“You have got to get back into the game!” was what my mother said, in 2007.
“Ma!” I was flabbergasted. “Where, in heaven’s name, did you learn that phrase?”
“Cosmopolitan!” she proudly announced. I made a mental note to cancel her subscription to the magazine.
I was 28, separated, staying with my parents and working at a shitty job. Yikes! I could have my own chick-lit story! You know, the one about the lame girl who finds a hunk type. But damn, my story was far from being chick-lit worthy.
I can’t remember the doomed hour when I agreed to put up a matrimonial ad, and not one, but on all leading matrimonial sites! But it happened, and I was adamant on one thing: I would do the screening. It was I who would choose which guys to finally meet. No procedure of “ladki-dikhao” to happen at any cost. Thankfully, my parents agreed.
I discovered they’re scary places, those matrimonial sites.
The advertisement itself asked me so many questions; it made me aware how I really didn’t have a fair skin, a perfect horoscope, a nice enough hobby or even an athletic body type!
On the other hand, my mother went crazy ballistic about me; she even got a photographer dude to come and take some shots of me: “Ishhhh… This is what it feels like when you are up for display!” I thought.