Suitors and the slippery bride

In my 30-odd years of existence, I’ve never yearned for a mate. God has blessed me with an enviable all-rounded self-sufficiency; my solo life on earth so far has passed quite pleasurably. But as a lady of some character and physical appeal (and oodles of modesty!), I do attract a fair share of suitors. But whether the gentlemen are suitable or not, is a moot point.

My first ever alliance was that of a suave Mumbai-based corporate employee. He didn’t seem like a bad prospect; I took a chance at a telephone call. Our conversation started off with run-of-the mill pleasantries and proceeded quite smoothly. Then, a chance remark about my mom opened the Pandora’s Box.

My 34-year-old prospect had no qualms about admitting that he was the ultimate mama’s boy. His mom did everything for him — right from cleaning his room to mending the holes in his underwear. A leaf in his life wouldn’t tremble without her consent. He scared me away. Unresolved Oedipal issues weren’t something I wished to deal with.

The next one was a dandy Italian photographer spewing charmingly broken English. I inferred that the gentleman wanted me to fly to Venice as soon as possible, where we would have a low-key wedding. The prospect of “escaping” to a foreign land and settling down with an exotic Italiano appealed to me. I immediately applied for a 3-month visit visa, started learning Italian and even bought my “wedding dress”!

Then, my Prince Charming asked me to come to New Delhi to fetch some “papers” for his requirements. The request soon turned into insistence. Alarm bells began ringing in my head. What in the world were in these mysterious papers? My over-sized nose smelled a scam.

Another worthy-of-a-mention “gem” was ferreted out by my mom. He was a free-spirited third generation Fijian settler of Indian origin, currently in India to look for a bride. There was a vague mention of his being a businessman. It was decided that my mom and I fly to Mumbai in three weeks to see the lucky ladka. In the intervening period, the guy’s WhatsApp conversations were an endless saga of Fijian culture, traditions and politics. And I still hadn’t learnt what he did for a living. At the end of three weeks, I was so sick of my history lesson that I cancelled my flight to Mumbai!

Most recently, I got chatting with an artist. After a conversation or two, he asked me how old I was and if I would consider marrying him. I divulged my age; my very number-conscious suitor discovered that (at 30 something, I remind you) I was a couple of months older than him. Appalled by the “huge age gap”, the guy asked me if I was comfortable with the difference.

“No problem,” I replied shrugging, “the gap is marginal”.

“Absolutely, darling,” the gentleman agreed, “I care two hoots for such superficial things.” He paused and then said, “Besides, women have a different kind of a beauty after menopause.”

I took a second to recover from the comment. Then, I smiled and said, “That, hopefully, is a while away”.

Do I need to say any more about the future of this proposal?

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