Conversations with potential Mothers-in-law

I dedicate this post to the Alluder, who is forever trying to get me married to A Certain Gentleman of his acquaintance. Child, desist!

The thing with Shombondhos is that after a certain age of a woman, they just keep coming. No stopping ’em, no sir. People whose existence you were happily unaware of for fifty-odd years (I mean the parents , so less of the snigger. Hoom.) suddenly pop up with unimpeachable references from the sometime-tenant of the second aunt twice removed’s sister-in-law’s third-eldest cousin: son in mid-twenties, just got a promotion, almost inevitably a techie (my only exception was a lawyer) ‘working in a MNC’, and sometimes, revealed with the smiles of a fat cat that has just swallowed a saucer full of cream, ‘say-telled een Aa-may-rika’.
Wanting: girlfromgoodfamily, fair (imagine accent), convent-educated (“like my sun, you know, otherwise eto communi-cashun problem hoy na, ki bolbo…amar chhele abar baba Banglata bhalo boltei parena! ), beautiful-homely, caste no bar ( kintu, bujhtei parchhen, palti-ghor holey shob dik thekey-e bhalo…).

Clarifications for the few of my readers who do not speak Bengali:

Shombondho - a proposal of marriage NOT popped by the intended groom to lady of his choice. Sometimes ze poor childrun don't even know what terrible plans are afoot.

Like my sun – hardly a pronunciation error. Plenty of parents’ lives fairly revolve ’round their sons, especially if said son fits above description.

eto…Banglata bhalo boltei parena – communication’s such a bitch, whattotell…my son hardly speaks Bengali, you know, even though he’s Bong and grew up in Cal. He’s such a wannabe only.
Okay, I added the last bit.

Beautiful-homely – haha. Give ‘em poor zings a dic-si-own-urry. Haha.

kintu…bhalo – we’re vewy pwogwessive, but compatible families makes everything so much more easier, y’know (insert self-conscious smile). DON’T ask me what ‘palti-ghor’ exactly means, I haven’t a clue. I used to think it’s when all creed and caste details match in toto , but that, apparently, is not it.

I had my first, smirk smirk, when I was eighteen. And still in school , dammit! “My daughter is eighteen and in school ,” said Chonu coldly. Chonu can’t do cold at awl , but they got the point.

But people always have a way of getting around difficult parents. And getting around mine is no problem. They’re trusting and gullible to the max. So invited for lunch at an aunt's , I suddenly find myself left all alone, post lunch, with two women in the drawing room, the aunt and cousins doing a tactful vamoose with the rest of the guests. Unaware of Reason of Visit of the all-female entourage, I’ve bossed over the aunt in the kitchen, scolded her away from clearing the table (it was the help’s day off. Coincidence?) and generally displayed ‘ghrihokormey nipuna (goodwifely)’ traits. I sometimes wonder why I don’t just kill myself.

Lady 1: (unless inevitable, I’ll translate all dialogues to English. For the benefit of linguistically challenged techies dying to tie the knot, hah) So, what do you study?
R: (polite but a little uncomfortable) English. Second year. JU.
L1: Good good. So, tell us about yourself.
R: *what the hell?* Er, I study. Um. And work, off and on.
Lady 2: (taking charge) Your aunt always praises you to the skies *smiles generously* She really likes you.
R: *does she now?* Yes, we’re very close.
L1: (undertone, to L2) Ask her.
L2: You study in Jadobpur?
R: Yes.
L2: Do you, erm, uh…
L1: *cough cough*
L2: (in a rush) Do you have a boyfriend?
R: (politely incredulous) Excuse me?

So that didn’t come to anything.

Act II

Ice Skating Rink. The huge Gokul’s sale. A slightly harried woman keeps holding up first a blue summery short dress (which can also easily be worn over jeans/trousers. I sooo wanted it too) and a pink and white shirt, clearly undecided. “The blue”, I told her. Poking my nose everywhere, that’s me. The lady broke into a huge smile. “Are you quite sure?” she asked, “I really cannot decide, my niece loves pink, but…”
“The blue,” I repeated, with all the confidence of the envious. “You can blame it on me if she hates it. And send it along.”
That, apparently, was riotously hilarious. She clutched her sides and laughed. And laughed. And laughed. At first I joined in, but fairly soon, I toned it down to a smile and tactfully withdrew. “Nice lady,” I thought, diving behind the skirts, “possibly a li’l high.”

A month or so later, at Westside, someone behind me goes, “My lucky day! The green or the orange?”
It’s her, of course. We spent about forty minutes together, comparing kurtas against complexions and just generally chatting. It was a while before I realised the seemingly idle chit-chat had a Certain Pattern. Not that it mattered. I’m a Very Open Person, as Poushali will exasperatedly vouch, hardly anything about me is a secret. Within the first twenty minutes she knew all the basics about me. And I knew, I realised, quite a bit about her son. I didn’t mind this friendly prying, really. I quite liked her, chilled out sort of woman with my kind of taste in clothes.
When we were done, we stepped out together. “Coffee?” she asked, “Barrista?”. And left the rest unsaid. Now, nice as we were to each other, I did not see that coming. It wasn’t like we had an unfinished conversation or suchlike. Quite flattering, really.

“No thanks,” I said. “I’m having lunch with my boyfriend.”

Act III

And then you have ‘aunties’ you’ve known all your lives, who have sons you’ve always heard of, who existed just beyond the horizon of your life. “Aunty X’s son has scored a 96% in his ISCs”, you heard at the beginning of Class IX, which intimidated you a bit. That sort of thing. Then Aunty sees you at a wedding (it’s usually a wedding, unless it’s the Pujo. Such a Bong thing, whattotell) or similar social do at a common acquaintances place, and the next thing you know (if you share my kind of chemistry with these people), you’re sitting in her house one afternoon, laughing at her frank proposal of marriage (hold your horses! To her son ). Because, of course, you cannot conceivably think of Mashi X or Kakima Y as your shashuri . The boy, poor thing, is secondary consideration at this point. You can’t even remember what he looks like.

Aunty Person: *laughing* But why not?
R: Oh, come off it!
A: (sobering a bit) But why toh bolbi ?
R: (sobering almost completely) Dekho boss…
A: Oma , this is your future mother-in-law here! Show some respect, girl!
R: (jumping at ill-considered command) Dekhun potential ma jononi, apnar putrorotnotike ami bochhor doshek chokhe dekhini and more importantly, sheo amake dekheni. Alaper kotha toh chherei dilam. Tai amader match-ta ektu far fetched na ?”
A: Why? He’s coming home on the 16th, there’s plenty of time for you two to…
R: *sighs resignedly* Look, have you spoken to him about this?
A: *smiling with barely suppressed mischief* I’ve told him there might be someone special I’d want him to meet…
R: Yes. He’s going to refuse. Spare us the embarrassment, why don’t you?
A: *immediately suspicious* Is there something you know…?
R: No. It’s much simpler than that. I’m the sort mothers like. You know, cuddleable, ‘homely’ (A giggles), easy to get along with, good at listening to long lists of complains (A hits R lightly on the head), useful around the house – not exactly the babe their sons are looking for. You know?
A: Oh, come on now! That’s the stupidest-
R: Besides I can never have YOU for a mother-in-law.

Curtains.