I told my parents about Praan. I explained it was serious. They had been sitting on a bench on the outside patio, enjoying the early summer sun. Both my parents had their legs outstretched and were wearing Mexican sombreros to protect their faces from getting too tanned. They were looking out across the long British garden like two Mexican gringos. I expected them to be ecstatic, open a bottle of champagne or sangria in their own way, which was brewing a good pot of tea and cutting a nice Victoria Sponge. Their thirty-something daughter had found someone to marry. Miracles could happen!
But after the initial happiness, and learning more details about their future son-in-law, they were cautious.
"We are not sure about your choice of partner," they said almost in unison, after they had prized all the details about my future partner.
"He lives at home with his mum!" Mum had said loudly and incredulously. "Okay, so you want a mummy's boy. Why hasn't he bought himself a house yet? At his age?"
Dad had tried to hush her, reminding her that the neighbour liked to tend to his flowers that were right by the fence where we were sitting.
I pointed to myself and Daman, who had come out to swing his new driver. "Look at us, Mum, it's expensive round here."
"Don't you dare mess up the lawn!" said Mum when she saw him about to practise a swing.
Daman stopped. "You should be happy she has finally found someone."
"Thanks, bro."
My father was moping like a lost sheep that I had not married a partner from the exact sub group of Indians he wanted, and he would not be able to hold his head up high with the relatives and talk about common Punjabi village landmarks and corrupt Punjabi politicians with my new in-laws.
"Nimmee, he is not from our community and not even from Punjab! I just don't know how our culture will match with theirs!" he said, shaking his head sadly. "What will people say?"
"So his family has Hindu blood and his great-uncle's side are all Muslim, and his sister's converted to Church of England! Oh my God! What will people say!"
You could never win with these two. Well. Now he'll have a Sikh in the family. too!
"And from Bombay, we've never even been there! We heard Bombay people are very crafty!"
"Bombay is still in India. They are way more advanced than us lot!" The anticipation of a celebratory cup of tea and cake was dashed, though it might still be wheeled out as comfort food.
When we were sitting in the lounge, I showed my parents a photo of Praan on my mobile phone. My mother took off her glasses to have a closer look, and my dad, who was long sighted held the phone away from himself.
"So?" asked Daman. "Like the look of Prawn?"
"Praan," I corrected.
"Looks like a baboon to me!" said my mother unhappily in Punjabi.
"Baboon?" Had I misheard her?
"Yes."
"Don't say that about your future son-in-law!" said my father. "He looks all right."
I felt a little relieved and tried to mouth 'thank you' to my Dad but he was looking out to the garden for signs of the snooping neighbour.
"We will have to spruce him up if we are going to introduce him to the family. Go upstairs. I think I have a skin-lightening cream. Encourage him to use it!" my mum said.
"Skin lightening cream? No, Mum, no."
My mother was looking at me icily. "Okay, if you are not into self-improvement, what can I do? Stay stuck. I don't know what you see in these people you find. Daman showed me a picture of a girl he likes.My God, your dad said she looked like E.T.!"
"E.T?" I coughed up pieces of the Brazil nuts I had been chewing.
"Yes," said my mother. 'You know, that alien from the Steven Spellberg film."
"Spielberg," corrected Daman, rolling his eyes. "She is beautiful. How can you think she looks like E.T?"
"Her eyes are so far apart, that's why! If you can't see that, you need your eyes tested!" said my mother.
"At least he finished with that tight-fisted investment banker!" said Dad.
"The one who bought you a single yellow rose for your birthday?" I asked.
Dad said "Yes, that her work friend probably gave her for her promotion!"
"My God, the way she rationed out everything, it was like a world war had started!" Mum said. "Daman, please marry someone who is generous to her 'in laws', I used to do so much for mine, always updating their furniture, getting them medi—"
"Enough!" I yelled.
My grandmother had popped in and was commenting that the daal did not have enough salt. My mother gave her a dark look. My grandmother had stayed quiet whilst listening to news about my new intended, though I had felt her cast a few evil stares in my direction. In the kitchen, she jostled me aside as I was filling my glass with tap water from the sink.
"Out of the way!" she commanded. "I have to wash grapes for my baby darling Daman!"
After she had finished washing the grapes and placing them in front of Daman, she said abruptly, "Can I have my gold necklace back?"
"What?" I was shocked that my precious heirloom was being taken from me.
"Well, I don't approve of who you are going to marry. Your parents are right. He's not from our community, and I was looking forward to your wedding, too. Anyway, I will be back tomorrow evening, so make sure you give it back to me."
I thought my grandmother was being rather cutthroat in asking for her treasure to be returned. If only she had known I had recklessly risked my life and others to save that blasted necklace.
The tiny lady then suddenly grabbed the sides of shoulders and looked up at me. There was a pause as we both looked at each other in the eyes in what felt a very unnatural stance. "Do you love me, daughter?"
"Yes," I said.
"Then, all you do is call this Praan now and say that this marriage is not happening here, in this family!" she said. "Just give him a call and remember to say sorry at the end."
Laughter nearly burst out from me.
My grandmother repeated her request. I shook my head. I was not going to make this call to Praan. My grandmother's lip curled up in annoyance.
"All right, you stubborn camel!" shouted my grandmother. She said more softly, after a pause, "Have a look at some more photos, single boys who are looking for wives. I visited the big central London gurdwara. They offer more choice."
I protested, but my grandmother insisted. Did she not understand? She held the photos out for me and flicked through them. I found myself looking at the photos, I guess out of some perverse habit. After all, until very recently, was that not what I had done? Flick through countless photos of strangers from the opposite sex?
I shrieked when I saw a photo of a familiar face. Was it Ranjan? The Australian guy I had met in my early stages of dating? I was mildly infatuated with him at the time. He still looked nice. My grandmother peered over her glasses and saw the photo of the debonair Australian Ranjan.
"No, leave him, he has a drug problem! He got kicked out of Australia for that. I don't think he's clean yet."
I looked at her in shock. I was not even going to ask how she knew.
"Anyway I've had enough, Mangy!" I said as I watched her expectant face to see if I was willing to meet any of the other suitors.
"I have found someone. Please listen," I said, stooping and putting my face directly against her.
"Very well, and don't get too close, your breath stinks! You didn't use those neem bark sticks I got you!" huffed my grandmother. "What good did all this extra praying do me? Do you know when I did a pilgrimage of all those temples in India? I was torn from my wifely duties, but I went because of you!"
"Me?"
"Yes, my first and last prayer at each temple was that you find a very suitable boy to marry, an amazing wonderful husband."
"Oh, thanks," I said
"Was a waste! I'm off, then. By the way, you're not engaged yet, are you still interested in meeting that local boy? The one I showed you a picture of before?"
I tried to remember for her sake and recalled the young man Arjun, whom I met in the chemist.
"Oh him, no." I thought of Arjun and his STD with a partner his grandmother and my grandmother were not aware of. I considered telling my grandmother about his affliction, but thought about my patient confidentiality ethics.
"Okay, see you later, Mangy," I said.
My grandmother hugged me and wailed for the guru to take pity on me and make me see the errors of my judgment. "My granddaughter is blind, blinded by lust, let her see the truth!" she cried. She then gathered her plastic carrier bag, which had her purse, and bid goodbye to her husband and my parents. She had some religious singing festivities to partake in that evening.
My grandfather watched her go, and then said to my father, "That woman, can't she be happy staying home more often? Always some excuse to go out! Honestly, at her age! Also she came back with all this jewellery and fancy new Indian suits from her trip to India. I am wondering who's paying for it all."
After contemplating how their children's partners had fallen short of their expectations, my mother did unknowingly cheer up my dad and grandfather, who had also come to know. They were now sitting in the back lounge speaking about the possibility of Bindi's wedding.
My grandfather asked, "What's the boy's surname?"
My dad said, "Dambru."
My grandfather frowned, narrowing his eyes, and stroking his beard a little before he realised that he had used the same hand to eat a greasy samosa at the Gurdwara earlier on.
A few threads hung from the raised arm of his frayed sleeve. After finding it hanging on the rack, he had marched up to Oxfam in his military manner and demanded his suit back from the dumfounded sweet old lady manning the counter. My mother's goal to modernise her father-in-law's wardrobe was being stalled.
My dad watched his own father. The days of looking up to his father as the wise old man, had diminished a little, but I could see he wanted to hear his father's verdict.
"Mmm, I checked on the Internet, surnames not even listed," my dad said, and a bit of toenail went flying onto the edge of the newspaper he was cutting them on.
My mother watched him clipping his nails. "Careful" she warned, in no mood to hoover the carpet again.
I was used to my Dad using pliers to cut his fungus-damaged nails, but it still fascinated me as he held his faithful red pliers. He had stretched out a copy of Des Pardes. Well, at least it had come in useful for something! A crumpled picture of a man with a red turban singing into a microphone now had my father's fungus-ridden feet on it.
"Dambru, yes, it's a lower caste," agreed Baba ji, watching his son cut his nails, too. I was wondering if my grandfather was agile enough to cut his own.
I didn't care about castes, though a billion people in India and the Diasporas in the rest of the world were still seemingly under their powerful sway. It did come in useful once when Daman had messed around in his woodworks class all term and didn't even know how to use a screwdriver. His end of term assignment was to build a wooden chair from a few pieces of wood that he had been given. Daman was in trouble, but our grandfather came to the rescue. He sought out a local man from his village in India who was from the carpenter caste in India and who was, in fact, a very able carpenter even at the age of seventy. After precise orders were given by my grandfather, Daman collected a fine wooden chair from the man's house. The woodwork teacher had passed Daman, but had been suspicious of the fancy dove tail joints and the high quality of craftsmanship.
My grandpa's finger headed to his right nostril.
"Quick, get a tissue for your Baba!" commanded my mother and I grabbed a tissue and gave it to my grandfather.
My grandfather looked at the tissue handed to him with disdain and grudgingly returned to clearing his nose with it.
My mother said, "And Bindi's mum is trying to pass their family off from such high background, too. Typical show off."
Daman chimed in, "Does it matter if her grandfather was a toilet cleaner a hundred years ago?"
My grandfather's eyes narrowed and his left eye twitched frantically, "These are our customs. There are unwritten laws you don't break, young man. So, how did it go with that girl I introduced you from the temple?"
Daman yawned, and told his grandfather the girl wore a perfume that reminded him of something his grandmother might wear, and she did not smell appealing.
"So what if she smells like your loving grandmother? Whatever I might say about that old woman, she is clean, showers morning and evening. You and that bloody nose of yours!"
I wished Bindi well. I had not heard from her since that fire, except for one text checking she was okay. But her relationship with Jaggu didn't seem strong. I wondered if she had met Subhash again.
Daman nudged my elbow as I was about to leave the room. "Wanna hear something funny?'
"Yes."
Daman's eyes twinkled. "Well, you know that tradition, where the boy has to sit on the bride's lap?"
I looked confused.
Daman carried on, "You know when I had to do it at the wedding last week? When the younger brothers of the groom, brothers, and cousin brothers all sit on the new wife's lap?"
I nodded. It was a barking mad tradition I had never questioned and did not care much for why people did it. Life as a child of an immigrant was busy enough without researching the reason for all the ways brought over from the old country.
"Well," began Daman. I recognised Daman surreptitious smile that signalled scandalous gossip. I waited, a little excited.
"Not Jaggu our neighbour, Jaggu, Bindi's fiancé."
"Well, he went to his brother's wedding last week."
"And what?" I was getting impatient.
"Big boy is our Jaggu, as you know, all six-foot-three of him."
"Yes I know huge and...?"
Daman's eyes twinkled. "He sat on his new sister-in-law's lap."
"Tradition, I know."
"Broke her left leg!"
"That's ridiculous, how? He didn't really sit on her lap? That woman's tiny!"
"Alcohol. Jaggu was pissed, and he is a huge porker, sixteen stone at least, I think he bounced on her lap a few times, and third bounce, she screamed and had to be taken to hospital!"
"Screamed?"
"Shrieked the house down, apparently like she was being strangled or summat."
Laughter started to roll out of me, as I pictured huge Jaggu put his full weight on his tiny sister-in-law.
"Honeymoon to Bali cancelled!"
"Looks like he might have to hold up his own wedding!"
"Why?"
"Family is furious, and his brother's business partner was organising the venue!"
"Bindi?"
Daman looked at me and laughed. "Nim, she is well pissed off, whole wedding on hold for now!"
Aaah, discord yet again for snake hips! Hope it works out, there's always chubby cheeks to fall back on!
As I walked up the stairs to my room, two steps at a time, still laughing, my dad was calling "Nimmee, you know your Banita Masi called from LA. Nice boy, MBA, dad's a doctor, good height, your age!"
"Dad, please!" I groaned. Los Angeles sounded warm and sunny; perhaps I could visit it with Praan. I left the family discussing the credentials of Bindi's new beau and wondered how they would react when they found out what Daman had just told me.
The doorbell rang. All the family members called to each other to see if anyone was expecting visitors. No one was. Dad opened the door.
I was halfway up the stairs and heard, "Hello, Uncle."
I was amazed to hear Praan's voice. What was he doing here? I crept back down the stairs and spied on him speaking to my father. He smiled a huge broad smile.
My father said in a confused voice, "No thanks, we don't want to buy! We're Indians, not eastern Europeans or French, maybe they eat those funny delicacies!"
What was dad saying? It made no sense.
I ran up behind Dad, who hadn't realised this was Praan. I intervened before any embarrassing encounter occurred. "That's Praan, Dad!"
My dad looked again at Praan's face. His hair had been cut, and looked uncharacteristically neat and trim.
My mum peered around my father's shoulder. "Oh, so you're Praan! Hello." She then whispered to me that his hair was a little greasy and that he was strange for carrying a small cage with hay in it. I looked down and saw what she was talking about.
"He could have brought flowers if he is meeting us for the first time, not a cage!" my mum whispered to me.
Praan hadn't seem to have heard, as he was smiling one of his broadest smiles.
"Mum, be nice," I asked.
"Well, we don't have to impress him!" my mum whispered to me, looking at Praan suspiciously.
I pushed my parents aside and gave Praan a little hug. Then I noticed the metal cage he had placed on the floor by his feet.
"What's in that?"
"Wait," whispered Praan. "He's very shy!"
"Who is?"
My parents went to the living room, and my mum said she would make us some tea and grudgingly asked me to invite Praan. I was a bit let down by how undramatic this moment of when my parents meet the love of my life was. Had I not been waiting for this for ages? Nampreet finally meets an amazing husband-to-be. Here he is, folks, let's pop the champagne! This was the cliche anti-climax!
Instead my parents were speaking in hushed tones about the cage Praan was carrying.
"What's in it, Praan? Bring it in." My baffled brain could not even begin to start guessing what it was.
"No, I think we should leave it here for the time being." The cage remained on the door step, a curious and odd aura still surrounding it.
"Tell me what's in it?"
"No, wait," Praan insisted.
I watched the cage, and suddenly from under the hay, a brown nose appeared. Then the body of a small furry creature slowly edged out.
"Praan, you darling!" I gasped, hugging him. His light brown, intuitive and thoughtful eyes met mine. Somehow, he had known I had wanted to give Melissa a new hamster.
"He's so cute, and just a baby."
"Wanna hold him?" Praan asked.
I was nervous. Obviously, my family had never entertained the idea of me having a pet, and especially not a rat-like one. Praan carefully took out the furry hamster and stroked it.
From above me, I heard my grandmother squawk loudly in Punjabi. She was peering out above us from the open bedroom window. "Oh my God what the hell is that? This is a clean house. My stupid children have become like the English and love their pets more than people. Let me have a closer look at that devilish, dirty..."
Praan and I looked up, and there was the head of my half-laughing and half-outraged grandmother. Oh my God, was she waving a fist?
I couldn't believe she was spying on me. I was about to shout at her, but she closed the window.
I didn't want another hamster homicide. I hoped she was not rushing down the stairs, but after a few minutes, both Praan and I heard nimble footsteps coming down the stairs.
"Let's give it to Melissa now." I pushed Praan to the next door neighbours'.
Praan wanted an explanation.
"My gran, she has these basic raw instincts."
We went next door and gave a very surprised Melissa her new hamster.
"What's your new hamster's name?" I asked Melissa as Praan and I watched her bond with her new pet.
"Brownie number two," said the small blonde girl.
Melissa's mother offered us a cup of tea and cake and had a polite and relaxed conversation with Praan. She praised Praan for his talent in selecting fine hamsters, and Praan said something equally nice back. I wished for a moment that this was my family and Melissa's Mum and Dad were my mum and dad, but then Melissa's mum would be about sixteen when she had me. I halted my futile daydream.
After we left, Praan wanted to go back and introduce himself to my family properly and get to know everyone. I laughed and persuaded him to go for a walk instead.
"You have your whole life to get to know them!" I pulled in him closer and gave his bristly face a kiss.
It had been a long and difficult voyage to get to this stage, and it had demanded my fortitude. I felt at peace within myself, and my spirit felt elevated further by the sun streaming through the avenue of tall trees we walked under.
That night, I got a call from David, the American with a large mole on the side of his cheek that I had dated quite some time ago. It had been almost a year.
"Who?" I said, pretending to forget.
He reminded me who he was. David said he had thought of me when he scrolled through his phone contacts. I let him speak. His voice was gentle, and he was trying to woo me, telling me about a blog post of a new 'world cinema' critic. He told me about the end of his brief courtship with the Korean lady. He said he regretted not continuing with me. Then he asked me what I was up to, and then finally, with a pause, he asked me if I was free for dinner on Friday.
I was thinking, I am not single anymore...you snooze, you lose. I spoke a little and told him about my writing and that I could not make Friday. I said I was sorry, but I knew my apology was insincere, and I smiled as I turned him down. It was not a malicious smile, but a smile of relief that I would never have to endure these tenterhook calls, common in the initial stages of dating, when both people are trying to ascertain if there is attraction.
I told him slowly about Praan and our plans for marriage. I listened to the pause from the other line and noticed the change in his voice. All of a sudden the soft, gentle, wooing tone became upright and less familiar. He coughed and then wished me well.
"Good luck with your search!" I told him.
I tried to keep the tone in my voice subdued, but it came out shrill and merry. How I had hated it when men I had liked had said that to me. It was like saying good luck to someone when they are about to cycle up a steep mountain they don't want to ride up. You need a lot more than someone wishing you good luck. Maybe a flaming air lift, right? But hey I was at the top of that lousy mountain now, and the mountain air was refreshing. And it was the right mountain, finally!
I felt happy, it was like the jubilant overflowing feeling I got when I was eleven. The skinheads were rumoured to be coming to town to beat all the Indians up. But all the Indian shops were ready and boarded up, and uncharacteristically closed for the sunny Saturday...a day off for all, yay. But I felt safe and happy because it was my birthday. It was a hot summer's day, with iced cakes and presents and playing with friends to look forward to; maybe I'd whack a few shuttlecocks over the net with them. The sound of them whooshing past my ears relaxed me. Those skinheads could sod off...
I finally signed off from Indianmarryme.com and deleted my profile with satisfaction. Joy burst through me! A soundtrack was playing in my head – Pharrell's upbeat and cheery 'Happy'.
I met Praan for dinner later that evening to discuss our wedding plans. A whole new headache was just beginning! Couldn't we just elope in Bali? I don't feel like dressing up like a Bollywood queen...