Year of the Chick (19 page)

Is that all it takes then? Whatever happened to the fine art of conversation? And I mean many, many conversations? And the fine art of...all the lovely things that follow? ;-)

Sigh...

Romi

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It was definitely high on enthusiasm, but just what I needed to get his “white knight” ass into gear.

Meanwhile my bladder was screaming for attention. I thought about it for a moment, and it seemed to me that if I very quietly opened the door, it wouldn’t really seem like a bomb going off. After that? Just three quick strides to the bathroom.

To succeed I’d have to make a major sacrifice: NO FLUSHING.

 
It seemed horribly primitive, but quiet times did call for quiet measures.

I rose from the bed and tip-toed to the door, side-stepping the creaky floor boards once again. A second later I closed my eyes, clenched my teeth, and slowly turned the knob.

‘CLICK’...’SQUEAK.’

Had it always been that loud?

I didn’t want to take any further chances with squeaky doors, so I slipped into the bathroom, left the door open and went to town.

I strained my ears to see if I’d been exposed.

Nope. Conversation still going. Phew.

I quietly sighed and finished up, fighting all my instincts to flush. I made it past the toilet with success, and washed both my hands with a thin stream of water from the tap.

As I tip-toed back towards my room, my eyes caught an interesting sight. It was a view of the living room, but I could only see it well if I looked straight down and to the left.

I walked backwards and crouched on the ground, obscured by the staircase, but now with a better view.

His parents looked the standard part, late fifties, boring, and seemingly incapable of letting loose.

And the guy? He didn’t look much different than the sleaze bags I’d seen at the bar. All hair gel and skinny-shaped beard.

My sister seemed entirely uncomfortable, with her eyes to the floor and her hands clasped together, just like I’d imagined. My brother on the other hand was totally distracted by his phone.

I couldn’t see my mother, which meant she was somewhere in the kitchen. Which also meant the tea would soon be on its way out.

As for my father he was having the time of his life. He and the son’s father were caught in a fit of boisterous laughter. It had to do with an infamous weird old man from their Indian region of birth. And yes, these two old dads came from neighbouring villages. A fact that was a virtual clincher for a perfect match.

As they continued now with a film-by-film breakdown of their favourite Bollywood actor Amitabh Bachchan, I lowered myself ‘til I was flat on my stomach. It was a much more comfy position and superior view.

About a minute later the tea and samosas made their way into the room, along with some square pink Indian sweets. I could almost sense some tension being lifted off my sister as she focused on the food. It was her I mostly watched after all, trying to detect how she could possibly tolerate meet-ups such as this (especially with his mother eyeing her like a hawk).

“So, where do you work?”

WHAT?!

It was hair-gel boy, making his first attempt at conversation.

My sister took a long sip of tea. “ATL Communications,” she replied. It was her best attempt at sounding dead inside, and a good one.
You’re such a pro!

“Oh, that’s a really good company.”

As he continued to pepper her with interview questions, the two sets of parents traded secretive and giddy looks.

A few seconds later my father spoke up. “You two go take your tea in the dining room. Then you can talk by yourselves.”

Oh no, private time.

I’d heard about “private time” from fellow Indian-Canadians. This was the most important section of arranged marriage meet-ups. It was the time when the parents expected the prospects to learn about each other (for however long it took to feel okay with getting married).

In most cases “private time” lasted no more than fifteen minutes.

As the two complete strangers rose to leave the living room, I realized my cover was in jeopardy. One look up and they would see me.

I hopped up from my stomach like an agile feline (I didn’t know I could do that), and in three little skips returned to the seclusion of my room.

Phew.

I checked my e-mail but James hadn’t responded.
What’s the matter? You can’t respond within ten minutes anymore?

Annoyed and a little exhausted from the hallway acrobatics, I snuggled up in bed, and decided to initiate an Internet search.

I typed in “Indian matrimonials” and waited. I never would’ve dreamed of such a Google in my life, but I was curious for what was in store.

Over two hundred thousand results came up, so I picked the most popular one (“IndianMarriageMatch.com”).

In seconds I was hit with a sea of red and gold, along with many messages in ugly-ass cursive:

“Find your best partner for life! With pictures too!”

“Big database with thousands of possible matches!!”

“Help your child find the right marriage match!”

Well the last one wasn’t surprising. We were here to gain approval from our parents after all.

I shuddered but continued to the search field, which allowed you a “free of charge” limited search.

Well it’s not like I have anything better to do.

I typed in an age request of twenty-eight to thirty-five, a height of at least five-foot-nine, and just for fun I put an income of above one hundred thousand.

And out come the freaks.

The screen filled up with lawyers, doctors and engineers.

Okay so maybe they weren’t freaks, but was this supposed to turn me on?

Well aware that I was being superficial, the pictures actually made me laugh. I laughed because if the guy was ugly, the picture was taken from afar (
well not far enough!
). If, on the other hand, the guy was a pudgy chap, the picture was limited to exposure from the neck up (
but that double-chin don’t tell no lies
).

Most of the men were actually born in India, which wasn’t surprising, given how hard it was to find Canadian-born men with money. “The Canadian generation doesn’t work as hard,” as my dad always said.

After spending a bit more time reviewing hobbies like “watching Bollywood Films” and “long walks on the beach” (
how many beaches are there in Canada?
), I closed the laptop and moved it away in disgust.

None of you guys can write, none of you guys are super-hot, and none of you guys can make me laugh all day.
I knew full well that I was making some assumptions but I didn’t care. So I closed my eyes and drifted off, hoping for my knight to come and rescue me soon.

***

I awoke to the sound of loud voices. This could only mean the boy and his family had left. I glanced at the clock to discover I’d been sleeping for over an hour.

I stayed right in bed because the voices weren’t the least bit muffled this time. I could hear it all, and I knew this script already.

It was my parents, sounding frustrated and angry. “Why can’t you say yes?!” they cried. He had a great family, a nice demeanour, and he made enough money to make a very good joint income. They were perplexed. What was the problem with their daughter?

Part two of the script was my sister. “I don’t know him yet,” she explained. She wanted to e-mail for a while before making a decision. And she claimed he wasn’t friendly in their one-on-one chat. These were sloppy excuses, and ones which were now too familiar to my parents.

I had no intention of returning to the downstairs world, as I was now quite comfy in my mutant-daughter cave of seclusion. So I put on my headphones and played a happy song.
You can never go wrong with “Lucky Star” by Madonna.

I suddenly remembered James, and opened up my laptop with anticipation.

Hurrah, he replied!

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Hello Roms.

Interesting world you live in. Arranged marriage or not, I think you will find fifty percent of marriages end in divorce these days anyway. There is no easy answer.

J

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I sat there frozen in disbelief.

“Fifty-percent of marriages end in divorce?”

What kind of dickhead response is that?

Chapter Sixteen

“So El...do you think he’s jerking me around?”

It had now been over a week since James’s dickhead response to arranged marriages. We’d been e-mailing just fine about writing, but nothing else. Worst of all, I’d asked him again about his trip and it was still unconfirmed.

Eleanor and Amy were my only sounding boards, with Laura so lucky in love by now.
I CANNOT handle hearing how happy she is.
Without our office chats I’d be hopeless.

“So he still wouldn’t give you a date?” asked Eleanor. I shook my head. “But October’s only two weeks away,” she continued. “Is he waiting for a last-minute deal?”

 
“Maybe he’s cheap,” offered Amy.

I dropped my forehead onto my keyboard.
Maybe he’s cheap?
There had to be another reason for James’s aloof behaviour.

The three of us continued to discuss it at my cubicle, eating through my stash of emergency M&M’s on a quiet Friday afternoon.

Was he really going to keep me in the dark until October arrived?

Why would he ever do such a thing?

So he can chuck you if he needs to in the next four weeks. No non-refundable flight, no irreversible commitment.

“But that’s crazy!” I cried.

Eleanor eyed me quizzically. “You think it’s crazy for me to get highlights?”

Ah, a new and exciting topic was afoot.

“No. Sorry. I was thinking of something else.”

“Thinking of James?” said Amy. “You are SO obsessed with him!” Amy pointed and laughed.

The “point and laugh?” About my serious dilemma?

I cleared my throat. “I am not obsessed with him. But for all our pleasant contact, wouldn’t he WANT to meet me? Just to see if this is worth hanging on to?”

“Does he even know you like him?” said Eleanor.

My eyes widened. “Uhh hello, do we e-mail? Yes! Do we talk on the phone? Yes! That counts for something, right?”

“Depends on what you talk about,” she said.

“Whose side are you on anyway?” I felt defeated.
 

“Or...” Eleanor began.

“Or what?” I asked.

“Or maybe he’s a little gun-shy? I don’t know. Sometimes the fantasy is easier than...a reality that might not measure up.”

Yeah, I used to think that too. BEFORE I discovered that we’re soul mates!

“But why would he be disappointed? I’m freakin’ awesome!”

“Yes, I know that. And YOU know that...clearly. But he might not know it yet. Maybe you’re funny on the phone and in e-mails, but what are you really like?”

“Awesome!”

“Right.” Eleanor looked around at nothing in particular. Suddenly her eyes lit up. “You know what you need to do? You need to forget about all this. Just focus on tomorrow night. Booze and dancing all night long, with no parents here to stop you!”

It was true. With my parents on their way up north to visit a friend, my siblings and I would have the house to ourselves ‘til Sunday. My sister had agreed to watch the house and answer calls (since I’d played the part myself too many times), and my brother was a virtual unknown (
maybe he’ll chill with his greasy loser-friends
). I, on the other hand, with alcohol seeping from my pores, would watch the sun rise with Eleanor and Amy.

Either that, or I’ll be puking by the side of the road at four a.m.

Puke or no-puke, maybe I needed an anything-but-James kind of weekend.

***

Sometimes my blog posts took on crazy forms, and sometimes they felt pretty close to life. Like arranged marriage meet-ups, for example.

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Behind door number-one is a guy who will date you but screw you over later. Behind door number-two is a guy you have a crush on but who’ll never look your way. Behind door number-three is a secret, but you’ll likely have to try doors one and two before you ever find the answer.

But wait: what if you could skip all of that, and choose door number-four instead? Because behind that door you’ll find a husband, one that you can have for the low, low price of being strangers.