Saturday: It Was Written In The Stars
Season 1, Episode 6
“Don’t forget to pack your passport!”
“Yes ma!”
I’ve been travelling back and forth for 17 years. And still this.
“Why did you decide to meet so late? It’s already 8PM! Will you be back by midnight? You need to be at the airport three hours before your flight!”
“I know, I know. I’ll make it, don’t worry!”
“Hurry up and go. You sure you’ve packed everything?”
“Yes!”
“Okay good luck! See you later!”
Going for dinner today. The full shebang. Who knows when I’ll get authentic butter naan and butter chicken next. Might as well make hay while the sun shines.
Proper Punjabi dhaba. Outskirts of town. Shorts and T-shirt weather. Mosquitoes already having their fill on my shins. I get a sweet and salty lassi as I wait for Ms S to turn up. I don’t like the sweet-lassi. I find the salty one too one-dimensional. So, I mix it up. So, sue me.
Slap the irritating suckers with on my shins with one hand, scroll Twitter on the other. Nothing new to report.
Ms S turns up in 4-inch heels, a handbag straight out of Vogue, and a billion-watt smile. Eases into the chair, shakes my hand, and says she is delighted to see me. Not a bad start.
Open, honest, direct, feminine.
Saved the best for the last, perhaps?
“Nice to meet you too!”, I say. I genuinely was. Ms S feels like a breath of fresh air, radiating warmth and optimism. And an indescribable coyness. Like she had just committed some mischief that nobody had cottoned on to.
“I am sure! I am quite the catch after all!”, Ms S flirtatiously says. Even bats her eyelids.
“Yeah well, you certainly know how to make an impression!”
“Hahah thanks! You know, no word of a lie, this is my first-ever arranged marriage date!”
Oh boy. Lemme think — is that good or bad? Pros: no preconceived notions, blank slate, no baggage, and seemingly here on her own accord. So, definitely interested in getting married. Cons: she has nothing to compare me against and will probably look to play the field for longer.
On balance, it is what it is. Make hay while the sun shines.
“Well, in that case, I am glad to be your first. And possibly last.”
“Hahaha. We’ll see. Stranger things have happened.”
They sure have.
“So what made you to want to go the arranged marriage route?”, Ms S asks. Razor eyes on me and her switchblade smile intact.
“Because I am open to all avenues of…possibilities. The ends justify the means, right? All roads lead to Rome…”
“Rome being a lifelong, loving relationship?”
“A solid goal, I think?”
Ms S nods profusely.
“That’s the thing with dating around. The end goal isn’t immediately obvious.”, she says. “With this approach, at least we both know exactly what’s on offer. No dilly-dallying!”.
“Yeah, I agree. It’s open, above-board, and there aren’t as many guessing-games to contend with.”
“Yup! Do you mind if I just order a lassi too actually? It looks delicious.”
“Sure, no problem.”, I catch the waiter’s eye and he’s over in a flash. It’s like my coolest moment of the trip so far. I mean, it’s a low bar. But I’ll celebrate the small wins.
“Yes sir?”, waiter asks.
“One sweet and salty lassi please”, Ms S says. Nice choice.
Waiter nods and heads off.
“Nice choice. Most people go for the sweet.”
“I know, right? I find the sweet one too sweet. And the salty one is too…boring.”
A woman after my own heart.
“So anyway, like I was saying…”, Ms S says without missing a beat. “I want to get married, I want to have my own family, I want both sets of parents to be on board, and I’d like to do that soon. The arranged marriage route is probably the most optimal.”
“Check. Check. Check. Check. And check.”, I say. Utterly original.
Waiter’s back with the sweet & salty lassi. Frothy at the top, with a pink and white stripey straw. I ask him for the menu, although I am quite sure what I want.
“Shall we get a Chicken 65?”, says Ms S.
A woman after my own heart.
“Yes! And maybe the gobi Manchurian too? They’ll douse it with that MSG thing. It’ll be delish.”
“Oh my god — yes please!”
So, we ask for exactly that.
“So tell me then…straight off the bat: what are your biggest dealbreakers?”, Ms S asks.
“Okay, I wasn’t sure of what they were before this trip. But I have a better idea now…”
“Go on…”
“I am quite sure I am not a misogynist, and I am fairly certain I am not a feminist. So first dealbreaker, anyone who’s too much on either end of the spectrum would be a dealbreaker.”
“Okay…that’s reasonable. You aren’t a wifebeater are you?”
“Only on Tuesdays.”
We both laugh about domestic violence. Political correctness gone mad.
“Okay..next dealbreaker?”
“Wait — let’s do one each. Your go.”
“Okay…I’ve to think. You have much more practice than I do!”.
“That’s your fault for being too slow.”
“True…okay, I can’t be with a workaholic.”
The waiter interrupts our quiz with piping hot plates of Chicken 65 and Gobi Manchurian. I can smell the MSG from my seat. Gorgeous. The wisps of steam make it totally instragrammable.
“This looks amazing. Am gonna tuck in”, says a visually excited Ms S.
I didn’t hold back either.
“So anyway, I can’t be with a workaholic. Just whatever, there’s more to life than boring Excel…”, says Ms S between mouthfuls of steamy chicken.
“Okay, that’s fair enough. I am on board with that.”
The waiter comes back with a plate full of quintessential Indian salad — couple of chopped onions and a pyramid of lime.
“Next! Your turn!”
“I can’t marry a vegan.”
Ms S bursts out laughing.
“Okay, I can’t either. That’s just…weird.”
“Yep. Your turn.”
“I am close to my parents, so I want to be with somebody who respects that and treats them like he treats his own.”
“Yeah, that’s a given. I am on board with that too.”
What’s going on? Is this a con? How is Ms S saying things that I want? Or am I just hearing what I want?
“You’d be okay with leaving them and moving to a different country?”, I ask. “Hypothetically, of course”, I add hastily.
“Yes of course! I know what I must do, and that’s completely fine by me and them. I do want to start my own life and have my family and live a fulfilling life. I’d love if they could come visit us of course!”.
Wow. Shiver me timbers.
“Oh, and I absolutely love Ireland. The scenery, the accent, the culture, the poets…I think you already knew that though.”, Ms S presses ahead.
The hits just keep on coming.
“Right. Are you sure you haven’t been paid to say this?”
“Huh?”
“Never mind. It’s just…I haven’t met anyone who said what you just said.”
“About Ireland? It’s a tiny country…not many Indians know anything about it!”
“No, not just that. The other things too.”
“Okay. Maybe you’ve just been hanging out with the wrong crowd.”
“You can say that again.”
“Sir, main course?”, the waiter asks.
“Butter chicken…?”, Ms S asks quizzically.
You’ve gotta be kidding me.
Siri reminds me that I need to leave now to make it home by midnight.
The one full, meaningful, dinner date that I don’t want to run screaming from. Too bad its mere minutes before I must fly back.
But maybe it’s the start of something special. Always leave her wanting more, right? Or is it never leave her wanting more? Anyway, you get the idea.
I try and take stock of what just transpired: 6 years of looking. Countless trips back-and-forth. Interminable video calls. Incessant biodata shares. Innumerable dates. Down to 6 prospective matches. Of which 1 remains. I am not superstitious in the slightest, but maybe this one was written in the stars.
I say my goodbye to Ms S, drop her off to her car, and leg it to the dhaba exit, where lo and behold, Automan is waiting for me.
Headlights on, lawn-mower engine revving.
“Oho! Banni saar, marriage aaita sir?”
All before I even settle down in the church pew. Indians and cutting to the chase.
“Hello boss! Almost. Can we get to this address fast?”
“No problem saar. Two minutes.”
“Do one thing, just get off at the bus stop. We’ll drive you to the airport.”, dad on the blower.
“Are you sure? It’s like miles away, and you’ll be back home really late!”
“Yeah, it’s fine. Don’t worry. We are already here anyway.”
I wish Automan (and by extension his daughter) good luck, get down, and walk towards my dad’s car.
“We’ll be fine, relax guys. Plenty of time.”, I say.
“Yeah, there won’t be any traffic anyway.”, mom says.
“Well, how was she?”, mom asks.
Too good to be true, would be an apt response.
“She was actually perfect.”
Total silence in the car as dad ducks and weaves through the traffic. Stray cows, cart pushers, two-wheelers with 4 people on board, lorries with one headlight. The usual.
“Are you serious?”, dad finally breaks the silence.
“Yeah…”
“Are you sure?”, mom asks.
I mean, how can I be sure? I spent couple of hours with her. But I know there’s plenty there to like.
“Yes…”
“Wow! And does she like you too?”, dad with a touch of astonishment in his voice.
“I guess so. She definitely likes Ireland…”
“Maybe she’s just saying yes to you so she can live in Ireland. You should have told her you plan on moving back to India.”, mom the shrewd negotiator.
“Mom, it’s fine. I don’t think it’s that.”
“Okay, and is she okay with leaving her job and all?”
“Yeah, she’s not too fussed about it.”
“That’s good. And she’s not a Vegan or whatever right?”
“No…”
“And she doesn’t think its unnatural to have children?”
“No…”
“We’ve been looking for so long, I find it hard to believe that it could be done now.”, my mom says.
“Think it’s too good to be true?”, I ask.
Moms know best, remember?
“Maybe, let’s see.”
“So, what next?”, I ask.
“What do you mean?”, dad says.
“Like, what’s the next step in the process. Now that we like each other…”
“You don’t worry about all that, you won’t understand it anyway.”, mom says. “You just keep in touch with her and see how things go, video calls and all that. And be sure that she’s the one!”
“Okay…”
My phone buzzes. WhatsApp from Ms S. Battery’s nearly dead, and I need to stream the Arsenal match after check-in. Better hope I find a charger. I look at the preview anyway:
“Thanks for a nice evening. Just reach….”
Okay, she’s made it home safe and sound then.
More ducking and weaving in traffic. We are whizzing past the brand-new-and-almost empty apartments by the airport now. The road is as chock-a-block as ever. Nearly there. And it’s almost midnight.
“You sure you took your passport?”, dad asks this time. 97th time.
“Yes. All set.”
“Okay great.”
We pull into the parking lot bang on midnight. I jump out, pop the boot, and grab my bag. We walk towards the “Departures” area.
I hug my mom goodbye, shake hands with my dad, nod at the policeman diligently checking passports, and enter the airport through the huge glass doors.
Whew. The last few minutes of my rapid holiday.
My parents are on the other side of the glass, waving goodbye. I take my phone out to make my customary call to them as I walk past security. Glance at my dwindling battery and decide to send a quick response to Ms S’ WhatsApp first. Open it. It reads:
“Thanks for a nice evening. Just reached home and had a chat with my parents. I think we have a great connection, but if your birth-time on your profile is correct, we can’t move ahead because we have a low Kundli match. Shame! Good luck on your search.”
Ah yes. Of course, this was written in the bloody stars.
I am half-tempted to send a thumbs-up emoji, but flick back to the main screen and dial my dad’s number instead. He answers on the first ring because he knows I’d call. Mom and dad are still waving.
“Hi, all good?”
“Yeah..it’s just that…”
“Take care and have a nice flight beta, message us when you land!”, mom yelling in the background.
“Yes, I will…it’s just that there’s no point in taking things forward with her…”
“Oh? Why not?”
“Apparently the ku…”
And then my phone dies.
So, I mime “because we have a low-Kundli match” through the glass panes at my parents.
I can feel the stoic policeman eyeing me up. I probably looked like a budget SRK in that song from Swades. I was pointing at the sky, making twinkling gestures with my hand (stars), running my fingers across my neck (dead), and pointing my thumbs down. My dad, a Physicist, probably thinks I am referring to a Supernova. My mom is certain that her firstborn has gone full retard. My parents just stand there, transfixed, on the other side of the glass. Watching their 35-year-old son about to get arrested by an equally confused policeman.
I didn’t get arrested. But I did get delayed in clearing security. Which means my phone remained dead. Along with my boarding passes. A bit of argy-bargy with the customer care rep, and I was finally in the gate just as my name was called on the Tannoy for “Last and final request to board…”
I turned around towards the general direction of Bangalore for yet another goodbye. It was at least an eventful trip.
New perspectives, old failings, crap roads, pretty women, amazing food.
I am sure I’ll be back soon.
