To pass the marriage juncture unhurt could be a dream for many youngsters.
For quite some time now, I have been facing constant threats to my free existence as a single man from a group of marriage brokers in my locality. They have taken formidable positions around me along an ambush line.
Generally, marriage brokers are a special breed that, once clung onto your life, would not let you escape their sticky tentacles until you are ‘pinned to a spot’. They will closely watch each stage of your life, more than your parents do. In their business diary, they will set aside a full page for each unmarried girl and boy in their ‘jurisdiction’.
Ever since I hit the age required to qualify as a prospective bridegroom, these brokers began using a myriad of tactics to get closer to me. At each function I attended, be it an event as celebratory as a marriage or a ceremony as melancholic as a funeral, I found them trying to strike a camaraderie with me in different ways. Some would invite me to sit with them for a coffee. Some would simply bow to me with a spectacular smile. A few of them were quite old and when they bowed, their fragile backs were severely strained, making their smiles look a little effortful as if they were constipated.
At my home, the situation was no different. My parents had already started stepping up pressure on me to bring them a daughter-in-law. Last month, when I was enjoying one of my short vacations in Kerala, my parents received a sudden revelation that it is high time that their son found a life partner.
On a Sunday morning, with no prior notice, they asked me to go to see a girl. I was told that someone would be coming to accompany me to the girl's house.
Sharply at 10 AM, a middle aged man appeared at our front door with a big smile. In a black pant and white cotton shirt, he resembled someone of a noble birth. But, in some corner of my mind, I felt that I had met him somewhere before.
Suddenly, I was able to recall that he was Siddique, the guy who brokered a property deal for my friend last year. I felt a little awkward. Is girl a property?
My parents and Siddique insisted that we go to the girl’s house in car, as was the practice in our area. But my love for two-wheelers had already become an absolute addiction. I pulled out the old Hero Honda bike from under the firewood shed attached to my house. This machine, full of dust and rust, was left there by my cousin when he went abroad. With a piece of shabby cloth, I carefully carved out a little space on its dusty seating upholstery, enough for two buttocks - mine and Siddique's.
The first two kicks triggered no ignition but a cloud of dust and a couple of sneezes from Siddique. In the third attempt, the engine came to life. Hero Honda doesn't entertain more futile kicks.
We set off.
Sitting on the pillion, Siddique started talking about all the marriageable girls in the locality. He keeps a business diary containing their details like age, educational qualifications, the amount of money their fathers are willing to spend as dowry etc. He keeps another diary for boys. Siddique reminded me of the late Manukka, who was a tomb-digger in our village.
Manukka is said to have had kept a diary in which the names of all the old people in the village was written. Based on their age and the criticality of their old-age illness, he would make a priority list for tombs. Whenever he paid a visit to his bedridden compatriots, their frail bodies trembled with fear as, due to the gravity of their time, they saw death in Manukka. Nevertheless, he continued his profession till his death at the age of 66.
"Can we stop near the Water Tank at Chamal for a while? It is on the way. I want to see a plot there." Siddique's suggestion knocked me out of my thoughts. He seemed to have a plan to do some property business as well that day. So, we had to see the plot first and then the girl. A decision about both would be taken afterwards.
We reached the girl's house at 11.45 am. From the moment that house appeared in my sight from about 1 KM away, a sort of awkwardness began to thump my heart heavily. I and a girl are going to consciously look at each other (in the eyes, maybe) and judge each other based on our appearance, a few spontaneous words we may speak and the silence that might fall in between our conversation.
The 'interview' did not take much time. She sat almost silent through the session, except for her ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ answers irrespective of the nature of my questions, making it imperative upon me that I speak nonstop nonsense for about 15 minutes. After finishing the interview in style, I got up to leave the room.
"Wait a minute," her sweet voice came from behind. I curiously turned my head to face her, my eyebrows curled up like two big question marks.
"You didn't tell your name". In a fraction of a second, all the muscles that I held tight till then with a lot of effort got pathetically deflated.
"Oh...sorry... it is Saheer." I unsuccessfully tried to camouflage a reddening embarrassment with a pale display of teeth, and hurried to the exit door in a relief that none else noticed my goof-up.
As I half opened the door leading to the sit-out, yet another sweet blow landed on my ears: "You didn't ask my name either". Standing on the threshold, watched by her uncles, father and Siddique, I had no choice but to holler, "Sorry...what is your name".
I didn’t have the patience to hear what she said her name was. I saw her uncles and father looking face to face in utter bewilderment. “What were you both doing inside without even asking things as basic as each other’s names?” their confused eyes seemed to ask.
The proposal was dropped for some reasons. Who knows what there is in a name.
For quite some time now, I have been facing constant threats to my free existence as a single man from a group of marriage brokers in my locality. They have taken formidable positions around me along an ambush line.
Generally, marriage brokers are a special breed that, once clung onto your life, would not let you escape their sticky tentacles until you are ‘pinned to a spot’. They will closely watch each stage of your life, more than your parents do. In their business diary, they will set aside a full page for each unmarried girl and boy in their ‘jurisdiction’.
Ever since I hit the age required to qualify as a prospective bridegroom, these brokers began using a myriad of tactics to get closer to me. At each function I attended, be it an event as celebratory as a marriage or a ceremony as melancholic as a funeral, I found them trying to strike a camaraderie with me in different ways. Some would invite me to sit with them for a coffee. Some would simply bow to me with a spectacular smile. A few of them were quite old and when they bowed, their fragile backs were severely strained, making their smiles look a little effortful as if they were constipated.
At my home, the situation was no different. My parents had already started stepping up pressure on me to bring them a daughter-in-law. Last month, when I was enjoying one of my short vacations in Kerala, my parents received a sudden revelation that it is high time that their son found a life partner.
On a Sunday morning, with no prior notice, they asked me to go to see a girl. I was told that someone would be coming to accompany me to the girl's house.
Sharply at 10 AM, a middle aged man appeared at our front door with a big smile. In a black pant and white cotton shirt, he resembled someone of a noble birth. But, in some corner of my mind, I felt that I had met him somewhere before.
Suddenly, I was able to recall that he was Siddique, the guy who brokered a property deal for my friend last year. I felt a little awkward. Is girl a property?
My parents and Siddique insisted that we go to the girl’s house in car, as was the practice in our area. But my love for two-wheelers had already become an absolute addiction. I pulled out the old Hero Honda bike from under the firewood shed attached to my house. This machine, full of dust and rust, was left there by my cousin when he went abroad. With a piece of shabby cloth, I carefully carved out a little space on its dusty seating upholstery, enough for two buttocks - mine and Siddique's.
The first two kicks triggered no ignition but a cloud of dust and a couple of sneezes from Siddique. In the third attempt, the engine came to life. Hero Honda doesn't entertain more futile kicks.
We set off.
Sitting on the pillion, Siddique started talking about all the marriageable girls in the locality. He keeps a business diary containing their details like age, educational qualifications, the amount of money their fathers are willing to spend as dowry etc. He keeps another diary for boys. Siddique reminded me of the late Manukka, who was a tomb-digger in our village.
Manukka is said to have had kept a diary in which the names of all the old people in the village was written. Based on their age and the criticality of their old-age illness, he would make a priority list for tombs. Whenever he paid a visit to his bedridden compatriots, their frail bodies trembled with fear as, due to the gravity of their time, they saw death in Manukka. Nevertheless, he continued his profession till his death at the age of 66.
"Can we stop near the Water Tank at Chamal for a while? It is on the way. I want to see a plot there." Siddique's suggestion knocked me out of my thoughts. He seemed to have a plan to do some property business as well that day. So, we had to see the plot first and then the girl. A decision about both would be taken afterwards.
We reached the girl's house at 11.45 am. From the moment that house appeared in my sight from about 1 KM away, a sort of awkwardness began to thump my heart heavily. I and a girl are going to consciously look at each other (in the eyes, maybe) and judge each other based on our appearance, a few spontaneous words we may speak and the silence that might fall in between our conversation.
The 'interview' did not take much time. She sat almost silent through the session, except for her ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ answers irrespective of the nature of my questions, making it imperative upon me that I speak nonstop nonsense for about 15 minutes. After finishing the interview in style, I got up to leave the room.
"Wait a minute," her sweet voice came from behind. I curiously turned my head to face her, my eyebrows curled up like two big question marks.
"You didn't tell your name". In a fraction of a second, all the muscles that I held tight till then with a lot of effort got pathetically deflated.
"Oh...sorry... it is Saheer." I unsuccessfully tried to camouflage a reddening embarrassment with a pale display of teeth, and hurried to the exit door in a relief that none else noticed my goof-up.
As I half opened the door leading to the sit-out, yet another sweet blow landed on my ears: "You didn't ask my name either". Standing on the threshold, watched by her uncles, father and Siddique, I had no choice but to holler, "Sorry...what is your name".
I didn’t have the patience to hear what she said her name was. I saw her uncles and father looking face to face in utter bewilderment. “What were you both doing inside without even asking things as basic as each other’s names?” their confused eyes seemed to ask.
The proposal was dropped for some reasons. Who knows what there is in a name.
