Friday: Mind Your (Family) Business
Season 1, Episode 5
“Have you done all your packing? Make sure you take all your important stuff! Keys, wallets…”, mom with the same question for the 96th time.
“Will do it tomorrow, ma. There isn’t a lot to do. I’ll have it done in ten minutes.”
Packing is overrated. I’d happily dump all my clothes in a binbag and fire it vaguely West. I can’t figure out why people fret about this stuff. It’s like taking a day out to carefully arrange your groceries at the till, only to put them all in the fridge a few minutes later. There were more pressing matters at hand.
“When is your flight?”
“Sunday morning at 3AM.”
“So, you’ll need to be in the airport by midnight? Do you need a COVID test?”, dad asks.
“Yes and no. I’ll get the auto back.” Automan would be delighted with my custom.
“Okay. Shall we start shortlisting some more girls?”, mom asks.
I don’t know. Honest answer. Maybe we need to revamp the process. Blow it up and start over.
“Let’s see how it goes today and tomorrow.”, I say. Cautiously optimistic.
“You should just do video calls from Dublin, don’t have to fly down to see anyone until you at least make it past the first meeting.”, mom says. “How much have we spent on flights?”
I knew to the third decimal point how much we had spent. The mood was already dour. No need to take it lower.
“Yeah, I’ll do video calls first for the next batch.”
“When are you going out today? I’ll get all your clothes washed, and ironed, and pack them before you are back.”
“Okay, thanks. I’ll go early evening.”
Ms Friday was in great spirits. Friday 4PM is the golden hour for the working class. I should know, it’s the best I feel all week. Sunday nights are the worst. I had timed this right at least.
“You are so funny! Can’t believe we didn’t meet before”, says a jovial Ms F. I knew I wasn’t the sole source of her delight, but I’d take a compliment all day.
“Thanks! Only to look at, though.”
More squeals of laughter.
I am such a sucker for easy attention. Pathetic, really.
“You know, I’ve been on the matrimonial apps for six years now. My account number is like 3 digits.”
“Wow.” Mine was six digits. Ms F has been single since Netscape Communicator. #IYKYK.
“That’s forever! How come?”, I ask. Mostly curious. Mostly to mentally prepare myself for six more years of this.
“Ah you know…the usual. Didn’t find anyone I liked. I did have two engagements though, so that’s some progress.”
It is progress, right? Like how attempted murder begets the same punishment as actual murder.
“Damn. That must’ve been rough…”
“To be honest, I am glad neither worked out. The first one was a disaster, but the guy’s family was loaded. So, my folks were pushing me hard for it.”
No problem there. My family was loaded too. With debt.
“Okay…but you didn’t like him?”
“Not really. He was alright. Like, I wouldn’t look at him if I randomly chanced upon him on the street. But you know, I’d have been fine. He had no sense of humour and was a total mama’s boy. Two huge red flags.”
“But you still went ahead with it?”
“Yeah, I was 29! I didn’t exactly have much choice. He was the best of the rest.”
Sheesh. How bad were the rest?
“Okay. So why did you break it off?”
“Way too many gory details! Don’t wanna ruin my Friday with that. The other guy was a lot sweeter!”
“Okay…but why did you break it off with him?”
“Because he was divorced, and conveniently forgot to mention it. And just before the day of the wedding, his parents wanted a huge sum of money.”
And I thought I had it bad. At least all I had to deal with is conversations about separate kitchens and political allegiances.
“That’s…crazy. How much did they want?”
Again, I am curious. What’s a huge sum of money?
“A lot.”, Ms F says. Terse. “And my dad was willing to pay it too. He just wants me gone.”
“He’d pay someone off to take you?”
“Yes. Indian parents are the worst. Mine are even more so.”
By now, dear reader, you’ll know that I am not a fan of generalisations. And sweeping statements. I had to interject here.
“That’s sad. Mine are great, and really supportive.”
“The classic #NotAllMen excuse?”
Uh oh. Do not get dragged in.
“Yeah, well…”
“Indian parents are the worst. Trust me.”
“If you say so.”
Another round of beers. Happy Hour has truly set in.
Ms F leaves the table to find the washroom. There’s bound to be a queue.
I fiddle around on Twitter as I wait. Liking, RT-ing, scrolling. Taking the cheap dopamine hits. Ms F, like the day she was named after, was fun, bright, and effusive. She’d been at this for long. Unlucky and a victim of circumstance. But it’s not so much what happens to us as how we respond to it. How had Ms F responded?
I could just ask her cause she’s back.
“Such a long queue to the washroom!”, she says exasperatedly.
I know. I’ve written a chapter about this.
“Yeah, so…tell me. Are you Vegan?”
“Eh? What? No way. I eat anything that moves.”
Tick.
“Do you think the world is overpopulated?”
“Um…I don’t think so.”
Tick.
Deep breath before the million-dollar question.
“Do you cook?”
“Yes, of course. It’s a life skill. Like swimming.”
Exactly. Like swimming. Tick.
“Is this your questionnaire for all girls?”
No, but I’ve learned from my recent past.
“Yes. I’ve had to tweak it in light of new information.”
“Hahaha. Okay. Have you met a Vegan?”
“Briefly.”
“What! In Bangalore?”
“Yeah…”
“I am so sorry!”
“Yeah, her loss!”
We clink our glasses. Cold beer on a hot afternoon. Hey Siri, define bliss.
So far, so good. No dealbreakers. Do I continue digging? Or just call it here, let things percolate, and come back for round 2. I do have a flight to catch though. Might as well make the most of it now.
“Tell me about your family”, Ms F asks.
Oh wow. She’s interested!
“We are a huge bunch, scattered all over India and abroad actually. But quite close knit. What about yours?”
“Oh, we are a typical nuclear family. Nothing exciting. I have an older brother living in the US, and a few cousins around Bangalore. I am not close with any of them. I like choosing my relationships!”
Fair enough. Minimal familial involvement then. I’ll take that.
“I see. I am close to all my cousins; we have a tight group and get to see each other rarely. So, it’s always fun when we meet.”
“Okay. You do you!”
Interesting choice of phrase. I sense Ms F’s detachment. Maybe resentment, even? I need to pick at this.
“You guys aren’t close then? The two sides of your family, I mean?”
“Not really. We have our separate lives. And I can’t be bothered with it all, honestly. I prefer having a small circle of close friends.”
“But you are close to your parents?”
“Not really. My dad and I don’t get on. All he cares about is getting me married off. My mom is busy doing stuff around the house all day. We only talk about how old I am, and why I can’t get married.”
“Am sure they’ll be sad to see you go!”
“I wouldn’t bet on it.”
I don’t need to get involved here. It’s her life, her family, their dynamics. Not everyone needs to be like me. But her lack of empathy or interest in her own family is gnawing at me.
“You know, I can’t wait to move out of home and start my own life with my husband…”, Ms F offers.
It does sound great. And she certainly means it. But I am family man. Actually, I am an extended-family man. Family Man Pro Max.
“Have you always wanted to live abroad?”
“Not really, I am okay living anywhere as long as it’s different to where I am now.”
“You really don’t like living with your folks, do you?”
“You wouldn’t either! It’s just…toxic. And it’s easy for you — you live all alone and don’t have to deal with all this emotional pressure.”
True. But then again, it’s not an us vs them situation. Although I can see how Ms F has convinced herself it is. Stress makes enemies out of friends. Prolonged stress makes your dad your nemesis. An echo-chamber of toxicity is hard to break out of. We romanticise escape, fetishize independence, and villainise family. Please take this with a bucket of salt — I am not a shrink.
“Yeah, I get what you mean. It can get quite suffocating…”
“Exactly. That’s why I want somebody who’s stable, independent, and with a sorted life. Not a mama’s boy.”
“Even though you got engaged to one.”
“Because of family pressure. Not my choice.”
“What exactly is a mama’s boy?”
“Have you not seen some of the men here? They can’t function without their mom. She does everything for them. They expect the same from their wives. Like a newer model to replace the older one.”
I know guys like that. How much of this is nature versus nurture, though?
“I don’t want a son, I’d like a husband.”, Ms F continues. “Indian parents bring their sons up differently to their daughters. And even a grown man continues to give in to his mother’s pressure. That’s just…weak.”
“It appears weak. But it’s conditioning, right? It’s hard to just flick a switch and become a new person after marriage.”
“Oh, come on. It’s the least a guy can do!”
Fair enough. I am beginning to understand I don’t have the foggiest idea about how these dynamics work. Or are expected to work. Why do we have afterschool tuitions for 6-year-olds and nothing for Indian men primed for marriage? You’d think a basic toolkit would come in handy. Total addressable market — half a billion. I make a mental note to investigate this further.
“I want a guy who has the guts to do something his parents are against. For me.”
Wow. That’s a helluva ask.
“Why?”
“Because that shows that he prioritises me over anyone else. I’ll happily go against my parents.”
“But that’s probably because you don’t like them.”
“So…?”
“It’s easier to go against someone you don’t like.”
“But doesn’t the guy like me?”
“Why can’t he like you both?”
“No. He needs to draw strict boundaries!”
“Not in all cases.”
“Is that another #NotAllMen excuse?”
“It’s just reality. You don’t have exclusive control of your husband’s thoughts…he’s still free to choose.”
“I don’t want exclusive control. I just want him to be strong against parental influence.”
“Even if their influence is for the good?”
“It’s never good. Don’t you watch any shows? Or see it in your own extended family? In-laws make things worse.”
Indian TV shows wouldn’t be my first port of call for a treatise on familial dynamics. Nor would it be my extended family, to be honest.
“So, you wouldn’t move into your husband’s place after marriage to live with the in-laws?”
Just a hypothetical. Don’t judge me.
“Of course not! Why do you think I even liked your profile?”
So again, not the charming smile.
“Why is that?”
“You live alone! And I imagine you’ll want to live abroad for the foreseeable, with your partner and family, and no pesky in-laws.”
“Yes, for the most part. I also fly my parents over to visit me, so we all get to spend some quality time together.”
“How long do they stay for?”
Excuse me?
“It depends…”
“Like, are we talking days, weeks, months…years?”
“I don’t have a schedule.”
“Okay — we need a schedule. I don’t want to live with my in-laws! That too in a foreign country. I’d rather just continue living where I am.”
Ms F really hates her folks. Something is screwed up here.
“I am not going to have a schedule for when my folks can see me.”
This isn’t a prison. Or a hospital visit.
“This is what I mean — boundaries! You need to establish them.”
“And there are also times when I’d want my family — wife, kids, and I — to spend time in India with my folks. And hers. They’d love that. I’d love it. What’s to lose?”
“Oh my god! Are you serious? You should have said this sooner.”
I wanted to make the most of the happy hour before the offer shuts.
“Do you just want someone to spend time with, look after your folks, and clean your house?”
“No. I’d like someone who does all that and more. Together. As a team. What else do we have to do?”
True story.
“Live on our own terms, travel, so many things!”
“But it’s not one or the other. It’s not a binary choice. You can always have the future you desire. You just envision it, and make it happen.”
“I do. But I don’t envision in-laws in any scenario.”
“Wouldn’t you want your folks to come over and visit us in Ireland?”
“Are you serious? Of course not. Why would I want that?”
“For the same reason I want mine to come over.”
“No, your relationship with your folks is yours to deal with. Mine is mine. We don’t need to keep everyone happy all the time. It’s a never-ending task.”
I don’t want these silos.
“And you are sure that’s the healthy way forward?”
“Yes. What you are advocating for is unhealthy. It’s co-dependence. And a need for making others happy.”
“Parents aren’t others.”
“Anybody who’s not you are ‘others’.”
“Including your husband?”
“Initially, yes. Over time, no.”
“So maybe you’ll warm up to the parents over time, too.”
“No, I won’t. This is a tried and tested formula that doesn’t work. At least not in the Indian context. If you had Irish parents, it might have been different. But you don’t!”
Sorry mom, dad. You should’ve been Irish, and you could’ve come over and stayed with us. Your fault.
Happy hour was nearly done, I reckon. As was my interest in Ms F.
“Fair enough. To each their own.”
“Yeah, and next time, you need to make it explicitly clear on your profile that you expect your wife to welcome her in-laws. You’ll stop wasting genuine people’s time!”
“Understood. Any other profile improvement tips?”
“Yes. You are just another Indian mama’s boy with a fancy passport. I’d make that your tagline.”
Quite catchy, to be fair. Might get me some hits. I’ll trial-tweet it and do a quick A/B test.
“Noted. Safe trip home. And thanks for your time.”
Ah well. It was good while it lasted. Ms F ticked most of the boxes, except one. A new one that I didn’t know needed to be ticked. I now had a longer list of requirements, and a shorter list of suitable candidates. In 5 days. The inverse of what I was aiming for.
Glance at my watch. It’s peak rush-hour. Which means Namma Metro would be jammers. I don’t fancy rubbing up against a hairy armpit for two hours back home. I am going to be a spoilt brat and get an Uber.
One more to go then.
By my grasp of the process of elimination, she would be the one I end up marrying. That’s how Bollywood movies end right? But not necessarily crappy novellas. I’ve surely seen it all by now. What fresh hell could tomorrow possibly bring?
I can’t wait to find out.
I get home, say goodnight, and hit the bed.
Once more unto the breach, folks.
