October 30, 2003

The other day, there I was, relishing a hot cup of java, reading the paper while watching BBC, in control of my life, when the doorbell rang. Nobody visits at this hour on a Sunday morning, I thought. I was quite relieved when I heard my aunt’s voice.

I stepped out of my study, with dishevelled hair, barefoot, clad in faded track pants and an old tattered college T-shirt that read, ‘If you want me ... come and get me’. I stretched my arms out to embrace my aunt, who squealed with delight when she saw me, and as she squeezed me against her bosom, I realized she wasn’t alone, there was another someone with her. Joy, the last thing I want to do on my day off is to make polite conversation with this petite, soft spoken, lethal looking lady.

We were introduced; turns out she’s a distant cousin of my aunt, who’s visiting from Lahore. We discreetly looked each other up and down — I don’t think she had much trouble trying to suss me out, all credit goes to my appearance. As luck would have it, my mother was down with vertigo and resting in her room. When I informed my aunt of this, she went upstairs to see her, and assured this lady that she will be well looked after in the meantime.

So I showed this lady alias lady society (LS) to my study, offered her some tea and we settled down to exchange pleasantries. We discussed the weather, Ramazan, Eid and the wedding season round the corner. Then came the expected pause, that awkward moment of silence when you’ve completely run out of things to say. I think she had been looking forward to this, because it gave her the opportunity to launch her inquisition.

She wasn’t particularly interested in what I do. Although I tried very hard to draw her attention towards, “Well, do you think Iran is making a nuclear bomb?” Turns out she was equipped with her own arsenal. “Have you no plans of getting married? I mean isn’t it time you gave it some serious thought, after all there is the right time for everything? I’m sure your parents are longing for grand-children.”

I contemplated whether to tell her that I don’t believe in the institution of marriage. Or, whether I should put the hard, cold facts before her.

I began by saying I would much rather live with my parents, because I won’t have it this good anywhere else, (my mother’s vertigo just became much worse, and my father’s broken out in a cold sweat, as for my brother he’s decided this is a good time to move out.)

Frankly, I’m a spoilt brat; I get my way all the time and I’m not denied or deprived of anything. They put up with my tantrums and my idiosyncracies. They love me unconditionally. They also made innumerable sacrifices to finance my education, so that I would be able to be someone and make something of my life — that’s exactly what I’m trying to do.

I asked her if she had the foggiest idea of what it means to be a woman, single, 30-something, and out there, in that jungle, spending everyday fighting to survive and stay sane.

It takes guts (LS), so don’t you sit in judgement of what I choose to believe, and decide to be. And, I’ll tell you something else, I’m done ‘thinking’ about marriage, I’m not fixated with delusional notions of it — trust me — it’s no bed of roses.

Yes, there is a time and a place for everything. Sometimes you’ve been there, and it just didn’t work out. And if it’s not meant to be — you can’t make it happen; in fact in retrospect you thank your lucky stars, it didn’t.

I’ll let you in on a secret: recently my other brother and sister-in-law were visiting with my niece, my ‘Princess’. We were seeing them after a year. One afternoon she was in her Dadi’s godi, holding her milk bottle with one hand, and playing with her Dadi’s wedding ring with the other. We thought she was falling asleep when suddenly she said, “Dadi ring pretty.”

I smiled to myself and thought, “Princess, it’s yours, and it can only look as pretty on you.” I know my mother knew then in her heart, as did I, that my Princess had fulfilled a passionate longing in me, and she is perhaps the only one who will ever do so.

By this time (LS) was visibly disturbed, wanting to refer me to a psychiatrist. So I thought I might as well put her out of her misery. I told her, if marriage is on the cards for me, Mr Right will have to accept me for who I am, no frills. He will have to be able to look after the little girl, and cherish the wild, free spirited woman. Above all else he must not be afraid of love.

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