Thursday: Not Taking A Risk Is The Biggest Risk You’ll Take
Season 1, Episode 4
“I feel she’s not your type.”, mom in the pre-breakfast KANBAN.
“Why so?”, I ask. Moms know best.
“I can’t put my finger on it. Something about her seems off.”
Thanks for the clarity mom.
“I might as well meet her and see how things go. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”
“Oho! Where was this attitude ten years ago when you could’ve had the pick of the best?”
“Better late than never, right?”
“Fine. Am just glad you are finally taking this seriously.”
“He’s reached the other end of the spectrum now. He’s being too serious.”, dad’s astute observation. “Maybe make a decision after a couple of meetings instead of cramming it all in the first one?”
“Dad, I’ve told you this before. My strategy is simple: reject fast, accept slow. No point prolonging the inevitable. Plus, I’ve to fly back on Sunday. I don’t have any more holidays left for the year.”
“I think you are doing too much on the first meeting. It’s too intense.”
“Oh, come on. It’s not a billion-dollar negotiation. There isn’t any stress. It’s a basic conversation, that’s all. We can handle it.”
“You’ve done a great job so far.”
Roll my eyes.
“What’s her background then?”, I ask no one in particular. “So… I don’t waste anytime asking her.”
“27, Bangalore born-and-bred, decent family, talkative, assists her dad in the family business…”, my mom with the photographic memory.
“Okay. And why don’t you like her?”
“I didn’t say that. I just have a feeling you won’t make a good match.”
“Okay…we’ll see. Any minefields that I need to steer clear of?”
“I remember speaking to her once, on a WhatsApp call. Ages ago. She has a strong Marathi accent.”, my dad said. “Don’t let that throw you off.”
“Okay. I won’t. That’s fine. Anything else?”
“She’ll say pain, when she meets pen.”, my dad elaborated, while raising one of his eyebrow and seemingly questioning me. “You sure that isn’t one of your dealbreakers?”
“Stop making out like I am being superficial. The accent is fine. I’ll get used to it. It’s not a dealbreaker.”
“How will she manage in Dublin with that accent?”, mom asks. “She’ll be insecure about it always.”
“That’s for her to deal with, and I’ll support her. She can pick it up over time anyway. You guys manage to be coherent when you are in Dublin, so am sure she can too.”
“But we don’t say pain when we mean pen.”
Fair enough.
“If everything else is fine, and I like her, I won’t reject her because she can’t say pen.”
I have committed now. It could’ve been my get-out clause. I just wasted it. Amateur.
Just a cup of tea this time. I’ve learned. Meal-dates are too ambitious. I have had three so far, and barely eaten once. A hot beverage is the perfect length of time. Long enough to get the formalities and dealbreakers out of the way, short enough to keep the novelty high.
Easier on the budget too.
Ms Thursday is late. It’s fine. Fewer judgements. More slack. Take it easy.
As is now customary, I make chit-chat with the waiter. A rotund (no judgement) lady of about 40.
“Menu, sir?”
“Thanks. Just a tea is fine.”
“Boiled, sir?”
“Yes please.”
“Two minutes sir.”
“Take your time, no rush. How’s the business going?”
“It’s good…many customers now. Business doing good!”
“Awesome! Are you the owner?”
“Yes. My husband and I are, we are in business for more than 10 years.”
“Wow! And does he work here too?”
“Not today, he’s on kids-duty today. Needs to drop and pick them up from school.”
“Oh nice. Do you have many kids?”
“Yes, four!”
“Wow! And you manage to run a cafe too?”
“Yes — it’s hard work but we can manage it. I have a good staff and my husband is hands-on with everything. Anyway, I’ll get your tea shortly.”
“Thanks!”
Wasn’t that a happy little story. It’s bog-standard, actually. Mrs Rotund (no judgement) isn’t in the minority. Guys like me are. With entitled lofty standards, blue-sky thinking, and grandiose thoughts of compatibility. Mr and Mrs Rotund have their problems too, am sure. But they don’t seem to be lacking for action. They take challenges in their stride, under-promise, and over-deliver. They aren’t shy of embracing discomfort. They make the most of whatever situation they are in. They get on with it.
I reckon this is what Indian parents mean when they ask us unmarried losers to “compromise”.
I wonder if Mr Rotund even knows what his wife’s favourite colour is. Or if it matters. Or if their “vibes” match. I am beginning to think successful marriages take the “fake it till you make it” approach: commit to a stranger you have vaguely positive-feelings about in an overblown, expensive ceremony with everyone watching, wing it for a couple of years, and by then, everything works out. Then put your kids through the same rigmarole.
Ms Thursday’s arrival puts a stop to my existential reasoning.
Petite, streaked hair, a former-braces-wearer-smile (#IYKYK), oversized Wayfarers, and a confident, almost authoritative gait.
“Sorry I am late. Traffic you know…”
I immediately realise what dad meant about the accent. It’s…prominent.
“That’s alright, I didn’t have anything else going on.”
Which sounds passive-aggressive, but I really didn’t mean it to be.
Ms T doesn’t catch the perceived slight. Thankfully. Clicks her finger in the general direction of an overworked Mrs Rotund, and beckons her to our table with her finger. Strike 1.
“Yes ma’am. I’ll be there in two minutes.”, says the harried Mrs Rotund from across the floor.
Ms T nods authoritatively. As if she was extending her tolerance for tardiness on this occasion. So, being the righteous dweeb that I am, I decide to pull Ms T up on her own tardiness. But of course, being a simp, I do it in a passive-aggressive way.
“So…traffic too heavy, eh?” On a Thursday afternoon. In Bangalore.
“Yeah, my Uber driver was horrible.”
Uber? I specifically chose this place cause it’s like a ten minute walk from Ms T’s house.
“Why didn’t you just walk?”
Ms T’s face resembles mine when someone tries to explain String Theory to me.
“Because of the sun. And why walk when I can get a cab!”
“So, you aren’t stuck in traffic, I guess?”
Here’s the thing: people don’t like when someone else points out the bleeding obvious. It’s a visceral reaction. An assault on their ego. It never goes down well.
“This is India, man. People don’t walk.”
That’s my fact for the day. In other news…
“Okay. I get it. I just walk everywhere; I find it quite convenient.”
“Really? Don’t you have a car? Oh god, I can’t survive without one!”
“No, I do, I just meant for like little errands. And yeah totally, I couldn’t survive without my car either.”
“Thank God. I wouldn’t ever marry someone without a car! I need a man to drive me around.”
Ms T had a very Uber-centric vision for life. Maybe she’s just trying to be funny. I laugh anyway.
“Of course. If you don’t mind driving the kids to school”, I say. Hilarious.
“Oh, I don’t drive! It’s not for me. And abroad, the rules and all that are so crap man. Like no way am I going to waste my time trying to learn. You have Uber there, na?”
Ms T definitely had a very Uber-centric vision for life.
“We have similar apps, yes.”
“That’s great then. Do you know if I can transfer my Uber balance from here or do I have to create a new account?”
Um..why would I know that?
“Um…I am not sure. You could speak to customer ca…”
“Oh god. So annoying. I am not going to waste my time with that. It’s fine. I’ll just create a new account.”
Okay. Can we move on from Uber.
“Yeah, you’ll be fine with a new account. Have you travelled abroad much…?”
“Yeah, I was in Germany for my MBA. Hated it! I loved my college life here during my English MA.”
“Why?”
“The food, the language, the people…just everyone is so stuck up. And like I had to do everything myself! I was homesick within a week!”
“Oh wow. That sounds terrible! Whereabouts were you?”
“Berlin. It was just so bleh…I could’ve just stayed in Bangalore. It’s so chill here man.”
“Yeah, I like Bangalore too.”
“Yeah, it’s like the best city in the world! So happening!”
More facts.
“I mean, it’s fun sure. Every place is different though, right? Has its own charm…”
“Arre what charm! Berlin is so boring dude. There’s nothing to do.”
“Okay, fair enough. Maybe it just wasn’t your thing…”
“Naah, I love it here more. I’ve so many friends here too, so many things to do…”
“Nice..what do you like to do around town?”
“Meet up with my friends, go to the pubs, so much culture man…and the music scene is unreal here!”
My music-scene was listening to Kishore Kumar on the treadmill.
“So you like going out then?”
“Yeah! I just feel so alive here…everyone told me Berlin was a party city, there are a few spots but honestly, I enjoy Bangalore much more. I don’t know why anyone would leave here.”
“But aren’t you open to the idea of living in Ireland?”
“I mean, yeah. For a while, sure. Make some extra cash and come back!”
Hmmm. Ireland is home for me. As much as Bangalore is. I do an 80/20 split between the two currently. Maybe I could do a 50/50? I could work from home. It’d be a shame to leave my world behind. But isn’t that what I was expecting of Ms T? Or any future wife?
“Yeah, I guess. It’s not a terrible option. Do you know much about Ireland?”
“Not really. It’ll be better than Berlin, am sure!”
“I mean, it’s different…”
Mrs Rotund cuts me short as she asks what we’d like to have.
“Another tea for me, please.”
“I’ll get a cappuccino.”, says Ms T.
Mrs Rotund nods and smiles and heads in.
“I mean, it’s different…”, I continue. “The culture is quite unique, and the people are lovely. Social, friendly, funny…”
“What’s there to do?”
That’s too open a question for me to answer.
“What would you like to do? What do you spend your time doing when you aren’t working?”
“I told you na — I like meeting up with friends.”
“To what end?”
“Eh?”
“As in, what do these meetings entail?”
“Dude…what’s entail. Who talks like that! Also I didn’t know you had a weird accent! Are you like a proper NRI?”
“I…guess so…”
“See, I want a proper Indian guy okay. Not some foreigner. Those guys are so boring. They read books and stuff, and even their jokes are lame.”
Mom knows best.
“Okay…what did you like about my profile?”, I ask trying to change tact.
“You seem like an independent guy living abroad. I thought you’d be into partying and travel and stuff.”
Interesting use of the past tense there. And I did like travel and stuff. Partying…not so much.
“You had a photo of you in some rooftop bar, I love such places! Would love to go there”, Ms T continued. “And you are Indian right, so you’d have the right culture and values too.”
I think Ms T uses “culture” to mean literally anything.
“Like what culture, do you mean?”
“You know…respecting women, respecting our nation, our values…Even though you live abroad, I feel you have those things.”
That word ‘nation’ feels so jarring.
“I respect all nat..er..countries.”
“Yeah, me too. But I feel ours is the best, the quality of life is so awesome here.”
“If you can afford it, sure.”
“No seriously! It’s amazing. I can get a coffee for like 100 bucks. And I can get a maid, and a driver, and a cook. Like it’s so convenient. That never happens abroad.”
Probably because of enforced labour laws. But I digress…
“Okay. I am confused — you liked my profile because I live abroad, but you love life in India more?
“See, basically I want a guy who’s Indian at heart but living abroad and who’ll come back to India to live after a few years because I like life here better.”
“What’s an Indian at heart?”
“Like I mean, you know…normal.”
“Elucidate please?”
“What?”
“Describe what you mean by normal?”
“Dude, it’s obvious. Like a normal Indian guy.”
“But normal is subjective.”
“I don’t know what that means…why do you talk so weirdly?”
This was a washout. I am at my wit’s end trying to understand what Ms T is looking for. Lemme try again. I’ll take it back to basics.
“Okay. Hang on. Lemme back up a bit. What did you like about living in Berlin?”
“Nothing.”
“Did you make any German friends?”
“Just casually. The way they talk is so funny.”
Ms T could literally be skin deep.
“Fair enough. What makes you think you’d like life in Ireland?”
“Arre, if it’s just for a few years, I can adjust na. Like I did in Berlin”
“But what would you do during those years?”
“Shop, travel, party….”
I am trying not to grind my teeth.
“But do you have a goal, or a vision, for our life together?”
“See, I don’t overthink so much. I just live in the moment.”
“Won’t you get bored? Liked you did in Berlin? You must have some hobbies, right?”
“I like watching movies.”
Okay — that’s promising. I love movies too.
“Okay — what’s the best movie you’ve watched recently”
“Bhool Bhulaiyya 2.”
No comment.
Mrs Rotund brings us the coffee. I want to neck it and walk out. But wait. Ms T is just…simple. That’s not the worst. She can learn. Attitude more than aptitude, right?
Ms T rips three brown sugar sachets with her teeth. Dunks it in her cappuccino. Strike 2.
“What’s one thing about you that you’d like to change?”, I ask like a desi Dr Phil.
“Ummmm…I wish I was taller.”
“Okay, I meant something that you could change.” Without breaking the laws of physics.
“Oh…I want to get into politics.”
Where did that come from?
“You can do that any time. It’s in your control.”, I supportively say.
“Are you a political person?”, Ms T asks.
“No.”
“Oh. But you watch the news, na. It’s so interesting what’s happening in our country.”
I need to steer this conversation into something tangible. One last push.
“I don’t watch the news at all.”
“Arre…you should. How will you know about your country if you don’t watch? Our leaders are putting in so much work to improve our nation.”
“Okay.”
This was fast becoming a party-political broadcast. I need to take evasive action.
“Why do you want to get ma…”
“You know, we will soon be a bigger economy that UK and USA combined. You should set up your business here.”
Mrs Rotund thankfully breaks up Ms T’s sales pitch to clear the coffee. She stops dead in her tracks while walking away from our table as Ms T clicks her fingers again. She turns and walks back towards us, seemingly mesmerised by Ms T’s beckoning index finger.
Strike three.
“Yes ma’am? Anything else?”
“Dessert menu.”
Please? I say in my head.
“Yes ma’am, two minutes.”
“Actually, no need for that. Just the bill would be fine, thanks.”, I say officially kicking off Operation Cut My Losses and Get Back Home.
Mrs Rotund nods and smiles and heads her merry way.
“I think we are quite different…”, I start, turning to Ms T.
“Yes, don’t think this will work.”
“Exactly. Thanks for your time, and good luck. I am going to head to the metro station!”
“Arre why baba, I’ll get you an Uber.”
Namma Metro was the emptiest I had seen all week. As was my list of remaining options.
Ms T was just…I mean, we weren’t just on different pages. We were on different books in different languages in different countries separated by copious space and eternal time. As I sat there staring out of the still grubby train windows, watching South Bangalore whooshing past, I realised I wasn’t disappointed, or sad, or guilty. I wasn’t even angry. Or frustrated.
I was feeling sorry. For people coasting through life bereft of purpose. For denying themselves the full splendour of life’s experiences. For passively accepting things as they unfold. For not thinking for themselves. For not challenging the status quo. For not embracing uncertainty. For not risking failure. For fearing discomfort. For blindly pursuing inanity.
South Bangalore kept whooshing past. Time kept ticking. People got off the train, more got on. Everything just carried on. As it always had. As it always will.
I see a 2-year-old jumping off the seats to try to latch on to the handlebar.
I know he won’t even attempt it next year.
