Naina RaturiMom took the initiative. “Turn the TV off for some time!” she chided my father. “Your kids are home after so long. At least talk to them while they are here.” He failed to hide his annoyance at having this request made of him, to sacrifice his sacrosanct nightly hours of TV watching. Half-heartedly, he picked up the remote and muted, instead of switching off completely, the cacophony of some panel on a sold-out news channel. All these years working at the bank had taught him how to negotiate well.
“Chal Nonu, ab bata de.” Okay Nonu, now tell us. She demanded an answer to a question she hadn’t asked, because I should have already anticipated what she wanted to know. And I had.
“Kya batana hai?” What do I need to tell you? I feigned ignorance to buy some time.
“Is there a guy in the picture?”
There it is – the only question that seemed to be on everyone’s minds.
I didn’t want to tell them that there was a guy. I was not happy with him and had started daydreaming about ways I would break up with him. I knew my flat was too sacred a place for me to endure any potential antics after I hurt his ego, so I had decided on inviting him to someplace public for that ceremony. Maybe a park? But not Lodi Gardens, my favourite, because that would ruin the place for me. Although in hindsight, he didn’t deserve an in-person breakup. I used to think I had to be sweet and nice back in those days.
Before I could say anything though, my father’s impatience saved me.
“If you must find a guy for yourself instead of letting us, at least find one jo humari biradari ka ho [who is like us].”
Hmm, biradari. I didn’t need to clarify what they meant by biradari, because I knew their definition by heart. I wanted to hear it one more time though. I got some twisted pleasure out of this…seeing their discrimination in plain view. Maybe it was the satisfaction of finally having evidence explicitly laid out, instead of subtle signs and coded language which left me second guessing. It made me overwork my empathetic muscle to give them the benefit of the doubt, and so, it was nice to not have to work so much to believe myself instantly.
“What does biradari mean?” I asked, unable to hide the snark in my voice. They knew what I really meant, but they played along. They also got a release out of this. Taking their masks off, showing me the fearful kids they hid underneath their aged skin. They knew I talked big but would continue to doubt myself for some more time. That I was harmless for now, that I may get my fangs out but I won’t bite. I hadn’t become a wolf yet. That happened much later.
I wasn’t given a clear-cut definition. I was given a long list instead. A list of various kinds of facts and figures that I was expected to commit to memory so that my future married self could fit neatly into societally permitted labels. This list consisted of things like :
- surnames, that after some negotiation, were categorized as (1) perfect, (2) not ideal but fine, and (3) absolutely unacceptable
- languages, even if some sound as if the ocean were whispering into my ears
- places, unknown and weird, even if some feel strangely familiar to them
- colours of skin that are too this or too that
- gods they must never pray to, and so I must never pray to
- foods they must never eat, and so I must never eat
“What if I find someone who is from our region, religion, and meets every criteria on your list…”
“Yes of course, that is what we want. We will say yes. We won’t hold you back.”
“Right, I didn’t finish what I was saying. What if I find someone who is from our region, religion, meets every criteria on your list…but is a girl?” I noticed my brother in the corner giving me a grin that said ‘well played’.
“Don’t act oversmart now.”
My father picked up the remote and unmuted the TV to watch another group of raucous humans locked up in a house. My mother went back to her Sudoku puzzle. I had tested them enough to reach the ends of their patience. Mission accomplished – I had extricated myself from giving them a straight answer to their perennial question. I left for my room, away from all real expectations and hypothetical arguments.
Back in my room, I pondered some more on the list. They had given me a checklist of requirements of who and what I must never love. It had the opposite effect though – the terms and conditions became my causes to rebel and reminders of my values instead. They only strengthened my resolve to love better – myself and others.
“If you must find a guy for yourself instead of letting us, at least find one jo humari biradari ka ho.”
Biradari – a cultural word with personal definitions. One of those words which everyone knows what it means, but if asked to define some might hesitate. The word biradari came from Persian, a language they thought belonged to the enemies. It came from the word baradar which meant brotherhood. I wondered if they would see the irony too. I put that argument away to be used another time.
Their list shortened as the years passed. I could now bring someone even if he was not from our region. I could bring someone from another caste too. They could stretch to welcome even a Christian guy.
“As you grow older, people consider you less. Supply decreases, demand decreases. The net has to be widened.”, my father said in an all-knowing tone. I filled in the blanks of the unsaid – ‘people consider you less valuable, supply for me decreases, demand for me decreases’. Who knew my parents understood market economy so well? Here I was, with a business degree to my name, but it seemed like they were the true experts. Economics, negotiations, game theory – so many concepts intuitively applied to get the best value for their product aka me. What they couldn’t notice was that I was not losing value by the day. I am invaluable. My worth can’t be determined by age or any other factor – those who agree with this is the only condition I will allow in the list.
I now realise that I had overestimated their business knowledge. The list was to forbid me from loving people of different kinds, but at its core, it forbade me to love my instincts, desires and choices. I am allowing myself to love myself again. It is no longer forbidden.
