Monday: Can You Smell What’s Cooking?
Season 1, Episode 1
“Bangalore’s Oldest Pub” screams the neon sign. In electric blue. I push the doors marked “Pull” and step inside, the sticky beer-stained floors welcoming me home. It was about 2PM and the place was already heaving. The unmistakable odour of deodorant, sweat, and beer.
I see the back of her head, first. Queueing up for the loo. Why does the ladies’ have interminable queues everywhere in the world? Anyway, I digress. She’s about 5’2 (check), luscious black hair, Adidas Superstar trainers and the slightest hint of a tramp-stamp when she raises her arms over her head to stretch. Triple check.
Conversation time, me thinks. Nothing ventured…
“Shame there’s only one toilet, right?”. Excellent start. Pub ergonomics. Guaranteed to send any woman into a tizzy.
“Haha yeah…” Plays with her hair. Like all girls do. Perfectly pierced nose, kajal-eyes, thin mouth, tiny mole on her forehead. An open, disarming, tired smile. But a smile, nonetheless.
“You know you could just use the men’s?”. Knowing perfectly well that there’s no way she’d do that.
“No…I don’t think so”. Extra enunciation on “think”. This was a Bangalore hudugi for sure.
“I was just joking…”
Ms Monday shrugs. Signalling nonchalance.
“Nice to meet you! Did you have a good flight?”
“Same here, thanks! And yeah, it was as nondescript as possible. And thankfully no masks needed or anything.”
“Oh, is it? I hope you wore one anyway?”
Er…why?
“Yeah, I did. Can never be too safe you know”.
It’s not a lie if it’s for a good cause, right?
“That’s good. I haven’t caught the virus in two years and don’t wanna catch it now!”
Ms Monday seems to have mistaken me for a contagion.
“Don’t worry — I am vaccinated and boosted. You won’t be catching it from me!”.
“Okay…”.
Not convinced. Wouldn’t blame her, to be fair.
“I’ll go grab a table. Would you like me to get you a drink?”
“Yes please, a bottle of Budweiser. Leave the top on, I’ll take it off when I drink it. See you in a bit!”.
I take her extremely specific drink instruction to the bar, grab her bottle and get myself a pint of the house tap, pick the first table I see and sit in the chair, facing out towards the bar.
First impressions? Easy on the eyes but her drink choice OCD and general aura of depraved cleanliness had me on edge. I let it slide — maybe she’s just being extra cautious.
She takes a solid 10-minutes. Her pee-break takes longer than my shower. Make a mental note to keep an eye on the soaring energy-costs when we get married. She steps out, beaming smile in-place and sits down opposite me. I wish I could remember if I stood up and pulled the chair for her, just assume that I did.
“So, finally! Nice to meet you again. You are not as tall as I imagined!”.
Ouch. Indians and cutting to the chase.
“I left my stilettos back in Dublin,” I say with a grin.
I get the laugh. All good.
“So, how’s your #groomhunt going?”
“Hahah it’s alright. Nothing fancy. I guess it’ll happen when it happens.”
“Fair enough. I just like to make it happen.”
“Haha but these things are complicated…”
“True — anything worth doing is though, right?”. Confucius in the house, ladies.
“Yeah — my parents have given me a deadline. But yeah — it’ll happen when it happens.”
“Cheers to that!”, I say holding up my glass.
Ms Monday proceeds to unscrew the top, whip out an industrial box of tissues, wipes the rim, and finally clinks my glass in my outstretched hand. Uh oh. Alarm bells.
“Wow. That’s quite the forensic routine. Do you do that for every beer?”
“Yes. I am a bit of a clean freak; I am very careful about what goes into my body!”.
Fair enough. I couldn’t be more different though. I am extremely careless about what goes in, or out, of my body.
“So, tell me about yourself…”, Ms Monday asks.
“Well, you’ve read my biodata, right?”. Ms M nods.
“I guess there’s more to me than what I can fit into three sentences. But as a one-liner: I am easy-going, ambitious, single, and looking to change that. What about you?”
“Nice! And you plan on living in Europe forever?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve always imagined myself living abroad, you know? That’s what attracted me to your profile in the first place.”
“And not my charming smile?”
Blank face.
“I don’t go only by looks…”
That explains why she agreed to meet me then. I guess she means she prefers the whole package, whatever that is.
“Really? I do go by looks. If I didn’t find you attractive, I wouldn’t be here in the first place.”
Ms Monday furrows her brows.
“That’s really shallow though…”
“Oh yeah, totally is! I mean that physical attractiveness, subjective as it is, is my first “filter”. If I don’t like what I see, I am not interested in pursuing it further.”
“But that’s objectification…!”.
“How so?”. I am genuinely curious.
“You only like a girl for what she looks like.”
“No, I didn’t say that. I said that I only meet a girl to get to know her after I find her attractive. It’s not that I’ll fall for the first attractive girl I see. It’s the first barrier-to-entry, if you will. Only after that I do I look for emotional, intellectual compatibility…”.
“Wow. That’s almost misogynistic.”
Um, what? Why?
“Why?”, I ask, genuinely curious.
“Because looks fade. And if in thirty years’ time you don’t find me attractive, you’ll leave.”
“Is that misogyny or is that just…. life?”
“I want someone who’ll stay by me no matter what I look like in the future.”
“That sounds like an insurance policy.”
“It’s what marriage is.”
“Bloody hell”, I say in my faux-Ron Weasley voice.
“I mean, it’s a patriarchal institution designed to keep women enslaved in the kitchen.”
Gosh. Is it? I thought it was somewhat more romantic than enslavement.
“So…why do you want to get married?”, I ask exploratorily, tactfully trying not to tip Ms M over the edge.
“Because society wants me to.”
“And you don’t?”
“Obviously I do…!”
“But why?”
“So I can have a partner for life, travel, have someone to come home to…”
“Then society wanting you to be married is irrelevant.”
“I wouldn’t get married if society didn’t want me to. I’d just live with a partner!”.
“Umm…so why don’t you do that now?”
“Because my parents want me to be married.”
“So let me get this straight: you want the perks of marriage without being married because marriage is enslavement. What you’d really like is to live with somebody, but you are reluctantly agreeing to get married to keep your folks, and by extension, “society”, happy?”
“Sort of. And that I don’t think any relationship should be based on looks.”
“Don’t lionesses choose the lion with the best mane as their partner?”, I ask proud at my razor-sharp wit.
“Lionesses don’t get married either.”, Ms M says blunting my razor.
“Touche.” She had a point. “I meant physical attraction is innate in all living beings. And is totally subjective. And I think it’s okay for anybody to have any kind of filters for their potential partners.”
“Look, all I am saying is that men are shallow. Looks aren’t everything.”
“Wanna hear my theory on this?”
“Sure…”. Leans back in her chair and looks around the now deafening pub, already up to her ears with my incessant questioning.
“I reckon men choose partners on looks, women choose partners for stability.”
“So, women can’t be stable without men?”
“Again, I don’t mean that. I mean if a man had to choose between a pretty girl with issues or…”
“Why does the girl always have issues?”
I don’t know about womankind, but I know one girl who might.
“It’s not always — it’s just in my example.”
“Pick a less offensive example!”.
“Umm..I am trying to make a point.”
“If your point hinges on the pretext that a woman has issues, your worldview will continue to remain male-centric.”
Right. That sounds like the final nail in the coffin of my non-existent anthropology career. I change tact.
“Okay, never mind. My bad. Let’s talk about something else?”
“Only because you know I am right!”
“Yes. You are. Agreed. On a lighter note, tell me what’s your favourite thing to eat?”.
“Hmmm. I love all kinds of food. But I go crazy for Italian.”
“Nice! I had the best pasta in Sicily on my last holiday. And I don’t even like pasta.”
“What! Pasta is gorgeous!”
“I guess, I mean…it’s alright. Do you make it yourself?”
“No way — Swiggy baby, that’s where all the action is at. I don’t cook much.”
“Oh okay. Must be expensive though? How do you afford takeout every day? And why do you not cook?”
“Umm…have you ever spoken to a woman before?”
“Not as often as I’d like to…. what do you mean?”
“Firstly, Swiggy isn’t that expensive. I work extremely hard and make a lot of cash. I can afford whatever I want, especially gorgeous pasta on demand. And the opportunity-cost of cooking is far too high. I’d rather outsource the cooking and spend my valuable time doing things I enjoy.”
“Like…what?”
“Catch-up with friends, Netflix, shop…you know, the usual.”
“Okay…”
“You know we’d never be having this conversation if I were a man.”
“I guess not. Unless there’s a gay version of Shaadi.com.”
“I mean you wouldn’t ask me if I cooked if I was a guy.”
“Why not?”
“You are only asking me this because you want your future wife to cook!”
“I sure hope that my future wife would cook.” No word of a lie there. Would anyone want to be with anyone who didn’t cook?
The waiter chose this precise moment to drop in and ask for our order. And I decided to tap into the apparent wisdom of the crowds.
“Sir, does your wife cook?”
“Excuse me…?”, asks the waiter, two-parts taken aback and one-part up for a chat.
“Does your wife cook?”
“Sir, I am trying to get married for over 6 years…”. I hear the angst in his dialogue delivery. Poor sod.
“Oh wow. Okay, no worries. Thanks, and good luck. We’d just like another round of the same please. Bottle top screwed on, as usual.”
And then I add, “Would you want your wife to cook?”
“Sir…of course.” Knew it!
“Okay, thanks!”
Waiter zooms away, leaving me alone with Ms M again.
“Okay — that was just embarrassing! I can’t believe you did that!”. I am beginning to cop on that Ms M finds most things unbelievable.
“Um…talk to the waiter?”
“Yeah, about such private things!”
“Okay, it’s literally just a conversation about his wife.”
“Look, this may be normal in Finland, not here.”
“Do you mean Ireland?”
“Whatever land. Look, this isn’t going to work. I agreed to meet you cause you appeared to have a more progressive mindset; you are just as misogynistic as the waiter.” Ouch. Poor lad didn’t stand a chance out here.
“Umm…okay. No hard feelings! Can I just ask, have you ever met a man who according to you wasn’t a misogynist?”.
“Yes! It’s rare as hell but am sure he’s out there somewhere.”
“I am sure he is too. Good luck on your search.”
And just like that, I only had five matches to choose from.
Namma Metro was surprisingly quiet on the way back home, softening my aversion to public transport. The lashing rain didn’t help. I managed to find a still-warm seat (seat warmth is revoltingly intimate, but I digress), throw my head back against the smudgy glass window, close my eyes, fold my legs, and try to get some sleep.
The 20-minute walk home shouldn’t have been stressful. Until the pack of unruly dogs, who terrorised me when I was 6 and still terrorise me now, decided to chase me all the way back to my doorstep.
Mom opens the door before I finish panting.
“Well! That was quick! Shall we start printing the invitation cards?”
It’s impossible for me to know if she was taking the piss.
“How was she? Tell me everything!”.
“Mom, wait…”. My lung-capacity wasn’t what it was. I was sucking in more air than my defunct Hoover.
“So…yeah, not gonna happen with her.”
“Why not! Wasn’t she pretty?”
“She was. She got offended when I indirectly told her that.”
“What? You must’ve made a stupid joke.”
“I made many, ma. But she just…I don’t think she wants to get married. Or maybe she does, but it must be on her terms, and I am not the right kinda guy for her.”
“But why not? How long did you talk for? Do you want me to call her folks and ask?”
Indians and cutting to the chase.
“What! No, please don’t. She’s a bit strong for my liking.”
“You only wanted intellectual compatibility, right?”
“But we aren’t intellectually compatible.”
“Why not? Doesn’t she watch and read what you like?”
“We didn’t even talk about that.”
“Then what did you guys talk about? How do you know she isn’t right for you?”
“Mom…she has fixed ideas on how the world works. I don’t think she’s going to change her mind on it easily. And I really don’t want to spend the rest of my life trying to get her to see things my way.”
“This is why I kept telling you to get married when you were in your 20s. Girls after 30 will not listen to anybody, not their parents, and definitely not you.”
She might be right, you know.
“Mom, I was too young then. I barely knew myself.”
“What have you achieved knowing yourself now? You must get off your high horse and pick someone fast! All my friends are grannies now and I am still raising a man-child.”
“Mom…give it a rest. Half of those grandkids don’t have both sets of parents.”
“Yeah, true…anyway, shall we put her on the long-list?”
Like I was consulting on an M&A project.
“Naah, no point. Let’s move on and see what the others are like.”
“Your dad and I thought she was the best one!”
Oh boy. We are all deluded. And then it dawned upon me — I could quite easily console my mom on my lack of choice.
“Mom, she has a tattoo on her back…”
“Oh, leave it then. We’ll see what the others are like.”
Ka-ching.
Bed beckoned.
Monday turned out to be a failure, but like all failures, it taught me something. I must pull my punches a bit. Be a little less adversarial. I am equal parts stubborn and deluded, to be fair. Maybe I needed a reality check.
Maybe I was a misogynist.
But my conscience felt fine. I didn’t think I had overstepped my mark, nor that my questions were too intrusive. Or that my expectations were too lofty. Or that my chat with the waiter was infringing Ms M’s privacy.
I wasn’t single for a lack of effort or desire. Maybe I am just unlucky? I reckon I need to double-down on what I am, start afresh, and go after it again. Luck turns, after all. And all I need is one girl to like me. Or at least, not vehemently hate me.
Either way, there’s always tomorrow.
