Year of the Chick

  ***

  I hurried through the carpeted aisles of the bookstore, finally slowing down when I reached the ones labeled “Erotica.” It was quieter here. Well of course it was. Only people like me were in this aisle at high noon, pretending to browse the seedy books whilst chatting on the phone.

  Well me and the odd pervo.

  James would be the one to call this time, and the waiting made me nervous like a schoolgirl. I distracted myself with the titles on the shelf, my eyes eventually resting on “Clarissa.” If the cover was any indication, this was a “girls plus girls” type of tale.

  Maybe it’s worth a quick flip-through.

  Not knowing how much time had passed, I let out a gasp when I felt a vibration in my pants. Oh right, the phone.

  I pulled the phone out of my pocket and practiced the initial greeting in my head. Hopefully something that would give off a sultry tone.

  “Hello there.”

  “Hello, it’s James. Are you all right? You sound like you have the flu.”

  Okay, so I can’t pull off “sultry.” Good to know. I reverted to my usual valley-girl tones. “I’m fine. Just needed to clear my throat.”

  “Where are you?” he asked.

  “Book store. Erotica section and before you ask… don’t ask.”

  I won’t,” he said laughing.

  “But I can tell you that business seems pretty good.” I lowered my voice for the next part. “There’s a man in the next aisle. Checkered shirt, faded jeans, kind of geeky. I can’t imagine the last time he enjoyed the company of a woman. I’m nearly certain he comes here just to flip through the novels, specifically to find the sex scenes.”

  “Wonderful, the kind of chap you take home to meet Mum.”

  I laughed. “You got that right. His forehead is already glistening.”

  “Right, I think that is enough details for one day,” he said, with a tinge of amusement in his voice.

  Prude! I was only trying to spice up the conversation…talk about missing the point. I tried to switch my brain to a much more decent topic like writing, but for some odd reason I wasn’t really feeling the flow.

  “So how was your day?” I asked. Great, now I sound like a boring wife.

  “Oh my day so far has been good. A few too many phone calls and not enough work, but that’s the way it goes sometimes.”

  Oh so now I’m stopping him from working?

  “Maybe I should let you go then,” I said, still walking around the store and staring at my feet.

  “Oh no it’s fine. This is a no-brainer.”

  If this guy was trying to make me feel good he had fallen at the very first hurdle. Time to change the subject.

  “So when are you landing in Canada?” I asked, but the blurting didn’t stop right there. “As in what date, airport and flight number?”

  Nice one, perhaps next time I should be more direct.

  “Well I did say it was only an idea Roms.”

  “No you didn’t.”

  “Yes I did and it’s not a five-minute hop. That doesn’t mean no but I have a few things to take care of at the moment.”

  Like Italian women with tattoos in strange places?

  I kicked the leg of a reading table before realizing someone was sitting at it. The middle-aged woman glared at me. I made a face and kept walking.

  “So it’s off then?” I said.

  And can I punch you yet?

  “No I didn’t say that. Let’s see what turns up, okay?”

  What does that MEAN dammit?

  “Sure.”

  “I will e-mail you soon.”

  Oh so now we are hanging up?

  “Sure, it was nice talking to you James.”

  “Bye for now.”

  “CLICK.”

  I looked at my watch to discover it was only seven minutes past noon.

  Our first bookstore chat and we only lasted seven minutes. Was this a sign of things to come?

  Chapter Fifteen

  How can they still have so much to say?

  I’d thought that after two weeks straight of family dinners, we’d have no more awkward topics to cover.

  And yet, there was always something.

  “Make sure you’re finished all your cleaning by three o’ clock tomorrow.” My mother eyed my sister sternly.

  “Why? Tomorrow’s Saturday. I can do it whenever I want.” My sister nonchalantly reached for another piece of roti bread.

  “No you CAN’T do it whenever you want. We found a boy for you. He wants to meet you tomorrow.”

  My sister, surprisingly, had little reaction to the news. Or maybe it was just that she was used to this ridiculous process. In a typical scenario, they’d find her a respectable man from an Indian marriage website, resulting in an awkward visit to his family’s house. From there her adamant rejections would follow: “He told me he parties with his friends, he doesn’t write nice e-mails, he doesn’t like playing golf...”

  It was a formula for failure, but she was running out of reasons not to. Or reasons that my parents would accept, anyway. It really made me wonder how I’d ever face the problem myself. With each additional rejection she was wasting more excuses I could’ve used! And through it all, my parents’ positioning continued to harden.

  Which is why I need James to meet me, fall in love with me, and tell me I’m “the one.” No biggie.

  “Did you hear what I said? You should be lucky anyone will look at you; thirty years old…” She clucked her tongue disapprovingly.

  My sister didn’t say a word, but instead filled the airwaves with a two-second burp. For my mother the burp was as good as a verbal acceptance.

  “And make sure the house is very clean. I don’t want his family thinking we didn’t train our daughter.”

  Wait...the bachelor is coming HERE?

  I had always wondered how two sets of parents could go from being complete strangers, to coercing their newly introduced children into “promising forever.” And all within a single tea-time. Well as of tomorrow, I would wonder no more...

  ***

  “You’re wearing THAT? Why would you wear a big shirt like that? It looks like a man’s shirt!”

  My mother’s voice seeped its way through the remarkably thin walls, and straight into my very own bedroom. It was a useful reminder to never try Skyping with James.

  I continued to eavesdrop as my sister resisted being dressed in a “sellable” way. If it was I on display at the bridal market, I would not only wear a giant shirt, but I would also skip out on plucking my eyebrows. I’d also hold off on mascara, and maybe put on fungal foot cream in his presence. Yeah, let’s see how much you’re interested in marrying THAT.

  Lucky for me I was not the main focus of this afternoon’s sell-off, so my outfit was pretty generic (just a blue T-shirt and my favourite jeans).

  I headed downstairs to await the arrival of the mystery man, but before the first step my mother blocked my way.

  “What are you doing? They’re going to be here soon!”

  “Yeah, I know.” Chill out Mom, the house looks spotless.

  “And why are you wearing jeans?” she asked. “Are you going somewhere?”

  Why would I be going somewhere?

  “I’m wearing jeans because I had to get dressed. I can’t wear pajamas in front of the guests.”

  “No, YOU aren’t going to meet them!” she said. “Are you crazy?”

  Huh?

  “But you told Sonny to get dressed. I thought we’re all meeting the family.”

  “Sonny is. But not you. If the boy sees YOU he won’t want to marry HER.” My mother pointed at my sister who was now in the hallway. She glared in my direction, as I tried my very best not to smile.

  “What, you think you’re too beautiful?” said my mother, while looking me up and down. “You still need to lose weight.”

  “But I HAVE lost weight.” How had this become about me?

  “You need to lose mor
e, but if he meets a younger daughter with fairer skin, he’ll never choose the older one.”

  Ahh... racial and age discrimination. My favourite combo.

  “So Neema’s too dark and that’s a problem? You really want her to marry a guy like that?” I put my hands on my hips and continued. “Someone who only cares about skin colour?”

  Wow, was I seriously standing up to my mother?

  “DON’T talk to me like that. Don’t you dare.”

  I lowered my shoulders and cowered in fear, returning to my role as the offspring minion. How does she always do that?

  “This is Indian culture,” she continued. “When your skin is darker it’s a sign of lower class. People get darker when they work in the fields all day.”

  But Neema grew up in a Canadian metropolis!

  “So why are we even meeting him then? If he’s going to think I’m LOW CLASS?” My sister’s eyes were glistening intensely. She could see an opportunity. An out. And she was not about to let it go.

  “Because you make good money and he’s having some trouble finding girls. But you’ll look too dark if he sees HER.” My mother pointed at me in disgust. So now I’m a disgrace to the family?

  “Should I go somewhere then?” I didn’t mind the idea of an afternoon away, maybe I could go downtown and meet some friends.

  “No! You sit in your bedroom with the door CLOSED. And don’t make any noise. Don’t walk around, don’t go to the bathroom. Just total quiet.”

  What the fuck? Keep me trapped in my room like the demented mutant daughter?

  “I can’t sit in my room all afternoon! I’ve hardly even eaten today!”

  My mom rolled her eyes. “We brought a whole box of samosas for tea. Go downstairs for two minutes so you can eat. TWO minutes! Then go to your room and close the door.”

  I stared in disbelief.

  “GO!”

  I sprinted down the stairs with my two-minute window ticking fast. I searched for samosas in the oversized kitchen with its excess of counter space and stainless steel appliances. I finally found them in the corner by the fridge, next to a bag of bagels.

  I inhaled the first samosa in four giant bites. As the digital clock on the stove switched to minute number two, I started with the second potato pocket, which was as flaky and delicious as the last. I finished it off and reached for a glass from the cupboard, but froze when I heard the sound.

  ‘DING DONNNG.’

  Uh-oh.

  I ditched the glass and leapt up the stairs going two at a time, almost colliding with my mother and sister. My mother simply glared as she made her way down, which was her signal for me to keep running.

  My bedroom door clicked shut at the exact same second that the front door opened, with my dad’s cheery voice now in greeting mode.

  I made my way over to the bed, careful not to step on the two creaky floorboards hiding underneath the carpet.

  ‘Cause God forbid they should discover the upstairs-mutant. Shield your eyes from her hairy hunchback!

  Once I was comfortably in bed, I didn’t really know what the hell I was supposed to do.

  All the action was happening downstairs, but from my closed bedroom door I could only hear muffled voices.

  Distracted by a flake of samosa pastry caught between my two front teeth, I worked it over and over with my tongue, trying to set it free. I couldn’t, so I picked it out with my fingers. Then ate it.

  Well that takes care of that. Now what?

  If only I had squeezed in that drink of water. I was so damn thirsty, but strangely I also had to pee. In fact I really had to go, but a flush of the toilet from upstairs would sell me out.

  How long did these stupid marriage negotiations even last?

  From what I could tell, the familiar clang of dishes in the kitchen hadn’t even begun. Which meant my mother was still in the “ice-breaker” phase with the family.

  This could be a while.

  I grabbed my laptop and opened up my e-mail.

  There was nothing new from James, but it was my turn to write him anyway. I had tried some writing techniques on “how to paint a setting,” and though my efforts didn’t seem too impressive, I was eager to ask for his feedback.

  That was the good part. The bad part for me was that I wasn’t very pleased with the state of our recent contact. We’d only had one additional rushed conversation at the bookstore, as the rest of the time he’d been busy. But what was he so busy with at six o’ clock in the evening? It just seemed so much better to talk to him at midnight Spanish time, when he was drowsy, unoccupied, and a lot more receptive to my banter.

  But whose fault was that anyway? This was all my doing, since I couldn’t even call him from home. Then again, that part wasn’t totally my fault…these were simply my unfortunate circumstances.

  Did he even know how hard this was for me?

  Maybe it was time to paint him a little picture.

  ----------------------------------

  Hey James,

  So GET THIS: as I type these very words, there’s some Indian family and their son here to see my older sister.

  (!!!)

  A day ago, my sister knew nothing about this. Now she’s sitting in the living room, with hands clasped together I’m sure, not saying a word, but being totally judged on every breath and every eye-blink. And by the end of the day she’ll be forced to decide if he’s “the one.”

  Is that all it takes then? Whatever happened to the fine art of conversation? And I mean many, many conversations? And the fine art of...all the lovely things that follow? ;-)

  Sigh...

  Romi

  ------------------------------------

  It was definitely high on enthusiasm, but just what I needed to get his “white knight” ass into gear.

  Meanwhile my bladder was screaming for attention. I thought about it for a moment, and it seemed to me that if I very quietly opened the door, it wouldn’t really seem like a bomb going off. After that? Just three quick strides to the bathroom.

  To succeed I’d have to make a major sacrifice: NO FLUSHING.

  It seemed horribly primitive, but quiet times did call for quiet measures.

  I rose from the bed and tip-toed to the door, side-stepping the creaky floor boards once again. A second later I closed my eyes, clenched my teeth, and slowly turned the knob.

  ‘CLICK’...’SQUEAK.’

  Had it always been that loud?

  I didn’t want to take any further chances with squeaky doors, so I slipped into the bathroom, left the door open and went to town.

  I strained my ears to see if I’d been exposed.

  Nope. Conversation still going. Phew.

  I quietly sighed and finished up, fighting all my instincts to flush. I made it past the toilet with success, and washed both my hands with a thin stream of water from the tap.

  As I tip-toed back towards my room, my eyes caught an interesting sight. It was a view of the living room, but I could only see it well if I looked straight down and to the left.

  I walked backwards and crouched on the ground, obscured by the staircase, but now with a better view.

  His parents looked the standard part, late fifties, boring, and seemingly incapable of letting loose.

  And the guy? He didn’t look much different than the sleaze bags I’d seen at the bar. All hair gel and skinny-shaped beard.

  My sister seemed entirely uncomfortable, with her eyes to the floor and her hands clasped together, just like I’d imagined. My brother on the other hand was totally distracted by his phone.

  I couldn’t see my mother, which meant she was somewhere in the kitchen. Which also meant the tea would soon be on its way out.

  As for my father he was having the time of his life. He and the son’s father were caught in a fit of boisterous laughter. It had to do with an infamous weird old man from their Indian region of birth. And yes, these two old dads came from neighbouring villages. A fact that was a virtual clincher for a p
erfect match.

  As they continued now with a film-by-film breakdown of their favourite Bollywood actor Amitabh Bachchan, I lowered myself ‘til I was flat on my stomach. It was a much more comfy position and superior view.

  About a minute later the tea and samosas made their way into the room, along with some square pink Indian sweets. I could almost sense some tension being lifted off my sister as she focused on the food. It was her I mostly watched after all, trying to detect how she could possibly tolerate meet-ups such as this (especially with his mother eyeing her like a hawk).

  “So, where do you work?”

  WHAT?!

  It was hair-gel boy, making his first attempt at conversation.

  My sister took a long sip of tea. “ATL Communications,” she replied. It was her best attempt at sounding dead inside, and a good one. You’re such a pro!

  “Oh, that’s a really good company.”

  As he continued to pepper her with interview questions, the two sets of parents traded secretive and giddy looks.

  A few seconds later my father spoke up. “You two go take your tea in the dining room. Then you can talk by yourselves.”

  Oh no, private time.

  I’d heard about “private time” from fellow Indian-Canadians. This was the most important section of arranged marriage meet-ups. It was the time when the parents expected the prospects to learn about each other (for however long it took to feel okay with getting married).

  In most cases “private time” lasted no more than fifteen minutes.

  As the two complete strangers rose to leave the living room, I realized my cover was in jeopardy. One look up and they would see me.

  I hopped up from my stomach like an agile feline (I hadn’t known I could do that), and in three little skips returned to the seclusion of my room.

  Phew.

  I checked my e-mail but James hadn’t responded. What’s the matter? You can’t respond within ten minutes anymore?

  Annoyed and a little exhausted from the hallway acrobatics, I snuggled up in bed, and decided to initiate an Internet search.

  I typed in “Indian matrimonials” and waited. I never would’ve dreamed of such a Google in my life, but I was curious for what was in store.

  Over two hundred thousand results came up, so I picked the most popular one (“IndianMarriageMatch.com”).

  In seconds I was hit with a sea of red and gold, along with many messages in ugly-ass cursive: