I feel like doing something I have seldom done before; something I am really bad at. Matchmaking my little sister. And it’s not because I am a romantic at heart or I love fix-ups or know how to go about them, but simply because that will probably be the only way to rescue her from the spate of unsuitable boys my parents and other gerrys (my short form for geriatrics) in the family have been subjecting her to. Okay folks, I am sorry about airing this in my column, but I hope this works.
After years of being the black sheep of the family, I am suddenly the apple of everyone’s eye. It has nothing to do with this column but has to do with the fact that I am now ‘respectably married’ and what’s more, I have also demonstrated that I have a womb. So much for brownie points.
My little sister on the other hand is now fighting battles that I chose not to fight, simply by running away from home and living on my own since age 24.
When I was of ‘marriageable age’ i e way before I actually got married, I was introduced to various computer geeks, financial wizards, research scientists and academic Neanderthals by the usual suspects (not that I have anything against any of the species, but it demonstrates my family’s limited vision as far as mating is concerned). All I could think of was, what would they be like in the sack,and somehow, I found the idea unpalatable each time. But how does one tell parents that? So I would use euphemisms like, “I am too strong/independent for him, he may not be able to deal with my free spirit,” blah, blah. After a point, my parents declared me over the hill and gave up, and then it was over to my sister.
What bothers me is how the benefit of doubt is never in favour of you, but the ‘boy’ or the ‘party’ to put it crudely. How he is well settled, has a good job, has his ‘own flat’ never mind if it’s in Ranchi or Coimbatore, or wherever sad people live. And how we need to make haste and not ‘delay matters any further’ because time is ‘running out’ and age is ‘catching up’ and such a ‘case’ may not come again. I almost have visions of a train leaving the station in classic Bollywood style and Kamalhassan or some such running behind it with a pot in his hand, making monkey faces at Sridevi, ala Sadma.
As for the photographs of concerned ‘parties’, let us not even go into that— it’s a whole minefield, enough to deserve an exhibit. I wonder how in the era of Facebook and candid cameras, men still manage to get shot in low angles, accentuating their gauche bodies and bad clothes, looking like they just stepped out of a kitsch gallery. Who is shooting them? Their gardeners?
So dear parents and fellow gerrys, I implore you. Just clear orf! Or show me a real man.