Kishore Singh: Engaged in conversation

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We were counting on a little family bonding at Taipan, the Chinese restaurant at The Oberoi where a chef from Singapore was rustling up a new menu.

At that, we weren't doing so badly, with the staff discreetly at hand to help the children tackle their chopsticks. But what we hadn't taken into account was the diners directly across the table from us. They made an unlikely couple. He was large, pony-tailed, mobile-swathed; she was petite with a blunt-cut, and had been poured into a noodle-strap dress.

"How romantic," said my wife, "they're seeing each other to decide whether they should marry." "How can you tell?' asked my son, gazing at them in fascination and slurping his soup in the process. "Just listen," said my wife, "you can hear everything they're discussing." Which was true.

Far from talking softly, they could be easily heard. "Why," the girl was addressing the boy, "did your first engagement break up?" "That was a parent thing," the guy responded, "they fixed me up with a girl and decided we should marry, but don't worry," he hastened to assure her, "it barely lasted a week or two."

Not wanting to miss out on her response, we hardly dared breathe, let alone eat. "So, you want to get engaged again?" she was asking him. "Do you want to," he asked in turn, "get married?" "You mean," my daughter whispered in horror, "they're wanting to marry without even knowing each other." "Sshh," hissed my wife, "let's hear what she has to say."

The girl was helping herself to dim-sums from a basket. "When I get married," she responded, "I don't want to work any more." "Why not?" asked her suitor. "Because I want to hang around home, or go shop, or just live it up while my husband earns," she announced. "Dimwit," said my daughter. "Smart cookie," echoed my son. "Lucky girl," sighed my wife. "Bloodsucker," I conceded.

As we sat glowering around our table, the girl piped up, "For now I'm working with my dad, but I don't take orders from anyone else." "You could work with me," he said. "Where do you work?" she asked him. "With my dad," he replied. "I won't take orders from him," she offered, "or you." "Not even if we're married?" he asked her. "Especially if we're married," she assured him.

There was a lull in their conversation, so we helped ourselves to a little of the food that the chef had so thoughtfully thought to prepare for us. "She's a foolish girl," my daughter declared, "deciding her future over Chinese food."

"Oh, but she's clever," my wife disagreed, "she'll have him sign a pre-nuptial agreement that'll have her call the shots." "She seems to be pushing him a bit," I ventured cautiously, "perhaps she should give him room to breathe." "He's a loser," my son made his position clear, "he's letting her walk all over him."

Because the chef came over to ask why we were being inattentive to his ministrations, we hastened with the fork and knife thing, keeping our ears peeled, but it was a few moments before the conversation drifted back to audible levels.

"Well that's that," she was saying, "you tell your parents and I'll tell mine." "That's cool," he replied. "Has she said yes?" my daughter asked in a dramatic whisper. "Has he?" my son posed. The suspense was killing us, but short of going up to them and asking, there was little we could do.

Walking out, I said it was quite clear they were going ahead with the arrangement. "How romantic," said my wife. "How primitive," my daughter corrected her. "Whether he marries her, or not," my son insisted on the last word, "that's one chap whose goose is already cooked."