My IT degree that I’ll earn within a couple of years won’t save me. Yes, it’s all about well-set good-looking guys selling out quickly.
At times, I regret agreeing with my mother to let her start looking for a suitable guy for me. If I had the slightest idea that she would come back this soon, I would have delayed this at least until I finish my studies. Yet being the obedient firstborn, I have agreed to talk to Mr. Right.
At 9:30 that night, I’m upstairs in the bedroom I share with my little sister Bansari—a fragile, fair, and petite fairy-like creature who is usually lost in her science and mathematics books.
In the maze-like bustling city of Ahmedabad, we live on the outskirts near a developing highway called Sarkhej-Gandhinagar Highway. Our house is in a relatively new community, a good five years old, where all the two-story houses look pretty much the same. Our home is at the end of the street, between two other houses. Both bedrooms are upstairs and have balconies while the downstairs has one hall, a tiny kitchen, and some space around the house that fits a two-wheeler and a backyard swing.
Agitated, I step into a small dimly lit bathroom and look into the mirror, searching for myself—a slender slightly dusky girl with an oval face, angled coffee brown eyes, curved black eyebrows, a ski-slope nose, and sharp cheekbones. I notice my long wavy dark brown hair, and I tie my unruly hair in a low bun. I put on my pink flannel pajamas to get ready for the cold winter night—as well as the call.
Oh, the call! The reminder is somewhat unsettling. A shudder passes down my bones. I leave the bathroom as quickly as I can and walk out onto the balcony.
While I wait for Mr. Raag’s precious phone call, I stare at the empty street, softly lit under scattered orange lights. Similar-looking houses on both sides appear to have caught the cold. Some of their lights still burn, and the light from flashing television screens floods out of the closed glass windows; others are already dark, sleeping.
I stare at the blinking stars in the dark sky and wonder if I can find the saptarishi—the Big Dipper. Some say they are the seven sages. My father always asked us to look for them when my sister and I were kids, and we all slept on the terrace in the summer. Even we remembered all of their names. The memory is nostalgic.
It’s surprising how fast time flies. It feels as if it was yesterday, and today, my parents have already prepared themselves for my marriage.
I remember my mother barely mentioned Mr. Right being half-Gujarati—ethnic people from the state of Gujarat, India—and half-Punjabi—ethnic people from the state of Punjab, India. Yes, his mother is Punjabi, and his father is Gujarati. Traditionally, kids inherit the surname and ethnic identity from the father, so Raag is considered Gujarati. Not that it bothers me, but sure it bothers my father. I should have just poked my father more on that. However, it did not feel right to entertain the idea of dividing people based on their caste, region, the color of their skin, and their language. I guess my mother sold the proposal to my father on Mr. Right’s mother being her very good friend. Yes, in arranged marriages, if the other party is familiar, it’s a big plus.
How does my mother’s knowledge of Raag’s mother vouch for Raag? He is as much a stranger to me as a guy walking the streets.
I don’t hear a cell phone ring, so I go back in and check if I missed it. The call is going to ring my father’s classic Nokia cell phone, provided by his company for office purposes only. My father works import/export in khadi and sometimes gets calls in the middle of the night to resolve consignment issues. His company is very small, and he is one of the ten precious employees given company phones. Today, my mother convinced my father to give me his phone, as I clearly condemned the idea of speaking with Mr. Right on the home line in the living room. The whole family would have pretended to do their mundane tasks but ultimately eavesdrop on my conversation.
No way! Not happening!
I perch on my big black revolving chair facing my small computer desk that is a middle part of a big wooden cabinet, built against the entry wall and holds pretty much everything that my sister and I own. My eyes rove over the books, clothes, jewelry, and miscellaneous objects.
The silver Nokia lies on the desk lifeless, and there are no missed calls.
I open the drawer on the right and rummage through the rubber bands, hair ties, pens, and some other stuff before finally, I find it. I carelessly tossed his picture in here a few days ago. When I find it, I stare at the tall, fair, slightly muscular guy in a black jacket, black T-shirt, and black jeans. His biodata mentions that he is six feet tall, which is six inches taller than I am. I’m going to look quite shorter than him in person.
I sigh, remembering that the call is just a formality. There is nothing to meditate over. Call or no call, I know my answer.
Raag’s black hair looks strangely disheveled and he has slightly smaller black eyes compared to his attractive face. His pointy nose fits perfectly along with his square jawline, and he smiles with soft pink lips, flashing perfectly aligned white teeth. I tell myself that Raag looks like an average regular guy with no sense of fashion. Who wears black on black anyway?
Then the classic Nokia rings with its ear-piercing signature tone. It startles me, and hastily I toss back the picture, close the drawer, and press the green button. I pick up a purple shawl, lying on my tiny bed, and dash out onto the balcony with the phone.
“Hello…is it Mayu?” a husky yet polite voice asks.
Did he really call me by my nickname?
I start with a very well-planned attitude and a firm tone. “Yes, this is Mayuri Bhatt!” It makes my intentions pretty clear.
“Sorry…Mayuri Bhatt,” Raag corrects himself, and instantly I feel a pang of guilt.
Of course, it’s not his fault that I have to talk to him. I pace back and forth on the vine-covered balcony, arranging my warm purple shawl. The pink flannel pajamas don’t seem to be an appropriate choice for the balcony at this hour. Good thing I’m wearing slippers at least and my warm shawl. I definitely had a problem prepping for this occasion.
“Is it a good time to talk?” he asks politely, bringing me out of my wayward thoughts.
I stop, and it takes me a few seconds to respond.
“Yes…I think,” I say, staring at the vines that have grown out of proportion on the balcony wall. They are my father’s favorite. They are not just here—they’re around the house, over the entrance, near my parents’ balcony, and inside the house as well.
“Are you in a good mood to talk?” Raag asks, as if he senses my irritation.
“I don’t know…” I turn to look at the dark street below.
“I can call you later if you like,” he offers.
He is nice, I think. I guess I have to change the tone. My words come out in a rush. “It’s okay. I’m sorry, I haven’t prepared myself enough for this call. It’s just that I think I’m too young to get married or to even think about it, and you are the first guy that my parents have found for the arranged marriage.”
I speak the truth to him, and that’s a relief. Sometimes speaking what’s in your heart is much easier than going through a path of false pretenses.
“I see,” Raag says as if he really understands. “I like your honesty.”
“Not to mention my mother is being melodramatic,” I say, and realize I sound a bit irritated. There is a bit of confidence in my voice now that I know he is listening.