Tuesday: Million Dollar Baby
Season 1, Episode 2
Another day, another dollar.
Shit, shower, shave, solve, sell: the morning routine of champions. Except mine ends after shave — I am on holiday for Christ’s sake. I only “solve” and “sell” when on company time. Although this hasn’t felt like much of a holiday so far. Arranged marriage dating is a full-time gig. With no perks. And no salary. But allegedly the eventual reward is the big pay-off — a lifetime of sanguine happiness.
Maybe the juice is worth the squeeze. We’ll see.
I am hit with a barrage of questions as I roll out of bed and head to the war room. Or kitchen, as most of you know it.
“She was the best one, what did you manage to not like about her?”, Dad with the opening remarks.
“She’s great, you guys did a great job shortlisting her! Looks nice, but just not my type. To be honest, I’d bring nothing of value to her life.” Swift, succinct rebuttal. Classic firefighting: credit their effort, showcase my shortcomings, leave enough room for silence, drink a cup of tea.
“Fine. Are you meeting the next girl today?”. Works every time.
“Yes dad. I was thinking I’ll do it right now — morning date, sunny day, and plate of idli-vada.”
“Okay, good. You want me to drop you?”.
“Dad, I am not going to school. I’ll just walk it.”
“Walk? It’s like five kilometres away. In this heat, and traffic! You won’t survive.”
Dad always thinks walking anywhere in Bangalore is slightly more dangerous than facing enemy-fire head on.
“It’s fine. I’ve to hit my 10k steps today. I’ll get an auto back. Plus, I need some Vitamin D.”
“Okay good luck. And don’t get argumentative with her.”
“Noted. I’ll keep it simple. You know I don’t go looking for a fight! I generally keep an open mind…”
“Yeah, but people don’t like being questioned! They feel threatened by it!”
“Why?”
See what I did there?
“Because most people are insecure about themselves, and what they think they are about. And your questioning puts them on the spot.”
“But I need to know what someone is like before marrying them, right?”
“I didn’t know what your mom was like…”
“Maybe you just got lucky then?”
Sidebar: moms are always within earshot. You could be on the dark side of the moon and mention her, and she’d hear you crystal clear. Mine was no different.
“We both got lucky, we found each other, and then we worked on our incompatibilities. Nobody is perfect, you must make it work.”
“Mom, I completely agree. This is what I want too. I am just saying, forget about any intellectual compatibility or whatever, I just want to marry someone with whom I can at least negotiate with. Somebody who’s willing to introspect, encourage an alternative perspective, think for herself, instead of having a rock-solid perception of how the world works. I mean, her perception could be right, but I still wouldn’t want that.”
“I doubt you’ll ever get married.” Dad cutting to the chase, as usual.
“There’s bound to be someone like that, right. Who also matches all your filters?”
“Yes — but we are short on time. You are nearly 40!”
“Better late than never. Better good and slow, than fast and wrong. Better right first time, than wrong many. Better get going.”
“So…you are flying to London today?” I ask, desperately sticking to the obvious.
Ms Tuesday sat across me in the finest Adigas establishment in all of Jayanagar. Steaming idlis fog up my glasses, as I unfurl a balled-up tissue from my pocket to wipe them. It manages to do the job somewhat. I now had streaks of tissue paper debris across my glasses. Classy.
“No — I plan to jump out somewhere over Baghdad.”
Nice. She gets it. I smile. She smiles. Ka-ching.
Ms T: A Cambridge-educated, globe-trotting, matcha-tea drinking lawyer. She’s squeezing in a daytime-date with yours truly, enroute to the airport to board her flight back to London. She aims to work on the plane, bang out a few emails, cab it to Shoreditch, and get back home by 2AM. Sheesh. Our romantic getaways are going to be….an experience.
“You’ve certainly packed light then!”
“Haha yeah — these baggage rules are so…ugh!” Ms T makes a face somewhere between missing a last-minute penalty and inhaling a noxious fart. Adorable. This one was a looker.
“I know right? I am flying back home after a year cause my mum has lined up these girls for me to meet. Like some sorta swayamvar. So, I didn’t pack that much, most of my good stuff is at home.” Just slyly putting that out there — testing waters. Telling her I am “available”. And interested.
“Oh wow! How’s that going then?”
“Well so-so. You win some, you lose some.”
“Yeah well, same here. Where are the suitable men!” Shakes both her fists at an imaginary heaven, smile still intact.
My idli was now soggy. (Not a euphemism). I dunk it in the delicious sambar and do what my dad told me not to: I asked a pointed question.
“So, what is your type then?”
“Somebody ambitious, successful, driven…I’d hate to be the alpha in the relationship, you know. I want somebody who’ll compete with me, push me in my career as I will push him in his, a mutually beneficial relationship built on solid compatibility and growth.”
I let that percolate. Maybe she’s hiring a VP for her firm, and some of the job-spec has subconsciously drifted into her answer.
“You must have come across many that tick those boxes?”, I ask inquisitively.
“Only on the surface. After a couple of conversations, it all just falls flat. They all seem content, comfortable in where they are. Which is great for them, but like I said, I want someone with actual drive.”
Gosh. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t at least a little intimidated.
“Yeah, I guess we are simple creatures. And I totally hear you — far too many are comfortable with ordinariness…”
“Exactly. What’s the point of life otherwise? And marriage, specifically? We both need to enhance each other’s lives!”
“Does the “enhancement” have to be purely professional though?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, there’s more to life than professional glory. It’s a job, after all. I’d rather my wife enhanced my life in other ways — strong emotional support, someone who laughs at my jokes, is a loving mother to our kids….”
“Most people have jobs. I have a successful career!”
So, she stopped listening after that sentence. It’s amazing how people always hear what they want to hear. Including me. Time for the next negotiation tactic: mirroring.
“You have a successful career?”, I say in my most neutral, inquisitive, soothing, non-judgemental voice.
“Yeah, I lead a high-performing team, I am the go-to girl for all my clients, I bring in millions in revenue, and I worked my ass off to get to this position.”
“Wow. You are a high achiever!”
“I don’t like to brag about it obviously, but I am. I guess that’s why I wouldn’t wanna give any of it up and take a backseat with someone who wasn’t at least equally driven.”
Fair enough. I would reluctantly be the househusband and work on my business and writing if it meant that we had a happy, healthy, loving marriage. I guess I wouldn’t view it as a “sacrifice”, as much as being a unified team. My professional achievements aren’t the only source of my happiness and confidence.
“I hear you. You know what you want, and that’s great. What do you do when you aren’t working?”
“I am at a senior position, which means long-hours and lots of responsibilities. I love what I do, and honestly, it doesn’t even feel like work. It keeps me engaged!”
So, no hobbies then. Okay. There must be something that she loves doing outside of her job. Another red flag: she hasn’t asked me a single question. Yet.
“Damn. You love what you do! You know what I do, right?”
“Yeah, you run a consultancy business, I think. How’s that going?”
“It’s alright. Pays the bills. I don’t live to work. Or even work to live. I guess I value my autonomy and time more than working for someone. I am privileged enough to use my time to earn the money I need. It’s never enough, obviously. But at least I love it. And I spend the rest of my time dabbling with things I love — writing, talking, travelling, family.”
“I see. You rather do many things well, than one thing excellently.”
“I guess so. If I have a good time doing them.”
“I see myself growing with my firm, dedicating my best years to it, acing life! Nothing gives me more joy!”
“What about being a mother?” Sorry dad.
“Excuse me…?”
“I mean, that would give you more joy I imagine?”
“Would you enjoy being a dad?”
“Yes! I’d love that! I love responsibility, I think I’d be quite hands-on, and I am eager to have my own family.”
“Hmmm. But kids are such a chore! And they are expensive little time-stealers!”
“Um, I don’t think you’d feel that your own child is stealing your time.”
“I would. I just…don’t like that idea of being tied-down or slowed-down by anyone.”
“Except your employer.”
“My employer pays my bills! Kids are all take-take-take…And isn’t the world overpopulated anyway?”
“Is it?”
“Yeah! 8 billion and counting. Why do we need more of us?”
By that logic, the best thing we could do for the planet is to kill ourselves. Don’t worry dad, I won’t say it.
“I think the bigger problem is that the planet is underpopulated, not overpopulated. For the first time in history, people under the age of 30 have fewer kids than ever before.”
“Easy for you to say! Walk around Bangalore and tell me we don’t have enough people.”
“Population isn’t the same as population density. Anyway, why is the world’s problem your problem?”
“Because it’s by changing ourselves that we change the world.”
“You’d like to change the world?”
“Yes! In my own way. Wouldn’t you?”
“I’d like to change my world.”
“Huh?”
“Make my world better. Happier, fun, warm…you know, things that kids bring. I think everyone changing their own worlds should eventually make the world better. Or not.”
“Kids! Plural! How many kids do you want?”
“I am too egotistical to not pass on my genes. I’d like as many as possible! Rather have and not want, than want and not have. The pain of regret is so much worse than the joy of responsibility.”
“Wow. Are you serious? With climate change, overpopulation, dwindling resources…you wanna have multiple kids?”
I was being berated for not caring about efficient resource utilization by a woman with three packed suitcases, a dress costing four-figures, the latest Macbook, and a whiff of Chanel’s finest.
My idli was past soggy now.
“I guess it’s natural to have kids and to perpetuate life. It’s the human-centric approach. And I genuinely believe the point of life is to take on responsibility. To embrace discomfort. And kids bring that, and more.”
“Ok boomer.”
Fair enough. In my defence, I am yet to meet a 50-year-old living alone in their 2-bed apartment that they bought on a 30-year mortgage thanks to their excellent employer, looking back on their life and patting themselves on the back saying “Yeah, I did this right.”
“Why have kids when you can adopt? There are millions of potential-responsibilities for you take on!”
“True, there are. I guess if we couldn’t have our own kids that’s a viable option.”
“That’s so selfish! Wanting your own kids. If you really loved kids, you’d just adopt!”
“So, you mean you aren’t against kids, you are just against having any of your own?”
“I just don’t think kids are a priority for me right now. Focussing on my career, yes. Finding a compatible husband, yes. Kids will happen if and when they happen.”
“Sure yeah, I agree. I don’t wanna have kids tomorrow. I just mean I’d like to have kids in the future, once my partner and I are on the same page. I mean that not wanting kids at all is my deal-breaker.”
“That’s such a weird deal-breaker to have! You can’t decide to reject a potential match because they aren’t ready for kids immediately.”
“But being on the same page on this is vital, right? It’d be a bit late to find out we want different things three years into the marriage.”
“You make this sound like a contractual obligation.”
As opposed to Ms T’s job-spec for a husband. But okay, maybe I am being too business-like.
“You know what I reckon. If there was no such thing as the biological clock, I don’t think this discussion would even be necessary. And yeah, it’s unfair that the clock runs out at the cost of your career. But I don’t think it’s either kids or career, surely. Employers understand that and they are quite accommodating. I mean, I am the product of working parents, and I’ve turned out okayish. It’s possible, and it’s not easy. But it can, and in my estimation, should, be done.”
“Am sorry, but this is just Luddite thinking. You’ve heard of freezing eggs? IVF? There are so many tools for the job now! You don’t have to be hamstrung by the old-school method.”
I already have the perfect tools for the job the last time I checked. I mean, I get it. Ms T was talking sense, and I am looking for a life-partner not a baby-producing machine.
“Point taken. Expensive options, emotionally taxing and stressful, but valid. I still think they are wonderful technological advancements but useful as a back-up when the main system malfunctions.”
“So is a car. Why don’t you walk everywhere, like we were meant to? Just because it’s unnatural doesn’t make it wrong.”
“Okay. Just cause it’s available doesn’t mean it needs to be used.”
“Ah. What’s it with you guys these days? Would you be as eager if you had to go through 9-months of pain? And that’s for a single kid — you want many!”
“I’d like to think that I would. Luckily for me, I don’t have to put my money where my mouth is.”
“Wow. Entitled and misogynistic. You are quite the catch.”
Uh oh. I’d done it again. At least it wasn’t that long a walk back home.
No Namma Metro this time.
Just a long 5 km walk home whilst slaloming between motorcyclists and cratered pavements. Pausing, reflecting, playing it back in my head. Two women of their own accord think I am a misogynist.
Both couldn’t be wrong, could they?
But why is my conscience unmoved? Why do I feel that I am not crossing any taboo lines despite two random women and my parents telling me I am? What am I missing?
My deal-breakers are too strict, probably. I am stuck with an elitist, entitled, toxic masculinity that reeks. Being myself isn’t working.
And I still can’t get to wholeheartedly agree with Ms T’s take. To each their own, right? If she’s right, I am not the guy for her. If she’s wrong, I am still not the guy for her. Logically, the only thing that matters then is if we are right for each other. And my conscience doesn’t allow me to say that we are.
No unruly dogs chased me home tonight — my circuitous thoughts did that job tonight.
I glance across at the old pan-shop my friends and I used to sneak out and smoke at. It’s the same dude running it. Over fifteen years. He looks exactly like how I remember him. He probably wouldn’t recognise me now. I spend another few minutes’ staring into my past-life before I realise what I was doing: buying time before I break my parents’ heart again.
Screw it, time to face the music.
“What was wrong with this one, then?”, mom welcomes me home.
“Not much, to be fair. I don’t think she wants to have kids.” A succinct summary am sure you’d agree with.
“What? Why not?”
“They are resource heavy…”
“Are you listening to this?”, mom yells across the room to my dad.
“Yeah, I am. Go on…”, he yells back.
“So yeah, apparently they are time stealers…”, I continue.
“But she’s already 33!”
“And her best is yet to come, at least for her employer.”
Mom looks on in disbelief. Surely, there’s more to this?
“Surely there’s more to this?”, she asks, right on cue.
“I guess she isn’t ready for kids, nor is she worried about the biological clock.”
“Do you want me to ask her parents?”
“What? No! What would you ask? Why doesn’t you daughter want to have kids? I am sure they’ll be delighted to answer that.”
“But this is so unnatural…”, mom says. Still in disbelief.
“She did say she’s open to other…routes. Adoption, IVF, etc.”
“Okay, forget it. You can’t change her mind.”
“Exactly.”
“So, she’s off the longlist then?”, dad asks.
“Yep. Struck off.”
“Okay. Next one tomorrow?”
Like a conveyor belt in a factory.
“Yeah, next one tomorrow.”
At least the debrief wasn’t as bad as I feared it would be. Every cloud, and all that.
I collapse on the couch and pick up a book. Read it on autopilot until it’s bedtime.
