Page 39 of Red Flags and Rishtas
‘Submit as his wife? Mr Rochester is disabled by the end of the story. If anything,he’sdependent onher,’ I pointed out.
‘And so she’s going to spend the rest of her life serving him. How is that a win for feminism?’ he demanded.
‘You’re missing the whole point. Shechoosesto marry him and shechoosesto care for him. Being financially independent, she’s no longer bound by her circumstances. She marries the “rich brooding” dude for love, and she has every right to,’ I said, crossing my arms to face my date.
Instead of acknowledging that there might be some merit in what I was saying, he retorted, ‘Where did you read that? Sparknotes.com?’
When I just stared at him, he immediately changed his tone. I wondered if he regretted his snarky comment because of the diminishing chances of him getting any action on this date. To move on, he began mansplaining a different novel. I glanced at my phone, praying for an emergency call to rescue me from this headache of a date.
After about seven and a half minutes, the man handling the store couldn’t take it anymore.
‘Will you be buying that one, then?’ he asked, pointing to the copy ofCrime and Punishmentin Gaurav’s hand.
‘Oh, I’ve already read it,’ he responded, holding out the book uncertainly.
I thanked the man for his time and placed the book back on the table. Gaurav’s intellectual narcissism didn’t surprise me as much as it irritated me. Vrinda, who had gone to the University of Delhi for college, used to complain about her encounters with such men. Now, more than ever, I sympathised with her. As we walked out of the bookstall and later, the fair, one thing became abundantly clear – Gaurav was not The One.
Fortunately, I had one more date lined up to take another shot at love. And I’d saved the best for the last – Varun, the theatre enthusiast.
But as luck would have it, I got stuck in a traffic jam while trying to cover the short distance between JLN Stadium and the venue of the play. When my cab finally pulled up outside the theatre, I saw a man restlessly pacing outside. It was Varun.
‘Hey,’ I said as I ran up to him, ‘I’m sorry I’m late. Traffic was mad.’
He smiled when he saw me, but the frown lines on his forehead didn’t disappear. He gave me a non-committal side hug.
‘Well, the play began twenty minutes ago. They won’t let us in now,’ he said, his disappointment clear as day.
I wondered if he was trying to make me feel guilty.
‘Oh shit, Varun, that sucks,’ I said. ‘Should we just head for an early dinner then?’
‘Wow,’ he said, his voice stone cold.
‘Um … I already apologised, man. I obviously didn’t mean to be late,’ I said, a little irked by his intolerance.
It was just a stupid play, after all.
‘That’s not it,’ he said. ‘You don’t even remember my name.’
And without another word, he walked away, leaving me standing outside the theatre to unscramble my fuck-up. I had to open Tinder to figure it out – Varun was the name of the guy I’d had brunch with. The man I’d just unknowingly scorned was Vivaan.
Well. Shit.
Relatives in India have a superpower: they can always tell when you’re having a shitty day and know exactly how to make it worse – by showing up at your doorstep, unexpected and uninvited. Now, before I’m labelled as too modern to appreciate her own family, let me clarify. I love my family. I adore my grandparents, I enjoy the company of my aunts and uncles, and I even share a close relationship with most of my NRI cousins. The people I cannot stand are the distant kinsfolk who call once a year and show up once in three, always loaded with the same question: ‘So when are you getting married?’
When I rang the bell to my home, I expected to see the comforting face of my mother. I hoped she’d make me a nice cup of honey lemon ginger tea to take to my room, where I would spend the rest of the evening, uninterrupted. What waited for me on the other side of the door was a person I recognised only because of my inability to identify her – she was a mehmaan. A chachiji, perhaps even a mausiji or a taiji, who knew?
She enveloped me in a brutal hug, crushing me with the muscles she’d built by encroaching on innocent children’s personal space over the years.
‘Ananya beta,’ she said, pulling back to look at my face. ‘Look at you!’
‘Namaste…Aunty,’ I said, failing to read my mother’s lips from behind her.
‘Aunty?’ she said, as a look of feigned hurt covered her features.
My mom stepped forward, saving me from the beast. ‘This is your Mathura wali taiji, beta,’she said, then turned to the woman and added, ‘She keeps so busy with work these days, I worry she’ll forget her own mother.’
The two of them laughed, giving me the opportunity to slip past them. I nodded at my dad, who was sitting on the sofa with a man I assumed was my Mathura wale tayaji, looking so uncomfortable he might as well have been constipated. His expression was loud and clear:Run while you can.
