’ I said and laughed.

‘You wait and see. I will find a prince for you,’ she said.





34


‘Hi, can you see me?’ I said. I sat at my dining table, facing my laptop.

I had a Skype call fixed with Raj Bakshi, a doctor based in Boston, USA.

‘Yeah. It’s a little dark though. Can you switch on another light?’ Raj said. He was thirty years old, had a thin moustache and wore a light blue shirt.

Before I could respond, my mother switched on all the lights in the apartment.

‘Mom? What are you doing here?’ I whispered to her.

‘Yeah, much better,’ Raj said.

‘One sec, Raj,’ I said and muted him. I bent the laptop screen to cover the camera.

‘What happened? Don’t keep him waiting. Talk,’ mom said.