Arranged marriage
On my way home I saw a scene in Clissold Park. 3 people, a white couple and a single black man, were standing and watching 2 dogs. They (the people, not the dogs) were looking on with expressions of anticipation, worry, a smattering of queasiness and above all, loving encouragement. The dogs (one white and one black) (no, really!) were about to have sex. Or so the people and the male dog hoped. The female was being coy, while the male, with all the natural instinct of his gender, tried to mount her, playfully, forcefully, exasperatedly, tricksily. He (the dog, not one of the men) looked at the human bystanders in confusion from point to point – 'what’s up with her? Great piece of ass, but so prudish!' I watched in awful fascination, until the unmarried Indian woman inside me forced me to shut out the sight of this taboo animal public act.
Over google talk that evening, my mum tried to trick me into moving out of my present accommodation to a more suitable one – nearer your work? (I walk to work, 30 minutes); nicer area (Stoke Newington Church Street has all the bookshops and charity shops that I would ever need to visit ever again); near your friends (I’m building up norf landon gang, the whole world is moving to N16); OK OK DON'T LIVE WITH A SINGLE WHITE MAN!
There it was. My mum, Educationist, PhD, NRI, modern Indian woman, realised belatedly that telling me to go ahead and live with a male friend could be a sticky situation. Apparently, she had been certain that I would have ‘caught’ a boyfriend by the end of my MSc year, and would be well on my way to doublehood by now. In which case, my moral reputation in the Indian community didn’t matter. The minute she realised she may still have to peddle off her damaged goods within the Indian arranged marriage market, she balked; horror spread in waves over her. I am still trying to shut out the plaintive wails of ‘no Indian man will accept…’, ‘there are some norms in society…’, ‘you can’t live both ways, be traditional or modern…’, ‘how will I tell any mother-in-law how you live…’, ‘move out, I can’t keep lying to everyone for ever…’.
Sshhh sshh.
Poor thing. I completely understand her point of view. I don’t want to throttle her for her duplicity. She was being as open minded as she knew how. Her daughter can’t be single/ vulnerable/ alone as well as progressive. If she breaks away from tradition, if she makes her own rules, she must already know all the answers. That’s the only way it’ll make sense as a story in the NRI Bengali circles in Botswana.
Over google talk that evening, my mum tried to trick me into moving out of my present accommodation to a more suitable one – nearer your work? (I walk to work, 30 minutes); nicer area (Stoke Newington Church Street has all the bookshops and charity shops that I would ever need to visit ever again); near your friends (I’m building up norf landon gang, the whole world is moving to N16); OK OK DON'T LIVE WITH A SINGLE WHITE MAN!
There it was. My mum, Educationist, PhD, NRI, modern Indian woman, realised belatedly that telling me to go ahead and live with a male friend could be a sticky situation. Apparently, she had been certain that I would have ‘caught’ a boyfriend by the end of my MSc year, and would be well on my way to doublehood by now. In which case, my moral reputation in the Indian community didn’t matter. The minute she realised she may still have to peddle off her damaged goods within the Indian arranged marriage market, she balked; horror spread in waves over her. I am still trying to shut out the plaintive wails of ‘no Indian man will accept…’, ‘there are some norms in society…’, ‘you can’t live both ways, be traditional or modern…’, ‘how will I tell any mother-in-law how you live…’, ‘move out, I can’t keep lying to everyone for ever…’.
Sshhh sshh.
Poor thing. I completely understand her point of view. I don’t want to throttle her for her duplicity. She was being as open minded as she knew how. Her daughter can’t be single/ vulnerable/ alone as well as progressive. If she breaks away from tradition, if she makes her own rules, she must already know all the answers. That’s the only way it’ll make sense as a story in the NRI Bengali circles in Botswana.
Those dogs had really traditional parents, no?
Comments
You are a different kahani altogether...