Like everyone else, I was making plans for watching the India-Sri Lanka World Cup final, but my wife did not appear too involved in the proceedings. “Aren’t you at all interested in the match?” I asked her. “Match, no,” she said, “matchmaking yes.” I sighed, because we had been through it too many times recently for me not to anticipate what would follow.
“Do you know,” she began predictably enough, “even Sarla’s daughter has a boyfriend.” “So what,” I said, “our son has a girlfriend.” “I know,” she said sadly, “but our daughter does not have a boyfriend.” “That’s a good thing,” I suggested, “at least she is free to do what she wants instead of mooning over some silly, acned boy and writing him soppy messages.” “That is easy for you to say,” said my wife, “but do you know how embarrassing it is that all girls in her group have boyfriends, as their mothers keep pointing out — so it is time our daughter found herself a boyfriend too.”
There is not much I can do when my wife has set her mind on a task, nor was there any use trying to dissuade her from prying through our daughter’s phone book. “I would,” she told our daughter, “like to meet Bunty,” and when our daughter looked at her strangely, “or Vivan or, if you like, Roshan or Abhay.” “Mom,” said our daughter, “are you on hallucinogenic substances?” “Maybe you can have a party and invite all the boys you know,” my wife continued, “but no other girls, naturally.” “Dad,” said my daughter, “I think I am going to have a temper tantrum unless Mom tells me what she is up to.”
“My friend Padma,” continued my wife, “whom you do not know because she lives in Jamshedpur, has a son who has just bought his own apartment.” “It is nice that you keep an inventory of your friends’ children,” I said, “but what does it have to do with us?” “Just so you know,” answered my wife, “when Laxmi’s daughter’s boyfriend invited her to meet his parents, he sent a stretch limousine to pick her up.” “That must have been very exciting for her,” I said, for I was fond of Laxmi’s daughter. “And when Sarla’s daughter’s boyfriend took her out for dinner, he hired a bodyguard to stand behind them both, fanning them with peacock feathers.” “That is absurdly feudal,” said my daughter, “I would be mortified to have someone stand behind me while I ate.” “Aha,” said my wife, “not if your boyfriend had chartered a private aircraft all the way from Hyderabad just to come and meet you.”
“I don’t find that romantic,” said my practical little girl, “just plain silly. Besides, all boys are stupid.” “How would you know,” pouted my wife, “you don’t have a boyfriend.” “Oh I know,” said our daughter, “they were always crashing over at my apartment in London.” “Boys,” said my wife “in your apartment!” “Chill Mom,” said our daughter, “it was either my flatmates’ friends, or just some guys from college hanging out, drinking too much beer and passing out on the carpet — which, I will tell you just for the record, they had probably spent previous evenings throwing up on.” “Did any of them have their own plane, or at least a sports car?” asked my wife. “If they did,” said our daughter, “they wouldn’t be popping over to my place for free boarding and lodging.”
“If you won’t find a boyfriend on your own,” threatened my wife, “I will have to find one for you.” Watching me smirk – for our daughter is a picky little lady – she added, “And if you don’t get me a bigger car soon, I just might keep him for myself.”
