To Be Contd... Maybe

If you were writing out the story of your life, where would you start?

“I’ve an MBA from ISB,” I said proudly, sneaking a peek at the man-I-may-marry, trying to gauge if this knowledge impressed him. He blinked, no doubt wondering what all those acronyms stood for. Ah well. Smart men are really not my type. This one seemed sufficiently decorative.

“Do you know how to cook?” retorted his mother.

I tried very hard not to roll my eyes. Evidently, this woman had her priorities straight. Rotund, to be precise.

“Of course, Aunty,” I managed straight-faced, as my mother valiantly restrained herself from choking out loud.

So what if I haven’t actually stepped in a kitchen in my life, this boy looked cute. Like I can’t learn to cook in a month. I have an MBA for God’s sake, I know all about probability and how much salt to put in the pan if you don’t want to give someone kidney stones. Or, if you do. Bwahaha.

“What all can you make?” the potential-father-in-law chipped in, eager to make his presence felt.

Was this family obsessed or what! And what kind of a sentence is ‘What all can you make.’ I can make a total scene when asked questions like that, is what I can make!

I smiled angelically and looked toward my mother for help. She looked back totally heartlessly, refusing to bail me out. She’s a firm believer in honesty and all that. Me? Not so much.

“What do you like to eat, Uncle?” I asked beatifically, trying to make it seem like I was genuinely interested in what went into the greedy old geezers’ stomachs on a daily basis. My dad beamed in appreciation. It’s the sort of answer he would come up with, having an MBA himself.

“We don’t really care much about food, as long as the daughter in law knows how to make it,” said the woman smugly, like this was a big compromise they were making because they were oh-so-liberated.

Humph. I can put up with stupidity, but not with hypocrisy. I have my standards straight. Besides, so far I’d assumed the boy was stupid-dumb, but if he kept quiet much longer, I’d suspect he was just plain dumb. And if that wasn’t his excuse for shutting up, then God, what a total girl.

“I can make sandwiches, Aunty.” I said, dimpling a smile. This produced exactly the horrified reaction it was calculated to get. The woman did a double take, as the man shook his head mournfully.

“I can also make Maggi noodles,” I persisted, watching their stomachs jump towards their hearts in protest.

The not-going-to-be-my-in-laws-if-they-were-the-last-people-on-earth duo looked suitably scandalized. Even the boy shifted in his seat uncomfortably, and his hand wandered hesitantly toward his well-fed paunch to pat it sympathetically. Aw. No way in hell am I marrying this ninny.

“And that’s about it,” I summed up. I could see my mother struggling to stifle a grin. Sometimes, honesty’s amusing.

My dad heaved a sigh and put on a brave smile, understanding that this tender wouldn’t be finalized. We saw them to the door half an hour later, after I had amused myself no end by asking the boy if he wouldn’t like to sing a song, or do a little dance step, and the like. Turns out he can cook! He’s going to make someone a good wife some day.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a feminist, though that may work for some people. I just like my free entertainment as much as the next Indian.