Bride wanted for tall, handsome, fair Gupta boy, gotra Garg. Boy working in MNC, salary high six figures, belongs to status family of South Delhi, three uncles settled in USA. Father property developer. Girl should be beautiful, attractive, tall, slim, fair complexioned and educated. Caste no bar. Girl’s merits only consideration. Reply to Box No. 8800.

In a dream world, thought Rashmi, every boy would be like the actor Hrithik Roshan--handsome, tall, well-built and rich, with dark brown hair falling on well-muscled, square shoulders. And every girl would be like the actress Aishwarya Rai--beautiful, slim and fair, with a coy smile and green eyes just visible under the hood of her saree. People who gave these matrimonial ads in the newspaper lived in a dream world, a world populated by Hrithiks and Aishwaryas.

However, Rashmi knew that she did not belong in the bright, shining world of these matrimonial ads. For she did not possess a pretty nose or a long, beautiful neck. Neither did she have long brown hair framing an ivory white face like the girl in the Dabur shampoo ad. For she was not beautiful, but ordinary-looking. So ordinary, in fact, that no one looked at her twice.

Rashmi put the newspaper down and went over to her bedroom mirror. What she saw did not excite her. She was not tall. She was five foot and one inch. She was certainly not attractive. Rashmi moved her dull, black hair away from her face. Her brown face showed dark circles under her sad eyes. Her pudgy nose gave her whole face a sort of comic look, even when she looked crestfallen. Yes, boys did try to grope her every once in a while when the bus was crammed full of passengers. But these boys were from poor families and did not know any better.

Rashmi pulled and pinched the skin on her cheeks. In the Indian fairness continuum, which ranged from Aishwarya Rai’s ‘Very Fair’ to the ‘Very Black’ of Southern Indian beauties, Rashmi Ranjan fell somewhere smack in the middle. In the parlance of matrimonial ads, her complexion was what would be semi-flatteringly called ‘Wheatish’, the brown colour of Indian wheat grains. Invisible judges floated in the air behind her, shaking their white-haired heads with disappointment. She was unsuitable for marriage, they were saying.

The mirror showed clearly that she wasn’t slim either. In fact, she was a little plump, what people might call ‘healthy’. And as she grew older (she was 26 now), she seemed to be slowly gaining more weight, especially around her waist and hips. This made her appear lazy and sluggish, although she really wasn’t.

Was she well-educated? Yes, this was something where she knew she could get some points with the judges. She had a BA and an MA in Sociology from Delhi University. But that’s where the exasperated judges would again wring their hands in despair. For she had been able to do nothing with her degrees. She wasn’t bright enough to do her PhD and teach, so she had instead opted for one mundane job after another. It seemed like everything with regard to her career was going downhill. She was currently employed at Blue Tooth Consultants as a Data Entry Operator. But the judges up above were not fooled by that glorious-sounding title. It simply meant that she sat on a broken metal office chair every day and typed data into a computer.

Would she ever be able to get married? It didn’t seem at all likely. God knew her parents had tried their level best so far. Her father, who worked as a head clerk in the Ministry of Agriculture, had diligently read the matrimonial ads for four years, ever since she had turned 22. He had painstakingly shortlisted families who perhaps would be interested in having Rashmi as a bride for their son. All these names, addresses and phone numbers he wrote down in a well-worn, dog-eared notebook. This notebook, light blue in colour, was full of his tiny, beautiful cursive writing.

When Mr. Ranjan would look up a phone number to call, he would adjust his metal-rimmed glasses so they fit snugly against his nose. At moments like these, Rashmi really felt her father’s love for her.

Every so often, a boy’s family would express interest in finding out more about Rashmi. Mr. Ranjan would immediately start preparing an envelope that contained Rashmi’s photograph, her bio-data and her horoscope. Each of these items was very important and had been meticulously prepared by Mr. Ranjan for his daughter.

Rashmi’s photograph was a glossy 4 in. x 6 in. and showed her wearing a light pink dress. Her whole body was visible in the photograph, and this was important nowadays. Boys these days wanted to see the girl’s figure, and not just a photograph of her face. Ostensibly, this was required so the boy would know if the girl was fat or not. But Rashmi secretly thought that boys used the full photo to judge a girl’s feminine assets—the size of her bust, her waist, and so on. Every boy had different tastes and requirements when it came to this, so a photograph of the whole body was now an absolute must.

Rashmi’s bio-data was two pages long and Mr. Ranjan had gotten it typed at the copy centre next to the bakery. The bio-data was almost like a resume that you take along for a job interview. Except it was different from a resume in a few important ways.

First, every matrimonial bio-data had to give the birth date, exact time of birth and place of birth of the person. So, Rashmi’s bio-data started out with ‘Rashmi Ranjan. Date of birth: June 17, 1982. Time of birth: 10:04 am. Place of birth: New Delhi.’

Second, the matrimonial bio-data had to clearly declare the caste of the person. Even though in India the caste system had been abolished many decades ago, its importance in many spheres of life was intact and practically unchanged. This was especially true when it came to the question of who you were going to marry. Most Indian parents wanted their child to get married only to a person of their own caste. Sure, there were some families that didn’t care what caste you were, but you could never find anyone like that.

Third, the matrimonial bio-data had to give detailed information about the person’s family background. This was important because everyone knew that when you marry, you don’t just marry the person, you marry their whole family. You heard of so many marriages that broke down because “the family wasn’t right” or “the family was not educated enough” or “the family wasn’t equal to us financially”. So the bio-data had to have the names, educational qualifications and occupational details of your paternal uncles and aunts, maternal uncles and aunts, grandparents, important cousins and, of course, your own parents and brothers and sisters. Rashmi was an only child so there were no siblings to mention. But being an only child had its drawbacks. At one of the matrimonial meetings held at the Ranjan household, the boy’s mother had exclaimed, “Rashmi is an only child, so she must definitely be a spoiled brat.”

The small sheet with the diagonal lines criss-crossing each other was the horoscope. It looked like a matrix with its cells full of funny-looking characters. The horoscope had to be included in the prospective matrimonial packet because it gave detailed information about the positions of the stars and planets at the time you were born. These astral bodies, the first letter of whose names were written into the matrix, had names like ‘Rahu’, ‘Ketu’, ‘Surya’, ‘Chandrama’ and so on. For Rashmi and her parents, the chart was gibberish. They did not understand it at all. This was something only an astrologer could do, and the boy’s family would almost always take it to their own family astrologer or pandit. The astrologer would then match the girl’s and boy’s horoscopes to see if they were a good match. A few years ago, the astrologer who had drawn up Rashmi’s horoscope had told her that if she got married, she would have a blissful wedded life. He had then smiled with satisfaction as he had pocketed the Rs. 300 Mrs. Ranjan had paid him for his labours.

The envelopes prepared by Mr. Ranjan, containing the three documents, would travel by mail to the post boxes of potential boys. The boys’ parents would do one of two things upon reading the contents—either call Mr. Ranjan or not call. Many times they didn’t call. Rashmi surmised that it was due to her short height and slightly heavy weight (which was also mentioned in the bio-data) that some people didn’t call.

Often, when a call did come, the caller would ask a hurried question such as, “What do you, Mr. Ranjan, do?” Upon being told that Mr. Ranjan was a head clerk, some callers did not seem to be interested in Rashmi anymore. “We are looking for a good family background”, some would say rudely before unceremoniously hanging up on Mr. Ranjan. Or they would ask matter-of-factly, “What is your budget?” When Mr. Ranjan would inform them that his budget was between Rs. 3 lakhs, many would express disappointment. “This is not adequate,” they would mutter and the line would go dead. Or they would say something like: “We are getting offers for more than Rs. 10 lakhs for our boy.”

At times like these, Mr. Ranjan would look briefly morose. But then, on seeing Rashmi, he would perk up and jump into the search again. The only thing he wanted, he would say, was to find a boy Rashmi would be happy with. He, like all Indian fathers who had a daughter, had saved money his entire life for his daughter’s dowry. He--along with his family--had made sacrifices all his life. Much-needed vacations had been foregone, the purchase of the new refrigerator had been postponed, and phone bills had always been kept to a minimum. Mr. Ranjan wanted to get Rashmi married in the best way he could afford.

Every so often, one of the callers would express interest in Rashmi. Excited, Mr. Ranjan would start planning a visit to the boy’s house to meet his family. At the boy’s house, though, a key hurdle had to be cleared: the size of Mr. Ranjan’s dowry budget for Rashmi’s marriage.

Usually, the boy’s father would ask this crucial question, after a suitable amount of time spent on pleasantries. Then the question on which the whole marriage depended would fall heavily into the middle of the room. The question itself would never be asked by the boy. It was usually asked by the boy’s father. The way the question was asked was an important part of the matrimonial process, and therefore the method employed for asking the question had evolved into its own little art form. Most often, the question was asked hesitatingly, almost tentatively—as if this would somehow soften or cushion its blow. It was funny how a question of such import was usually asked with such feigned shyness and modesty. The tone of voice employed in asking the question was usually one that demonstrated at least a hint of reverence for the girl’s father. While asking the question, facial expressions were important: great care was taken to avoid any sign of gloating or greed on the questioner’s face. The language and wording employed in asking the question was, of course, disarmingly simple, and would take various forms such as “If you don’t mind us asking, what is your . . . budget?” or “We wanted just a little idea of your. . .er. . . budget”.

However it was asked, Mr. Ranjan was always steadfast and honest in his answer: “Rs. 3 lakhs”. On hearing this, families who were from a lower income bracket would start beaming, although they would always try their best not to show it. Others, who belonged to a higher income bracket, would lower their heads immediately in clear disapproval.

If people’s budget expectations were met, they would finally come over to the Ranjan household to meet Rashmi. However, it was becoming clear that things were not going well for Rashmi. Over the last four years, there had been at least 50 such meetings with potential boys and their families. But nothing had materialized yet for Rashmi.

Over cups of tea, over Pepsi and 7-Up, over samosas, over cookies and roasted cashewnuts, Rashmi’s suitability as a future wife was disucussed in cold, ruthless language. In all cases so far, she had failed to qualify as a future wife. She was cruelly ruled out by one family after the other. The bolder parents would not mince words and would end the matter at the meeting itself. “She’s too dark”, they would state, or “she’s too short”. “She’s too fat around the hips”, pointed out one matronly future mother-in-law. The derision these families expressed for Rashmi was often intolerable. “What have you been feeding her? She must eat gulab jamuns all day to grow so fat at her age.” This remark was made by the mother of a boy from Punjab shortly after Rashmi had served them gulab jamuns. “She doesn’t take after either of you, Mr. and Mrs. Ranjan. My Sunil wants a girl with very beautiful facial features.” This remark was made by the mother of an ugly accountant from North Delhi. Rashmi dreaded these matrimonial meetings, and, after a particularly trying one, would break into tears in her room.

However, they had not yet given up hope. Rashmi’s mother, Mrs. Ranjan, would pray often for her daughter. Mrs. Ranjan believed in the power of prayer and knew that Goddess Durga would look after the happiness of her daughter. Nevertheless, the process of finding a suitable boy was beginning to pall on the family.

And then, when they least expected it, it happened. Just when Rashmi had resigned herself to remaining single all her life, Mr. Ranjan’s colleague at the office told them about a boy from Agra that was working as an engineer in Delhi. Ecstatic preparations were quickly made and everything was set for the first meeting to be held at the Ranjan’s house the following Sunday.

* * *

Bringing the cup to her mouth, Mrs. Sadana tasted the tea. “I like elaichi tea,” she said, smiling a little too sweetly. Her son, Sudhir, was aloof and withdrawn and only spoke when absolutely necessary. The strong, silent type, thought Rashmi as she looked at his shiny black shoes. He had a broad chest that was decorated with an expensive-looking red tie. His muscular arms were apparent from the bulges showing underneath his pale blue shirt.

Everything was going well. At the end of the meeting, Sudhir’s father indicated that Mr. Ranjan’s dowry budget was okay with them. “By God’s grace,” said Mrs. Sadana, “we have everything we need, and we just want our Sudhir’s happiness. He always says he doesn’t even want any dowry!” Everyone smiled widely at this, and the next day, the phone calls began.

Sudhir, on the phone, was not so quiet after all. He loved to talk, and Rashmi found herself having ardent, urgent conversations with him every night. When they talked, Sudhir would become increasingly passionate and would want to talk all night. Often, they would hang up about 2 or 3 a.m., and only because they both had jobs to go to in the morning. Rashmi found they had lots of things in common, and she was flattered when Sudhir began openly professing his love for her. He said he couldn’t think of living without her. Rashmi was awed. No one had said things like this to her before.

Things started moving quickly from that point on. There was a lot of work to do. The Roka, or betrothal ceremony, went off very well. All of Sudhir’s relatives and friends were pleased with the arrangements made by Mr. Ranjan, who footed the bill, of course. A month later, the Sagai, or engagement, went off equally well. However, the way the expenses were going, Mr. Ranjan warned his family that he would have to borrow money from relatives to pay for the even heavier expenses coming up ahead.

The wedding was fixed for July 22nd and the venue and dining arrangements were all settled. Sudhir was talking about a honeymoon in Manali and Rashmi could hardly wait. She had seldom left New Delhi.

A week before the wedding, just as Rashmi and her mother had returned from the market with her wedding dress, the phone rang. It was Sudhir’s father, Mr. Sadana, and he couldn’t control his laughter. He said that Sudhir had already picked out names for his as yet unborn children, and the entire family was teasing him about it. Mr. Ranjan, who had picked up the phone, laughed along with him as he untied a bundle of wedding invitation cards that had just arrived from the printer. Then Mrs. Sadana took over the phone from Mr. Sadana and there was more joking and merriment.

But the bombshell was yet to come. Toward the end of the call, Mrs. Sadana mentioned quite casually that Sudhir intended to quit his job and start a business, so if it wasn’t too much trouble then Mr. Ranjan would have to increase the dowry amount to Rs. 10 lakh. Sudhir also wanted a Honda City car, since all his friends had received new cars from their marriages. “My Sudhir will lose face in front of his friends,” said Mrs. Sadana. “They play with Hondas, you know, these boys nowadays.” Her voice coming in on the speaker phone, brilliantly warm throughout the conversation, had suddenly become a lot colder.

In an instant, a heated argument began that threatened to quickly break out of control. At the end, Mr. Ranjan wearily hung up the phone, turned around and looked at this family with tears in his eyes.

Later that day, Sudhir’s parents came over to visit the Ranjans. Sudhir was conspicuously absent. His mother and father had sheepish looks on their faces, but they still managed to hold their heads up in a stiff, haughty manner. We are much better than you, their attitude seemed to suggest. The boy’s side always thought of themselves as superior, pondered Rashmi as she listened to the conversation.

The meeting lasted twenty minutes. Mr. Ranjan saw the Sadanas off till the door, but he couldn’t bring himself to walk them all the way to their car as he normally used to do. When he turned around and faced his wife and daughter again, he looked as though he had aged ten years.

That evening, Sudhir’s mother’s words echoed again and again in Rashmi’s ears: “Sudhir is a handsome boy. We are getting offers from four other families. They all have a budget of over Rs. 10 lakhs. All of them are ready to give him a new car. We can’t have him riding his motorcycle anymore—it’s too dangerous! And these girls are all much better looking than Rashmi. Your girl seems to be gaining more weight everyday. In a few years I’m sure people are going to think she’s Sudhir’s mother.”

* * *

The fan on the ceiling was revolving slowly on its axis, its yellow blades cutting the air like gentle knives. Today was the day she would have been getting married. And now it was all over. It was all over for good, because she did not want to get married anymore. She did not want anything, in fact. What was to be desired in a world where a girl was nothing but a wretched financial burden on her parents? Parents who work like mad all their lives to save enough for their daughter’s dowry, only to find that all they have is not enough, will never be enough—before or after marriage. Because after marriage, boys demanded more money on one pretext or the other. She had heard plenty of stories about all this. They all wanted money—money for new furniture, money for a new air-conditioner or money for a new laptop. How much debt could a father possibly take on for his daughter’s happiness?

So what was she to do now? Go back to the drawing board and begin the miserable search for a husband all over again? And if she decided not to get married at all, could she live her whole life alone when her parents were gone?

She focused on the fan again. It hung from a sturdy hook. She wrote on the first page of an empty notebook, “I don’t blame anyone for what I am about to do.” That was all she wrote.

* * *

Mrs. Ranjan fainted when she saw the limp feet and the white bed sheet tied to the fan and her daughter’s neck. When she came around several minutes later, someone gave her a glass of water. She looked at the glass and broke out into wild, hysterical laughter. She held on to her stomach and laughed. Then she turned on her side and held on to the bedpost and laughed. Except for the stormy tears in her eyes, you would have thought she was shaking with mirth.

* * *

From a friend of a friend, old Mr. Ranjan heard that Sudhir had recently gotten married. He heard that Sudhir had received a dowry amounting to more than Rs. 12 lakhs. He heard that Sudhir had also received a new Honda City from his wife’s family, which he was now happily driving around.

Mr. Ranjan now spent his free time pursuing justice for what happened to his only child, his beloved girl. In the beginning, the police station had refused to even register a dowry complaint against Sudhir. Mr. Ranjan later found out the possible cause—Sudhir’s uncle was a high-ranking official in the police.

Lawyers did not offer much hope to Mr. Ranjan. They said there was no hard evidence that Sudhir’s family had asked for dowry. After all, the dowry demands had been made verbally and, unfortunately, no conversations had been recorded. Anyway, considering the glacial pace of the country’s judicial system, it would take years for Mr. Ranjan to get justice. One lawyer, a stout Punjabi man, asked Mr. Ranjan bluntly, “At your age, are you up for the fight? It’s not going to bring your daughter back, is it?”

© Copyright Ashish Mohan

The author would appreciate your comments at: ashish.mohan@imdev.org

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