“No, absolutely not. It was a pleasant journey.” the balding, wrinkled man (who I assume to be the father) hugs Papa.”
“Arey, please come in.” Ma ushers them in.
The potential groom, a few years older to me, sits down on the sofa beside his parents. He blushes a little as my parents give each other a look of satisfaction. I stand at the door of my parents' room, partially hidden from view and awkwardly clad in a saree, helplessly waiting to get on display when I'm called. I suddenly remember all the arguments I’d had with my parents before I finally agreed to see this one last guy. My insides feel like a slowly activating volcano, ready to burst out any moment.
“Come, they're waiting.” Ma approaches me. She holds me by the shoulders and gives me one final look, the way an artist looks at a finished painting. I pick up the tray of snacks and follow Ma into the drawing room, place it on the coffee table, and take my seat beside Papa.
“This is our daughter Shalini.” Papa introduces me.
“Hi, my name is Aditya Mehta.” the potential groom smiles a bit too eagerly. As he straightens up, I notice a slight pot-belly. I fake a smile and look away.
In a moment, the advertisement begins as usual. Aditya's parents compete with each other to praise their son to the skies. Ma and Papa encourage them with occasional bursts of commendation. I glance by turns at the clock, their faces, Aditya's inflated-ego face, my feet and the tray of snacks. They continue their exaggerated bragging as I recall the morning's hustle and bustle.
Papa had been up two hours earlier than his usual time, and bought all these snacks to feed these disgusting people. I had to have an unusually early cold shower and then stand in blouse and petticoat as Ma draped a yellow silk saree around me, which felt more like a trap. When I protested, the only answer I got was that it's our sanskaar to be dressed appropriately. I had to impress this one last family of strangers, after all. A girl can't live her life alone, can she? Specially in India, where at every turn, every crossing, someone or the other is mentally undressing her and planning to rape her. And then, so many people will demand an explanation when you take a decision about your own life. Well, so much for independence.
“So, Shalini, what are your skills?” Mrs Mehta, Aditya's mother asks.
I take a deep breath, “I'm a graphic designer, besides I dance the Kathak, and I'm also a student of martial arts. Yellow belt in Karate.” I smile.
“No, I mean, can you cook? My son stays alone in his apartment in Delhi, I really need someone to take care of him and feed him like I do.”
The lava almost reaches the brim. “No.” I stare into her eyes defiantly. “I don't cook. And besides, shouldn't you be looking for a nanny instead of a bride if you want someone to take care of your son?” I stifle a laugh. Her nose cringes up a little and then she fakes a smile.
“Uhh...she means her cooking is not good enough yet. She's still learning.” Ma interjects nervously, fearing that my life might be doomed if they reject me. The volcano erupts.
“No, Ma, I didn't mean anything of that sort. I am independent and successful. What else do you want? And if you're looking for a girl who can cook your son meals and clean his messes, I think you should just leave!” I almost yell at them. Ma nudges me and mouths them an apology. “No, I take that apology back. I will not apologize for being better off than this guy munching on snacks my father bought with his hard earned money, only so he can take home a nanny with benefits.” I stand up and trot off to my room. Behind me, I hear an exasperated cry from Mrs. Mehta, “I'm sorry, I don't want this kind of a girl for my daughter-in-law. Bhaisaahab, we'd better leave.”
“Yes, let's leave for goodness' sake.” Mr. Mehta agrees. I hear my parents apologizing, and by the time I'm halfway upstairs, the sounds die out and the main door closes.
I bang the door shut, clutch my saree and undrape it in one pull. In a while, I change into shorts and a tee, wash off all the makeup my mother had forced me to wear, and fling myself on the bed with a thump.
“Shalu, open the door!” Ma knocks. I decide to keep silent. She knocks again. I don't move. “Shalu, open the door, will you?” Ma commands sternly. I unlock the door and stand there, jaws tight, breath rushing and eyes welling up with angry tears. A resounding slap lands on my cheek.
“What have you done? Why did you insult them like that? Do you know they came all the way from Rohtak to see you? You're a girl, Shalu, no matter how successful you are, in the end you're a girl! You need a husband to protect you from this dangerous world. Who will look after you when we are no more?” she begins sobbing.
“Ma please, for God's sake, stop this melodrama. I'm not in the state of mind for this right now.”
“You're never in the state of mind. You're twenty seven years old now, Shalu. Do you have any idea how difficult it was for us to find Aditya? You don't have much of a choice once you're above twenty six.” she sits down on the edge of my bed. Streams of tears roll down her cheeks and splash on the floor. “You ruined everything. I told you not to be rude and disrespectful, but you…”
“Ma, please. I can fend for myself. I mean, seriously, just because I'm a girl, I need someone to protect me? I can protect myself. And I earn enough to feed three people decent meals thrice a day. Why don't you just let me be?”
“Why don't you understand?”
“Understand what, Ma? Understand that even after being successful and talented, you can't exist if you're not married and if you can't cook?”
“Beta, it's not that. If you live alone, you will have too many problems to deal with. What if you fall sick and can't get up? Who will take care of you?”
“I can always have Neena and Roshni when I need help.”
“Yes, but they're not family, are they?”
“I don't need family to take care of me when you're not with me. And how does a stranger become family just because he's taken pheras with me?”
“What will our relatives say?”
“Have they ever come to help us when we needed them? How does it even matter what they say if I want to live my life the way I want?”
“Oh, Shalu! It's no use arguing with you. Do what you please.” Ma stands up, disgusted.
“Ma, I'm a human being above everything else, and I have the right to freedom of choice. I choose to die a spinster. You can't impose things on me.” I say as Ma walks out of my room shaking her head in dismay.
Four years later, I bump into Aditya Mehta at the supermarket. His pot belly has grown larger, his hair has begun greying, and he has three huge shopping bags in each hand. A smallish woman walks towards us, with a toddler holding her hand. He introduces us.
“Meet my wife, Sunita. Sunita, this is Shalini. She's…” he pauses briefly, his eyes searching for a word.
“An old friend.” I complete his sentence.
“Nice to meet you.” Sunita mumbles feebly. She looks frustrated with a toddler and a saree to take care of at the same time. She must be around twenty eight, I presume.
“So, you've not brought your husband along?” he asks.
“I don't have a husband. Didn't marry yet.”
“Any reasons why?”
I remember all the days I'd had to sit in the drawing room, facing a family of strangers. The face Ma made when I said I'd had enough. The nasty comments from my relatives when I threw a grand party on my thirtieth birthday, and declared that they should stop looking for an eligible bachelor for me. The lechers in the street who never dared look at me after one fine bashing. The colony aunties who called me names while they had to obey every word their husbands said, or get beaten. The nights I took my parents to dinner at expensive restaurants. The moment I became CEO of the company I worked for.
“Well, because nothing tastes better than freedom.” I smile.
His little one is fairly irritated and throws a tantrum, and we part ways. He, with his obedient, sanskaari, perfect-home-maker type wife and child to protect, and I, with my freedom to dream and achieve heights he's never seen. Happy Independent Life, the voice within says as I walk out.
