by Latha Vijaybaskar
“I want to dive off a cliff. Naked.”
Oh my God! Did I just say that aloud? To Raghavan? On our first meeting? Our only meeting, a paltry hour and a half in a crowded cafe that our parents decided would be enough to learn about each other, fall in love and dream about babies.
Even before my mouth is open, my foot gets inside. Shit.
“OK, cool. You can ignore it. No.
Take back the whole think. Tsk.
Sprout some gyan. What?
Google it? Not now”.
OK, I am stressed. My family already loves this guy, pressure is high and I don’t know how to fall in love in under an hour. Maybe they should write books on that.
And I confess I’m frightened. I can feel those threads of vacillation and self-doubt creeping up my spine, creating tiny sweat droplets up my neck and forehead. I want to place my sweaty palms on that pristine white table cloth, get up and run. I want to stay calm, poised and see if Raghavan can fall in love with me in an hour.
But first I want to take those words back. Can I just say “You provoked me into saying something rash?”
Well, after all, in the hopes to be well prepared – and to impress, may I add – I went through his LinkedIn page, Facebook page (where a girl called Shruthi always liked or commented with admiration on all posts), and even his company website though I don’t understand the Greek and Latin of financial terms. All to make him feel comfortable talking about hobbies and work culture and what do I get in return?
An interview. The man has the gall to fold his hands, give me an amused look and say, “Tell me about yourself”.
I want to smack my CV on his pompous head. “Now that you are recruiting, let me see…” and I start counting off my fingers.
“I am 23 years old, and that makes me five younger than you. I cannot sing to save my life, so don’t expect the entertainment. I can manage a decent meal and don’t consider cooking a talent. I love to read and hate to be disturbed when I’m doing so.”
Raghavan has the grace to flush out an apology, which puts him up the ladder in my mind – not too much, just a couple of rungs. From then on we stick to talking about our jobs – how he loves his and how I cannot say I hate mine. In fact his passion for his job is infectious. I could like this guy.
“I love that Christmas campaign you have – ‘Santa’s weird wish’” Raghavan prompts, keeping our conversation on safe grounds.
Oh yeah. This past week has been a nightmare at the call centre where I work because of that rotten campaign. Marketing and HR never give a bloody thought to us at customer care when they start something. I put on the tone and accent of Mr French Manicure, our head HR, as I answer, “We should make people believe in the magic of Santa – of life’s little surprises. That is why this week you can call our customer care with unusual wishes and the weirdest wish will come true”.
“Who still believes in Santa and his gift bearing reindeer sledge these days?”
“Well Mr French Manicure did, and from the nonstop calls we receive, I must say a good part of the public too”.
“French Manicure happens to be your Marketing head?” Raghvan asks, trying not to laugh.
Oops! There goes my mouth again. “HR head.”
“C’mon, tell me your wish for Santa Claus. What would you want this Christmas?”
I quickly think of my list.
- I wish my job were more interesting.
- I wish I could fall in love with you and not marry you just because you have all the required ‘good and successful qualities’ you have
- I wish I knew if you liked me
- I wish I could be satisfied with the arranged marriage concept
Scratch them all and think of something mundane.
“Even a mundane wish will do, if you don’t have a weird one”. That patronizing smile does it.
I shoot out those words. The first lines from my favorite novel, one that I keep reading as a talisman to remind me I am my own boss. And now I want to take them back. But Raghavan is already speaking.
“You want to be an architect? Or did you just get expelled?” he asked.
Wow. He actually understood that weird wish was a line from “The Fountainhead” my most favorite book.
“Neither. I just want to be that sure about myself, to have Roark-like clarity.” I realise that maybe I did not blabber away on impulse. Maybe I want to be sure I am doing the right thing by marrying this man my parents feel is ideal for me. Maybe along with the practical aspects of the success of our marriage I am looking for a good dose of Mills and Boons style romance.
Anyway, the good point is he reads. Now if only I could fall in love with him. I look deep into his eyes and wait for those love bells to ring, my feet to tingle and…
“Would you like to order now?” the waiter asks.
“I am trying to fall in love here!” I just catch that sentence from escaping. I have done enough damage already. So while Raghavan orders I check my texts.
Sid has sent me two messages. I quickly scroll down.
“How is Mr Ford Fiesta?”
My parents are so thrilled with this alliance. Raghavan is a CA topper and that makes him the Adonis in my father’s eyes. He works in a great company and owns a Ford Fiesta. My mother has these stars in her eyes whenever she talks about Raghavan. Hence Sid, my brother and best friend named him by his car. I quickly press reply.
“Tank full, GPS ready, slow acceleration”.
“Office?” Raghavan asks.
“No, ahem, just family” I decide to put the texts away and concentrate on our conversation.
“So.” I wait for some witty sentence to pour out from my consciousness and flow freely from my mouth, but nada. Nothing.
Saved by the waiter this time. Our order comes in.
For the next few minutes we try to chit chat and I am still desperately trying to decide if marrying Raghavan is the best thing, when he gets a call from his dad.
“Yeah appa, I am OK. I like her.” He gives me this self-satisfied smile.
Does he expect me to blush or fall over or whatever?
“What do you like about me? We don’t even know each other well enough to like each other!” I know arranged marriages are based on the premises of convenience and mutual respect and not love, but that grates on my nerves.
Raghavan moves forward in his chair, his eyes focused on me, all traces of that amusing curl of lips gone. “Because I fell in love with a pretty looking girl in shaded green salwar that my mom showed me last week and I have waited, really impatiently, for seven days to meet you. Will you marry me?” Mr Ford Fiesta has suddenly accelerated to Ferrari-like speed.
There can be romance in an arranged marriage after all.
Latha Vijaybaskar is a thirsty bibliophile. When she was unable to lift her nose from the pages of a book after her MBA, MPhil and years of teaching marketing, she decided to write and find an alternate cure. She has published short stories in anthologies and magazines like Muse India. While working on her first novel, she stops to scribble the other voices in head in her blog www.beforeabeyondz.com
Pic: http://www.flickr.com/photos/haileyartjourney/
Wow!!
Your a blessed writer ❤️
Nice! Enjoyed reading it.
lovely story, Latha!