Indian matchmaking - has nothing changed?

20 years later, the memory is still vivid. He sat on a Neelkamal chair, rocking gently on the wobbly hind legs while I worried of what would happen if he tripped and fell. I wouldn’t be able to control my laughter then, would I? His right leg was rooted firmly in a Bata slipper while his left leg was folded in a lap resting on the other. He massaged the resting left foot, plucking the cuticles around his big toe with his fingernails. I could see him peeling some off, playing with the barked skin turning it into a tiny ball, until he got bored and flicked it to the ground. I hid my disgust and tried to distract myself. The pedicure continued. He spoke with authority like he was a Vijay Deenanath Chahuan. Question followed question, and with every passing moment I felt more uncomfortable and hid deeper into my shell, like a nervous tortoise. The next day they called to say the Kundali did not match, a common excuse when the ladke-vale were convinced the skin color didn’t match (their expectation). In their defense, I would agree, this was our fault. My mother, in the bio data, had elevated my skin tone to ‘wheatish’, when in reality I was more of dark rye. What they were hoping for their dark rye son, based on my overly retouched photo was - ‘white as maida’. 

Why the sudden recount of an incidence that occurred such a long time ago? Well, when Sima (from Mumbai), nonchalantly mentions that “slim, trim and fair” girls are always in demand, I can’t help but go back in time – a short period in my past when my qualifications, skills and ambitions were reduced to zilch, outweighed by the three important parameters that mattered most – slim, trim and fair. I have nothing against arranged marriages. Many of my friends have found their soul mates through match makers and have had successful marriages then on. But they too will agree that the process to get there was (and shockingly as seen on Indian Matchmaking still is,) regressive, and though equally uncomfortable for the boy and girl, is more patronizing for the girl.

But today, shouldn’t the Tinders, Bumbles and Shaadi.coms make it easier? Looks like the answer is ‘No’. Can’t there be an overhaul in the Indian matchmaking process like there has been in the Indian Education System? ‘Indian Matchmaking’ is today the most watched series on Netflix India and it’s because it’s somewhat like F.R.I.E.N.D.S – appealing to every generation by being relatable and believable. 

In my limited experience in the subject of Indian matchmaking (I met 4 men), there was never a moment when I felt, “Oh this person is so cool. I could live with him forever”. Maybe it meant I had not met my soul mate yet through the process and if I had enough patience and tolerance, maybe I would have. Lucky for me I took the first overseas project and flew out of the battlefield. “I’ll fight those battles again when I’m back,” I thought.

‘So I was kind of your knight in shining armor then,’ he says gloating as I narrate my thoughts to my husband for 20 years, best friend for 25. “Nah nah, as Seema aunty says , ‘It’s all about adjustment, flexibility and a lot of compromise’ “, I say with a wink 😉

  

 

 

 

Walking, in a post lockdown world..

On 23^rd April, we heard the news that the lockdown would be eased from the next day. This would mean we would finally be able to venture out a bit. That day would also be the 35^th day, since we had stepped out of the building; the farthest we had gone to, being the trash chute on the same floor - and  oh boy, was I happy every time it was my turn!

I enjoy my evening walks and for long time now, my daily 3 km walks covered walking from the bedroom to the living room, then to the balcony and back in repetition. I often felt like a lion pacing in his cage back and forth, the only unidirectional view of the world being what I saw from my east facing balcony. It would be so good to finally see the sunset. I imagined what it would be like when the day to step out would finally arrive. I saw myself dancing my way out of the building like the girl from the Cadbury's ad who ran onto the cricket field to meet her lover.

Come D Day, the Avengers assembled in full gear – finally out of the pajamas into the gym clothes, sneakers and masks.

Yeah we look like humans mutating into parrots!

Instructions were given to the children – DO NOT TOUCH, ANYWHERE! We finally stepped out of the house and walked towards the elevator. I educated the others on how to call for it by pressing the button with the second knuckle on the index finger. Once inside I demonstrated the same again, by pressing the ground floor button. We were halfway down when the door opened. Another family stood outside. I freaked out, “Would they enter? If they did, wouldn’t it be too crowded? What about social distancing?” Thankfully their mask-covered faces disclosed an equally horrified look and they signaled they would take the next one. Never before, have people in the same building been so wary of each other.

Once out of the elevator, I pushed the entrance door of the building with my forearm. I saw more people than I imagined there would be. I reminded the children that they should keep safe distance from other walkers. I reminded them again not to constantly adjust their mask. I reminded them to sanitize their hands once more. I completely forgot to dance!

We started on our regular 4 km route.  I am not a listening-to-music-while-walking kind of person. I rather enjoy chatting. But with the mask on, that became significantly harder. It was harder to breathe and hence harder to talk while walking. And the mask moved a lot.  I quickly learnt that saying “Ohhh” helped move it down and saying “Umm” with your lips pressed, helped move it up (try it next time). I realized I was talking less and making weird faces more (Jim Carey would be proud). My husband suggested we should just walk quietly. Even through the mask, his sly smile gave away his intentions. We walked the rest of the route in silence. The sunset was beautiful.

Alas, by the time we were home, I realized I hadn’t really enjoyed the whole going-out process as much as I had anticipated it. I remembered my ‘good old days in lockdown’ when I could walk worry-free in the house. So, the next evening when my husband got ready for the walk,

“But it will be hot outside, right?”, I asked

“Yeah”

“And I’ll have to change?”

“Yeah”

“And I’ll have to wear a mask?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“It’s ok. You can go alone. I’ll just walk in the house today.”

It’s been almost 2 weeks since then. I go out once in three or four days just so I can see the sun set. I know eventually I, and all of us, will have to get used to this new ‘normal’ – walking away from people, face covered and silent. But till then, since I can, I will enjoy walking in the comfort of my home and if my nose twitches a bit, I will scratch it - fearlessly, to my heart’s content.

Hairy Puttar .. a lockdown story

It lay in a small corner in the bathroom cabinet – unwanted and forgotten. A long time back when we lived in the US, and my son was a co-operating toddler (yeah mom’s of toddlers, you heard it right. Wait till your sons become teenagers) , I would use it to avoid an unnecessary quarterly expense. And here it is again, all dusted and brushed , ready to make it’s mark again – (drum roll) The family clipper!

Now as much as I looked forward to using it, I knew I would face some resistance when it came to the boy – now 12 yrs old and having a strong opinion about who would trim his long, unkempt locks. It reminded me of the sheep shearing session we witnessed on our recent trip to a farm in New Zealand. 

It would be physically impossible to handle the boy this way now. I had to find another way. I tried emotional blackmail - “How can I kiss your forehead every night with all the shabby hair in the way?” Didn’t work. Pure blackmail – “You want me to make the brownies for you, right?” Mom’s (think they) have tremendous leverage over the other members of the family over supply of food during lock-down. Didn’t work – he made them on his own.

Finally, the father came to rescue and agreed to be the guinea pig. (He later argued he was forced. Like the many mysteries of the world, no one will ever know the truth. 😊). After numerous rounds of discussions at the dinner table, it was decided that I would have to cut Dad’s hair first, while the boy would watch and if he felt I had done a good job, I would be allowed near him with the clipper.

D Day! The newspapers were laid on the floor. A stool was placed on it. An old sheet would be used to cover themselves from the falling hair. The dad sat diligently. The boy observed closely. My steady hands went about with the clipper -  buzzzz, buzzzz, buzz  - using intuition, past experiences, and the knowledge gained from a few you tube videos I had watched recently. I did what the hands said.

Dad was done. He walked away hamming; unconvincingly repeating “Vah thanks, great haircut”. I think in his heart he was just relieved he was recognizable in the next zoom meeting. The boy somehow bamboozled by dad’s over acting, came forward. He gulped and sat uncomfortably, probably still wanting to make a dash out of the room. A few reassurances later, the clipper buzzed again. Clearing out the mop on his head would mean I turn on rage mode. BUZZZZ, BUZZZ, BUZZZ. 

Then some final snips with the scissors and all done! He seemed sufficiently happy with the result. He even asked if I could style it by shaving some straight lines on one side. I obliged. He dusted the sheet and walked out happy. No tip ☹

Later in the day he thanked me and said he felt fresh and light. “You are welcome,” I said. “Can I cut your hair tomorrow, Mumma?” “Oh, no one dare touch my hair”, I responded!