Page 144 of One Indian Girl
You won’t give up, will you? I wanted to type back.
‘Doing it, now,’ I replied instead.
I opened shaadi.com on my office laptop. The screen displayed happy faces of couples in nuptial bliss, who had found each other on this website. Testimonials spoke of how a couple who met on the site married within three months and were now expecting a child. Was finding love that simple? Why did I find it difficult? Why did I have to complicate everything? Or was there something wrong with me?
I logged on to the account my mother had set up. The page opened to a summary of my profile. She had used a picture of mine from India Gate, the one I took when I visited Delhi last time. A shadow fell on my face in the photo. My eyes were half-closed. She could not have chosen a worse picture.
I read my profile.
Hi, I am a young, slim, quite fair, Punjabi Khatri girl aged 26, 5’4” tall. I am currently working in London, but flexible to move anywhere with my husband. I am family-minded and don’t mind staying in a joint family.
I reached for my cellphone—to call my mother and blast her. I resisted the urge and read on.
I can cook North Indian cuisine quite well. I have one elder sister who is already married and well-settled in Delhi. My parents have no other liabilities. My father retired from a respected position in State Bank of India and my mother is a housewife. We are well off and can do a high-status wedding.
My eyebrows shot up. I read the next section.
I am looking for a well-qualified, well-settled suitable match from a good Punjabi family. Someone who will look after my family and me and respect elders. If interested please respond with details about you, including horoscope or date and time of birth. Regards, Radhika Mehta.
‘Seriously? Mom, seriously?’ I said out loud. I closed the shaadi.com window. I had to call mom and talk, or rather shout at her. I couldn’t do that in the office. I packed my laptop in my Tumi bag and stood up.
‘I am going to get lunch,’ I told Patricia and left the office.
I went out on Fleet Street and found Itsu, a Japanese-inspired healthy fast-food chain. I ordered a vegetables and brown rice potsu pot and sat down to eat. Fork in one hand and phone in the other, I called my dear mother. I charged at her as soon as she answered.
‘Mom, what are you doing?’
‘What?’ she said, surprised.
I loaded my profile on my laptop screen.
‘I saw the profile.’
‘Liked it?’
How do you even begin to answer that?
‘Mom, are you serious? What is this?’
‘Why? I wrote what will get you the best response. Sharma aunty next door helped me.’
‘It’s horrible, mom. Really, who is this person you have written about? It is not me.’
‘What are you are saying? It is you 100 per cent. Isn’t your height five feet four inches?’
‘Mom, first of all, the picture is terrible.’
‘It’s what I had. Send me a better one. We should have done a portfolio when you had come here.’
‘I will send you one from here.’
‘Send one in Indian clothes.’
‘Why?’
‘Are you stupid? Are you going to send me a picture in your office suit? Are you applying for a job?’
‘It’s who I am.’
