time to give up.
“Why you want to work in a war zone, with bombs and terrorists, and all those terrible things when you can work right here, being so comfortable and so very safe?” her mother asked, a deep-set frown swallowing her entire forehead. “Besides,” she’d add, “This way all those eligible Punjabi boys and their mothers get to see you every week, looking so beautiful, and so smart; it’s so much better than a matrimonial agency ad or one of those marriage websites. This way they will come to us. And we will choose hain.”
Unfortunately for Aasha, and much to her mother’s joy, there were many of those Punjabi boys – more so Punjabi mothers, calling for Aasha. In those first six to eight months there was a flood of profiles awaiting their weekly Sunday lunches. Jia, her sister, always laughed the hardest; she loved ripping open the letters, reading them out loud around the table and dissolving into fits midway through. Aasha found the letters, some dabbed with a bit of attar, others carrying a hint of rose water, equally ridiculous. But every now and then her mother got serious about one of the matches – ooh, look how handsome this fellow is, and a doctor too! Or, hai, so nice-looking na, Aasha, and look he has such a big house in Cardiff. When such pests popped up, Aasha promptly went out and found a short-term fling to ward off any unnecessary drama. The conversation that followed was typical:
“Are you with someone, Aasha?” she would ask without fail. “Who is this boy? Bring him home. We must meet him.”
“It’s still very new, Ma. I like him very much, but I am not bringing him home yet. I don’t want to scare him off so quickly.”
“What is there to scare? It is simply a meeting, where are we asking him to marry you on the spot? If you are seeing someone, we should know if he is a good person, isn’t it?” her mother had stopped abruptly mid-conversation as a revelation lit up the insides of her mind. Aasha could sense the worry ooze into every part of her body, turning the conversation from carefree to tense. “He isn’t Gora is he, Aasha?” she’s asked as her face lost more colour, ironically making her look as gora as a ghost, “or Gujarati?”
“It doesn’t matter, Ma, you are not meeting him right now. If it gets serious, I promise I’ll bring him home, no matter who he is – Gora or Gujarati!”‘
“Arre, shubh, shubh bol, Aasha, shubh, shubh bol!” she’d mutter.
As Aasha went through the music festival docket, she made a mental note of all the related paraphernalia – dates, train tickets, hotel booking confirmation, festival and artiste profiles. She flipped back to look at the dates. She had a nagging feeling she was missing something, but what?
It took about an hour for her to realize why the dates were significant. Her mother had specifically requested she come over for dinner on Friday. On Friday, day after tomorrow, the day she was heading to Edinburg. Fantastic. This was going to be a brutal call but Aasha believed in ripping off the Band-Aid. She picked her Galaxy S4 and hit speed dial #2 and waited for the Raghupati Raghava Raja Ram ringtone.
Her mother answered on the fourth ring. “Haan, beta, bol. I’m at the market. There is so much preparations to be done for Friday’s dinner na, that’s why. It’s all very busy busy. You tell.”
“Hi, Ma,” she began after taking a deep breath. “Accha, I called to say I won’t be able to make it on Friday. I have a new assignment; aaj hi mila. I have to be in Edinburg for a few days and my train is on Friday, in the morning.”
“Hai Rabba! No, no, Aasha, you can’t do this to me! Friday dinner is so very important. You cancel your train ticket. Cancel it!”
“What are you saying, Ma? I can’t cancel it. It’s work. Waise, what is the deal with Friday? What’s happening on Friday?”
“Aasha! How will I save face now? This is impossible,” her mother cried into the phone. “What will Mrs. Sodhi think? And her poor son. He is coming all the way from Berlin just to see you. What will I tell them? This is not done, Aasha!”
“Wait up, Ma! Who is this Mrs. Sodhi and why is her son coming from wherever to see me?” Aasha felt the day’s frustration rise up again. Never before had her mother tried to ambush her so blatantly.
“From Berlin, beta. Don’t be upset now. It is all for your own good,” she retorted in that stubborn mother-knows-best way that Aasha hated so very much. “The boy is an investment banker. So handsome, Aasha, so handsome. And very rich too. Our Vimla Aunty from the third floor is his mother’s childhood friend. She only mentioned him to me and you to her. It will be a very good match, Aasha. Very good, even your father is happy.”
“But I am not happy, Ma! I don’t want you calling random men to meet me!”
“Random kidhar, beta? I told you na Vimla Aunty is knowing him so well since he was wearing diapers. She is giving full guarantee about his character. What more do we need?”
“Ma, I am at work right now and I can’t talk about this rubbish. We’ll talk in the evening. But rest assured I will not be around on Friday. Enjoy your dinner with Mrs. Sodhi and her son.” Aasha spat out into the phone. She knew this was the worst possible approach to take – this would only encourage her mother to indulge in some rona-dhona, something she enjoyed very much.
Aasha didn’t call her mother till the following day, when she felt a little calmer. “You are not setting me up with anyone, Ma. Bas.”
“But why? Are you seeing someone? No, na? Then what’s the harm? You never know, you might like the boy.”
It was on impulse that Aasha blurted, “But I am, Ma; I am seeing someone right now.”
“You are?” her mother’s tone was robust with the confidence of someone who knows a bluff when she hears it, “What’s his name? Where did you meet him? Bolo?”
Aasha could feel her feet getting sucked into this quicksand of lies. There was nowhere else to go but down. “His name is Roger. He is a journalist and I met him through work.”
“Roger?” her mother sounded shell-shocked, “Gora?”
“Yes, Ma. He is really nice.”
He was. Or he had been. Aasha had really been smitten by him, enough to still feel a slight heaviness over their break-up two weeks ago. Roger was a freelance journalist, a real investigative journalist – the kind that went down to the trenches and wrote five thousand scathing words about it.
She had fallen for him fast and hard. For his light green eyes that danced with mischief and passion, sometimes at the same time. For his deep, carefree laugh. For his surprisingly soft dark brown curls. For that ever-present five o’clock shadow he wore – the scruff made him a damn good kisser too; his kisses were just the right amount of soft and rough. For a while she was convinced they’d make it all the way to the mandap.
Ironically she had imagined this exact conversation with her mother, and she thought about the inevitable meet-the-parents dinner that would follow. Roger at one end, her parents, her siblings, her niece, and daduji on the other. It would have been just as cruel as lighting firecrackers next to a sleeping puppy. The scenarios that played out in her head were so terrifying that when Roger did eventually call it off, she had been a tiny bit relieved despite the
