Three Mistakes of My Life

Mistake One: Economics? What were my parents thinking? MBA Finance? What was I thinking? Investment Bank? What was the Bank thinking?

Mistake Two: Mohammed Azharuddin. I showed early signs of falling for the totally wrong guys. It should have been nipped at the bud and I would have been this nice, homely, conventional girl married to a rich left-brained banker by now.

Mistake Three: Mumbai. I am more of a Greece/Barbados/Mauritius sort of a person.

Now let’s assume that my parents and I did NOT make these three mistakes. I would have studied English Literature and been a poor but thoroughly fulfilled person living in Kolkata, doing my PhD (everybody there studies till their 30s because there are no jobs and further studies give us the satisfaction of doing something useful with our lives) and sitting in the Coffee House in College Street with my equally unemployed friends in our Fab India kurtas complemented by the junk jewelry and the jholas, discussing the shortcomings of the current government/cricket team/contemporary Indian literature.

My parents would be registering me to some/all matrimonial sites (short 5”3, dusky wheatish complexioned, tolerably decent-looking pretty unemployed B.A./M.A./M.Phil/PhD freelancer virgin girl with traditional values from middle-class good family, seeks rich professionally-qualified well-settled suitable match) and every evening I would come home, sip the chai that my mom makes for me (after all, her ‘baby’ has had a long hard day), religiously sift through ‘profiles of the day’, shortlist a few and ask her to fix ‘meetings’ for the weekend. After a couple of hours of channel/net surfing I would retire to bed early with a ‘headache’, have my dinner served on bed, shut the door and talk on the phone with my intellectual, equally unemployed B.A./M.A./M.Phil/PhD ‘boyfriend’ who ‘UNDERSTANDS ME’ till 2 a.m.

Weekends will be solely dedicated to visits to the beauty parlour, getting decked up in a sari, learning to balance the tea tray in my high heels (the ad said 5”3, remember?), faking a plastic smile and making small-talk with perverted IIT/IIM boys (why grown men are referred to as ‘boys’ in the marriage market I would never understand) trying to ‘size me up’ (literally).

-“Boy”: “So, you are a freelance writer? That sounds fascinating.”
-Me: “It is. It’s so nice to have a job I am passionate about.”
-“Boy”: “I wish I was doing something as fulfilling. But you know, the jet-setting corporate life with its 7-figure salary and perks is exciting too.”
-Me (thinks: why else will I be even talking to you?). Aloud: “I am sure. So what do you like to do when you are not working?”
-“Boy”: “Oh, I like to track the capital markets, read management books and travel. I prefer to go abroad though. The weather and the grime in Indian cities just don’t agree with me. I plan to visit Greece, Barbados and Mauritius soon.”
-Me: “Let’s cut to the chase. I will marry you.”

So both families exchange mishti doi and sondesh and the wedding date is fixed three months down the line on December 11.

Later in the night, I would call my ‘boyfriend’ to give him the ‘good news’.
-“Boyfriend”: “How can you do this to me? I thought we ‘UNDERSTOOD’ each other.”
-Me: “I can’t help it. I have to do this for my parents.”
-“Boyfriend”: “But can’t you tell them to wait?”
-Me: “Wait for what? Are you going to marry me?”
-“Boyfriend”: “You know I am not ready.”
-Me: “Well, then you have to let me go.”
-“Boyfriend”: “But noone UNDERSTANDS you the way I do.”
-Me: “Yea. But this other guy works in an investment bank.”

And there you have it: the perfect life, had I not made the three mistakes. A freelance writer married to a rich banker, traveling around the world, specifically to Greece, Barbados and Mauritius…