Run Over By A Tea Trolley

I thought marriages were made in heaven and for sometime it seemed to be the case.

People whom I had never seen before would come to our house and were showered with copious amounts of attention and trays of tea time treats. I hadn’t seen this much adulation over someone we cared nothing for since our rich great aunt from India died (finally!). Khair, the point is I had seen all this hullabullo when cousins had people come to ‘see’ them. My cousins would never bring out a tea trolley themselves, it was always a servant.

“No use basing these relations under false pretenses.” These are not the words of a UN Secretary General but that of my very pretentious Phuppi. She has five daughters and one very devoted, doting rich husband; thus Phuppi can afford to be pretentious. For all her airs and graces, to put it politely, her daughters were married off one by one: summer weddings (to make sure all visiting relatives could take in the extravagances) and every two years, like clock work, in a fashion that Henry Ford would be proud of.

Those were the days but these days are very different. Marriages aren’t made in heaven but at schools, universities, workplaces, cafes. Who wants complete strangers to show up at their house? Imagine that! Or worse an ex! (Yeah, that happened. It was made worse when the intermediary was too clueless to understand the awkward silences and eyes glaring at her to cram the last piece of Bombay Bakery cake into her gob and leave.)

So what am I left with? No choice but my mom telling me in a subtle way that it would have been easier for me had I been slutty in college. This is the same mom that gave all my western clothes to the maid (what was she going to do with them?) when I was 16 for sneaking out at night and coming back with a hickey. Now that I’m 30 she’s all like, “You don’t like anyone, you might as well have picked out someone yourself.” Sorry, Mom, I spent all my life hiding guys from you, when you really just wanted to meet them. Make up your mind, woman!”

“Koi course kyun nahi karlaythi?” she suggests.

I finally shout at her, rather unforgivably, “I have a double masters! What ‘course’ could I possibly enroll in? Do you want me to go to Rangoonwala Hall to learn stitching and flower arrangement?!?!”

“Nahi wahan pay larkay nahi hothay.”