being there, standing way at the back as all publicists do, ensuring that the Vogues and Elles and In-Styles were all happily seated. All the front row divas looked bored and constipated, as if they were doing the world a huge honour by simply showing up. All praying that they would be the ones seated next to the celebrity-of-choice at this particular catwalk show, maybe bold and brassy Samuel Jackson, or skinny, pretty, sad-looking Gwyneth Paltrow.
That had been my life – catwalks and cocktail parties and being able to say that I had been in the same room as Angelina Jolie. It was fun and frivolous, but that was it. The other day, I had read some of the pages in my journal from last year: ‘Yes! Got the last Kate Spade bag in the Barneys sale!’ or ‘Why did I spend $1,500 at Patagonia when I hate hiking?’ or ‘Exhausted from power yoga, and not helped by the three Raspberry Stolis I had afterwards.’
There were no words about being moved in deeper ways, except for those occasions when I might have attended a meditation class and returned home vowing to change my life, become connected with the greater universe, find inner peace. But then The West Wing came on, and all was forgotten. Mine had become a life lived on the outside. And if I tried to probe to see what was beneath it, there would only be concealed neuroses and petty jealousies and more dysfunction than I could deal with. So instead, I’d have a Cosmopolitan, buy a pair of shoes, whatever. It was, essentially, a biodegradable life, one that, if I let it slip from my grip, would merge with the dirt and disappear, leaving nothing behind.
I needed a change. And perhaps that change could begin with marriage.
I said a silent prayer that the nice-looking man from Madrid would call. I hadn’t even heard his voice, nor did I know anything about him beyond the basics. But he seemed closer to ‘the one’ than anyone I had come across in a long time. Like the struggling ingénue who has already written an Oscar-acceptance speech, I had yet to meet this man, but I had already named the children.
My parents finally stirred awake from their afternoon nap. ‘Did they call?’ my mother asked me. I shook my head. They all knew that for every hour that passed, it would be less and less likely that the phone would ring. I then realized that although I had liked the look of him, perhaps he didn’t like the look of me. Could that be? I had sent along my most appealing photograph, taken in Central Park on a sunny afternoon, me in a summery pink top and white pants, subtly conveying some of that fluffy-marshmallow element, just in case. In the picture, my black hair, lightly tinted, looked shiny and lush under the sun, my smiling face a vision of relaxed happiness. And I didn’t look too dark-skinned either. How could anyone not like the look of me in that photograph?
I attempted to busy myself with various things, but every time the phone jingled, I stopped what I was doing and I prayed that this would be the call.
It never came.
Late the next afternoon, Aunt Jyoti stopped by for tea, and settled onto the sofa in preparation for a no-holds-barred gossip session that would last at least three hours.
‘I hear the parents of that Madrid boy have been making inquiries about you,’ she said to me, with the air of someone who had obtained classified information from the Pentagon.
‘Oh, yes, we spoke to them yesterday,’ my mother interjected, surprised. She had wanted to keep this quiet until something ‘worked out’, so ashamed had she become of the litany of failed alliances that trailed behind me. But Bombay was a small town when it came to things of a matrimonial nature, and it never took more than about four minutes for news of pitches and proposals to spread. I began to feel like one of those screenplays that get touted around Hollywood agents and studios and producers; everyone takes a quick look and passes, yet they continue knocking about ad infinitum.
‘We exchanged pictures,’ my mother said, figuring she may as well tell her sister all. ‘We liked his. We didn’t hear back. Maybe they didn’t like how Anju looked. Oh well, can’t be helped – these things happen.’ For my sake, my mother forced a couldn’t-care-less attitude, although I knew she was deeply disappointed. At last, she had come across someone her daughter seemed interested in, and this time they weren’t interested. Karma, she thought. That’s what everything comes down to.
‘It’s not her looks,’ Aunt Jyoti said. ‘The family made inquiries and heard that she has been living alone in New York for some time, that she was independent-type. The boy says girls like that can’t be moulded. He wanted someone a bit more traditional-type. What can you do? You have to live with it.’ My mother and aunt looked over at me with pity and tendernesss, as if I were a quadriplegic.
‘That is so not on!’ I cried out. ‘I mean, this guy went away to university in the States, right? His sister is there, right? So what’s the hypocrisy all about?’
‘Anju, beti,’ Aunt Jyoti started. ‘It’s not that. Boys feel it’s OK for them, maybe even their sisters, but in the end, they don’t want to marry a girl like that. He just doesn’t like it that you have been living alone there, without your parents, for so many years. He feels that by now you will surely have become too much independent. I told you years back when you were going that this would happen. Now see? That’s why I would never let my daughters go off like that,’ she said, casting a look of disapproval at both my mother and myself, and recalling proudly how one daughter was snapped up at twenty-two, and surely the younger one would not be far behind.
My mother, surprisingly, stood up for me.
‘Jyoti, boys should be more open-minded these days, more forward-thinking. If he doesn’t want my daughter, that’s his loss. We’ll find someone better. He can just go marry some dumbo who can’t even open her mouth without asking for permission.’
‘You go, Mum,’ I chimed in, smiling. I felt better now, knowing that my mother didn’t chastise me – not in public, at least. At that moment, the phone rang. It was Sheryl, calling from New York.
‘How’s it all going over there? Married yet? Should I be booking airline tickets, buying the dress? Will you seat me next to someone cute?’ she asked. She always spoke this way, always sounding breathless, rushed and enthused.
‘Some guy from Spain who seemed interesting turned out to be a flake because he thought I was too independent. Me! I can’t even find a man without my parents helping me. How independent is that?’
‘Look,’ said Sheryl. ‘He probably just wants some submissive twelve-year-old. It’s his prerogative, you know. It’s like he went into Henri Bendel, saw a nice sweater, but it’s been there for a while, marked down, on sale. So maybe he takes a look at it, puts it down, moves on to something else. Something in the new arrivals section. It’s nothing personal. He just doesn’t want that particular sweater.’
I could always trust Sheryl to reduce everything to a shopping expedition.
‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘you think you’ve got problems. I had a blind date last night, a fellow called Jerome my cousin set me up with. The date was fine, but when he dropped me home, he wanted to come up and use the toilet. After he left, I went in there and he had peed all over the place, on the floor, splashed around the toilet bowl. What do you think is the likelihood of me wanting to go out with someone who can’t even pee straight?’
‘I don’t know, Sheryl,’ I said. ‘But I still think my dilemma is far worse than yours. I was rejected by a man before he even met me. Beat that.’
The
