Dating in Dhaka can be an absolute nightmare. The usual dating problems are further compounded by society's looming disapproval or expectations in the eventual outcome of the relationship and involved partners.
So being in your late twenties, single female, and Bangladeshi is a double-edged sword. Now is the time I have been resolutely and repeatedly expounded for 'settling down', find the perfect guy, merge, and procreate. Serial dating is considered a desecration of the sanctity of Bangladeshi femininity. I have been admonished to refrain from dating lest I acquire a 'reputation'.
Reputation? Reputation surmising the degrading labels attached to a young female who is living her life on the principles that are in complete contrast to the ideal archetype of a Bangladeshi woman. Regardless of the common knowledge, that females around the world from the same demography are living their lives on those very principles.
Reputation in Dhaka is at once tenuous and tangible. It is thrust upon you unwarranted yet its sole sustenance depends on you. A single false move can carry repercussions that will alter your future. Thus, females are encouraged and directed to guard their reputations with the utmost care and cloak it with sheer purity in order to enhance the females' rich futures. Hence, many safeguards are positioned around a young female's life in order to counteract any possible means of a 'reputation' being slapped on. Those safeguards soon become the basic compositions of Bangladeshi's females identities. In some cases, drastic measures are needed to radically alter or suppress females' identities in order to be in sync with the accepted notion of femininity.
In addition, females are incessantly informed that behavioral patterns that are deemed inappropriate during their singleness is generally considered normal once those females are securely married. In short, females must restrain their ostentatious personality traits during their single days so as not to acquire a 'reputation'.
Reputation plays a pivotal role in determining females' eligibility and rights. For single females, their pristine reputations or lack of can enhance or hinder, respectively, their chances for clinching good partners. For married females, their pristine reputation or lack of allow them to secure and exercise their basic rights.
In the end, reputation says it all. It can determine, deviate, or destroy.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Monday, October 13, 2008
Double-Edged Sword
Another befuddling facet of being Bengali and unmarried is perfectly captured in the following story told by a dear friend : She says that when she was single aunties would appraise her disapprovingly on her appearance and garb soley based on her unmarried label. However, once, she was married, those very aunties would proclaim and extol her regardless of her appearance and costume. The underlying message is that her married status exalted her for being dismissed or disapproved by her elder peers. Furthermore, this simple story also appropriately displays the discrimination faced by younger females, especially younger single/unmarried females, at the hands of their older foils.
It is quite common for a young female to be inundated by questions regarding her single-ness and forseeable plans on getting married soon. That question is at once Bengali in its roots and germination. In our culture, it is permissible to openly and covertly question and refute the rationale of remaining single. Unmarried women eager to remain in that state of unattachment is seen akin to sinners. An hyperbolic statement, some may conclude. But more often than not, the questioners are the elder females or matriarchs who at once castigate their younger subjects on their apparent follies and foolhardiness. The disinclination of getting married is at once met with stern reprisals and heavy doses of Bengali sensibility and respectability.
But the fact of the matter remains that younger females are more discriminated by the very female members that should instead be championing their abilities and determination to pave their own identities. Bangladeshi females have come a long way from our parents and grandparents generations where the bulk of the females were expected to smoothly fit into the square pegs of nurturing mothers and dutiful wives. Now we have numerous females superbly juggling the roles of mother, wife, socialite, business partner, breadearner, nurturer, PTA member etc. However, apparently, some of these very females are in turn dissuading their younger counterparts to shy away from balancing multifarious roles unless the wife label is clinched foremost. Thus, it seems Bangladeshi females, at least the unmarried ones, are incapable of accomplishing most feats unless they are promptly betrothed.
Have we indeed placed a high and covetous price on being married upon our race?
It is quite common for a young female to be inundated by questions regarding her single-ness and forseeable plans on getting married soon. That question is at once Bengali in its roots and germination. In our culture, it is permissible to openly and covertly question and refute the rationale of remaining single. Unmarried women eager to remain in that state of unattachment is seen akin to sinners. An hyperbolic statement, some may conclude. But more often than not, the questioners are the elder females or matriarchs who at once castigate their younger subjects on their apparent follies and foolhardiness. The disinclination of getting married is at once met with stern reprisals and heavy doses of Bengali sensibility and respectability.
But the fact of the matter remains that younger females are more discriminated by the very female members that should instead be championing their abilities and determination to pave their own identities. Bangladeshi females have come a long way from our parents and grandparents generations where the bulk of the females were expected to smoothly fit into the square pegs of nurturing mothers and dutiful wives. Now we have numerous females superbly juggling the roles of mother, wife, socialite, business partner, breadearner, nurturer, PTA member etc. However, apparently, some of these very females are in turn dissuading their younger counterparts to shy away from balancing multifarious roles unless the wife label is clinched foremost. Thus, it seems Bangladeshi females, at least the unmarried ones, are incapable of accomplishing most feats unless they are promptly betrothed.
Have we indeed placed a high and covetous price on being married upon our race?
Friday, October 10, 2008
Retouched Photos Exemplifies Perfection
I came across a recent article in Marie Claire asking if retouching photographs is a bad thing? Personally, I think retouching photographs of celebrities conveys two equally destructive messages. The first message is that celebrities are born perfect! They transcend from the humanly possible boundaries, to an almost god-like existence, where perfect skin, perfect size zero body proportions, perfect face symmetry, and perfect talents reign supreme. The second message dictates that the legions of fans following the retouched celebs' photos are deceived in believing that they, too, must attain the very god-like characteristics which would place them on the same par as their beloved celebs.
Celebrities aren't perfect. Let's face it, they are humans like us, and subject to similar fallacies, errs, and misfortunes. However, because they are under the constant scrutiny of the cameras and at the mercy of the greater public's insatiable greed, they must look, act, feel, propagate, and perpetuate the myth that they were born perfect. Thus, airbrushing out skin imperfections, slimming unwanted layers of fat, defining face contours, adding sparkles in the eyes are pretty much aspects of their jobs. In addition, in order to play along and live up to the public's expectations of ideal beauty, celebrities are hard pressed to maintain and monitor their shrinking physiques according the desired dress size that is in vogue. The amount of strain placed on celebs to constantly personify the ideal beauty cannot be underestimated. However, their eagerness and compliance in following and perpetuating the myth of 'ideal beauty' and perfection cannot be equally under emphasized.
Secondly, if celebs are pressured to fit into the mold of perfection, what about their fans? What undue pressure and strain is heaped upon the fans to conform to their beloved idols' images? You come across numerous articles showcasing young pubescent girls' experiences, at times intentionally, destructive eating disorders, never-ending trips to the plastic surgeons to cut and contour their bodies to ideal standards, and struggles with hating their own body images. In their quest to look more like their favorite celebs, young women are more susceptible to distort and mutilate their own image. I have, personally, seen many young girls fresh in their early teen years, already starving themselves in order to acquire the same physique as Miley Cyrus, Hillary Duff, etc. Furthermore, these young kids have picked up the notion that their darker hues aren't desirable to their male counterparts.
So is retouching wrong? Yes, I think it is. Celebrities are celebrities because of their striking talents and skills, of their ability to reach out to people distant and near and connect, of their ability to exemplify the angst and anguish of a particular generation, mind set etc. It is imperative that their fans know that beyond the screen time, celebs are typical humans like Tom, Dick, and Harriet, but just with better incomes. It is equally pivotal for celebs and their fans to teach each other that attaining and complying with transient ideal beauty standards and images is difficult, exhaustive, and an injustice to both of them.
Celebrities aren't perfect. Let's face it, they are humans like us, and subject to similar fallacies, errs, and misfortunes. However, because they are under the constant scrutiny of the cameras and at the mercy of the greater public's insatiable greed, they must look, act, feel, propagate, and perpetuate the myth that they were born perfect. Thus, airbrushing out skin imperfections, slimming unwanted layers of fat, defining face contours, adding sparkles in the eyes are pretty much aspects of their jobs. In addition, in order to play along and live up to the public's expectations of ideal beauty, celebrities are hard pressed to maintain and monitor their shrinking physiques according the desired dress size that is in vogue. The amount of strain placed on celebs to constantly personify the ideal beauty cannot be underestimated. However, their eagerness and compliance in following and perpetuating the myth of 'ideal beauty' and perfection cannot be equally under emphasized.
Secondly, if celebs are pressured to fit into the mold of perfection, what about their fans? What undue pressure and strain is heaped upon the fans to conform to their beloved idols' images? You come across numerous articles showcasing young pubescent girls' experiences, at times intentionally, destructive eating disorders, never-ending trips to the plastic surgeons to cut and contour their bodies to ideal standards, and struggles with hating their own body images. In their quest to look more like their favorite celebs, young women are more susceptible to distort and mutilate their own image. I have, personally, seen many young girls fresh in their early teen years, already starving themselves in order to acquire the same physique as Miley Cyrus, Hillary Duff, etc. Furthermore, these young kids have picked up the notion that their darker hues aren't desirable to their male counterparts.
So is retouching wrong? Yes, I think it is. Celebrities are celebrities because of their striking talents and skills, of their ability to reach out to people distant and near and connect, of their ability to exemplify the angst and anguish of a particular generation, mind set etc. It is imperative that their fans know that beyond the screen time, celebs are typical humans like Tom, Dick, and Harriet, but just with better incomes. It is equally pivotal for celebs and their fans to teach each other that attaining and complying with transient ideal beauty standards and images is difficult, exhaustive, and an injustice to both of them.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Getting Screwed Below
A friend informed me recently that India and Burma laid claims on much of Bangladesh's land. That is, any and all rich materials discovered in Bangladeshi's soil, deep within, will automatically fall into Indian and Burmese hands. Now pending verification of his claims, this tidbit of information alone made me realize how tenuous our country, our land, is even in our own hands.
The Last Leg
This is the part of American politics I detest the most - the way Republicans and Democrats slander and taint each other's candidates in the glory of clinching the presidential elections.
Now the gloves are off, and both the candidates' skeletons, both corporeal and fabricated are thrown on the table. Every day, every hour, we are informed, updated, and enlightened about the supposed unsavory affliations, similar philosophies, inclining sympathy, and past transgressions of the candidates.
Obama is a Muslim! He supports terrorism evidenced by his relationship with Bill Ayers! He secretly hates America and Americans!
McCain served on the board of an organization that propagated questionable anti-communist activities during Latin America's traumatic turmoils! He was involved in the Keating Five scandal! He's dying! He's inept to lead! He's mentally challenged!
Come election day, when the country votes, and the clear winner, hopefully, is picked, how do the candidates and parties recouncil after slinging so much mud at each other?
Now the gloves are off, and both the candidates' skeletons, both corporeal and fabricated are thrown on the table. Every day, every hour, we are informed, updated, and enlightened about the supposed unsavory affliations, similar philosophies, inclining sympathy, and past transgressions of the candidates.
Obama is a Muslim! He supports terrorism evidenced by his relationship with Bill Ayers! He secretly hates America and Americans!
McCain served on the board of an organization that propagated questionable anti-communist activities during Latin America's traumatic turmoils! He was involved in the Keating Five scandal! He's dying! He's inept to lead! He's mentally challenged!
Come election day, when the country votes, and the clear winner, hopefully, is picked, how do the candidates and parties recouncil after slinging so much mud at each other?
Monday, October 6, 2008
Repetitions Works Works
The first things you learn in public relations is that repetitions works wonders in effectively conveying messages. The more you repeat the points, inevitably, the reader, listener, viewer will pick up the message(s). I couldn' t help but marvel at the prowess of repetitions watching the vice presidential debate. Both Biden and Palin stuck to their messages resiliently and espoused their messages repeatedly.
When it came to answering questions, Palin proved to be quite the 'maverick' answerer, by refusing to answer any of the questions put forth by Gwen Ifill. Instead she pounded on her talents and limited experiences that make her into a viable and extraordinary vice-presidential candidate and future president if and when the need arises. All I heard during the 90 minutes or so of the debate was her truncated track record as the mayor of Wasilia and governor of Alaska, the reasons that make her into such an unqualified 'maverick', and her dedication to the McCain-Palin ticket. Not once did I hear any elaborate plan or anything resembling a tentative one encapsulating the McCain administration if they win the election. Instead, her key messages for the debate were that McCain's a maverick, she's a maverick, Americans need mavericks, and doggone it, they'll get mavericks if they elect them!
She may not have any concrete experiences required for a vice presidential nominee, she may not be intelligent, but sheer entertaining she surely is!
When it came to answering questions, Palin proved to be quite the 'maverick' answerer, by refusing to answer any of the questions put forth by Gwen Ifill. Instead she pounded on her talents and limited experiences that make her into a viable and extraordinary vice-presidential candidate and future president if and when the need arises. All I heard during the 90 minutes or so of the debate was her truncated track record as the mayor of Wasilia and governor of Alaska, the reasons that make her into such an unqualified 'maverick', and her dedication to the McCain-Palin ticket. Not once did I hear any elaborate plan or anything resembling a tentative one encapsulating the McCain administration if they win the election. Instead, her key messages for the debate were that McCain's a maverick, she's a maverick, Americans need mavericks, and doggone it, they'll get mavericks if they elect them!
She may not have any concrete experiences required for a vice presidential nominee, she may not be intelligent, but sheer entertaining she surely is!
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Quest for Fairness
Every time I visit the salon (beauty parlor), the following sight greets me - lines of women, ranging from young adults to older peers, have their faces, arms, legs, shoulders, necks, in some instances a greater portion of their torsos, masked with fair polishing cream. My question is why would so many pulchritudinous females have the urge to be fairer and the idea that dark-hued skins are undesirable?
The notion of fair skin being desirable is a vestige of the British colonial reign. I'm assuming the proliferation of white women with impeccable tastes and manners conceivably made them the epitome of female beauty. Bearing also in mind, that these fair female counterparts were also part of the ruling class that subjected the natives. The darker subjects had to depend on them for their livelihoods, thereby consequently, adopting their practices, their philosophies, their ideals, and their perspective of ideal beauty.
However, in such modern times, is the social practice of seeking and desiring fair females still viable? I have heard and witnessed several examples where females are degraded for their colors, and encouraged to seek treatments which would brighten their complexions, thereby leading to suitable partners. One account I recently heard goes that a young couple dating each other for nearly seven years has overcome a looming impediment. The impediment is the female's lack of a suitable and fair complexion. Apparently, the guy's family did not deem her fair enough to be considered a credible beauty. Oh, did I mention that said couple is planning on tying the knot. So, the solution they agreed upon is that the girl will seek skin whitening treatments ranging from home-made remedies, salon varieties, and ultimately skin brightening laser treatment.
Turn on the telly and you are inundated with advertisements displaying females cinching the perfect job, scoring the highest marks, securing handsome men through the supremacy of whitening creams. On every level of the social stratum, women are promptly encouraged and goaded to brighten their complexions, thereby, enhancing their chances of better and dare I say it, happier lives.
When does females, of all hues, take a stand and say collectively, enough is enough?
The notion of fair skin being desirable is a vestige of the British colonial reign. I'm assuming the proliferation of white women with impeccable tastes and manners conceivably made them the epitome of female beauty. Bearing also in mind, that these fair female counterparts were also part of the ruling class that subjected the natives. The darker subjects had to depend on them for their livelihoods, thereby consequently, adopting their practices, their philosophies, their ideals, and their perspective of ideal beauty.
However, in such modern times, is the social practice of seeking and desiring fair females still viable? I have heard and witnessed several examples where females are degraded for their colors, and encouraged to seek treatments which would brighten their complexions, thereby leading to suitable partners. One account I recently heard goes that a young couple dating each other for nearly seven years has overcome a looming impediment. The impediment is the female's lack of a suitable and fair complexion. Apparently, the guy's family did not deem her fair enough to be considered a credible beauty. Oh, did I mention that said couple is planning on tying the knot. So, the solution they agreed upon is that the girl will seek skin whitening treatments ranging from home-made remedies, salon varieties, and ultimately skin brightening laser treatment.
Turn on the telly and you are inundated with advertisements displaying females cinching the perfect job, scoring the highest marks, securing handsome men through the supremacy of whitening creams. On every level of the social stratum, women are promptly encouraged and goaded to brighten their complexions, thereby, enhancing their chances of better and dare I say it, happier lives.
When does females, of all hues, take a stand and say collectively, enough is enough?
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Aarong Is The New Hot Spot for Blind Dates
I've heard from several people, and people who are quite close to me, insisting that Aarong has become the new hot spot for prospective couples/families to meet and greet and check out. Wow! Imagine that? If finding the right prospective partner isn't hard enough, now you have to subject yourself to be viewed, appraised, accepted and or rejected in a public sphere.
It's bad enough if you are supposed to be meeting a guy/girl at such an awkward open space, but what happens to your self-esteem when you have to encounter and endure a prospective partner's entire family gawking at you from a distance? Do you meander around the bags and shoes racks feigning interest? Or will bags and shoes make you seem materialistic? Or is the cookery section far fitting, suggestive of domesticity?
How do you dress for such an occasion? Going to Aarong, couldn't be, and really shouldn't be the highlight of anyone's day; but when you are engaging in a preview of yourself to your inlaws, shouldn't you be dressed to the nines?
Let's proceed and say you are already at Aarong and you surreptiously spy a prospective family checking you out. What happens now? Do they approach you, do you smile demurely at them, do you talk at all? How are you supposed to emphasize your beaming personality and glorifying IQ? Do you deftly display your stunning abilities to manuever you way through the throng of people, picking out all your items, grabbing the salespeople's attentions when needed, discovering and reaping hidden discounts, bypassing the mad dash to the checkout line, and completing all of these stellar feats just under five minutes?
Honestly, how much of you can a prospective family derive from a meeting under such superficial circumstances?
Here is an honest account of a meeting between two prospective inlaws and a prospective bride taking place at her work environ (i.e. bank). Under the ruse of the two aunties opening up "new accounts" at her bank, the women chatted up the young lady, digging out all necessary information and impression based on her physique, her mannerism, her accent, her words etc. The young lady, dressed to the nines (I have been repeatedly assured), wittingly knowning beforehand that she would be placed in such a predicament, answered and charmed the two aunties thoroughly. Thus, when time came to depart, both parties concluded with positive results. And I should add that that young girl is currently shortlisted to be shown to the lucky bachelor as soon as he arrives in town.
Maybe banks should be labeled as the new hot spots for blind dates being far ideal, effective, and offering quieter ambiences than markets.
It's bad enough if you are supposed to be meeting a guy/girl at such an awkward open space, but what happens to your self-esteem when you have to encounter and endure a prospective partner's entire family gawking at you from a distance? Do you meander around the bags and shoes racks feigning interest? Or will bags and shoes make you seem materialistic? Or is the cookery section far fitting, suggestive of domesticity?
How do you dress for such an occasion? Going to Aarong, couldn't be, and really shouldn't be the highlight of anyone's day; but when you are engaging in a preview of yourself to your inlaws, shouldn't you be dressed to the nines?
Let's proceed and say you are already at Aarong and you surreptiously spy a prospective family checking you out. What happens now? Do they approach you, do you smile demurely at them, do you talk at all? How are you supposed to emphasize your beaming personality and glorifying IQ? Do you deftly display your stunning abilities to manuever you way through the throng of people, picking out all your items, grabbing the salespeople's attentions when needed, discovering and reaping hidden discounts, bypassing the mad dash to the checkout line, and completing all of these stellar feats just under five minutes?
Honestly, how much of you can a prospective family derive from a meeting under such superficial circumstances?
Here is an honest account of a meeting between two prospective inlaws and a prospective bride taking place at her work environ (i.e. bank). Under the ruse of the two aunties opening up "new accounts" at her bank, the women chatted up the young lady, digging out all necessary information and impression based on her physique, her mannerism, her accent, her words etc. The young lady, dressed to the nines (I have been repeatedly assured), wittingly knowning beforehand that she would be placed in such a predicament, answered and charmed the two aunties thoroughly. Thus, when time came to depart, both parties concluded with positive results. And I should add that that young girl is currently shortlisted to be shown to the lucky bachelor as soon as he arrives in town.
Maybe banks should be labeled as the new hot spots for blind dates being far ideal, effective, and offering quieter ambiences than markets.
Discovering Me
What does it mean to be patriotic? Or to come to think of it to be a citizen? Sure, I can easily dredge up a verbose description of the above two labels but those descriptions won’t suffice to capture my sentiments. Spending a portion of my early years in a foreign land, I quickly accrued the skills of swift adaptability and assimilation into any and all foreign surroundings.As a child I did not understand the disparity between my dark skin tone and the sea of lighter hued children. I felt akin to my fellow peers and equally shared their adolescent pursuits.Years later when I stumbled upon a sole class picture from those years, I noticed myself as the lone brown child among a sea of international shades. Even though the picture exemplifies a miniature version of the United Nations with children representing all continents and even obscure African nations I could not help but feel back then that I truly did not represent any country at all. I cringe now at my childish disdain of belonging to another country, lest of a country that I barely recalled and looked down upon as primitive and irrelevant.Once returning to Dhaka and being surrounded by likeminded hues and peers, I again adapted to newer surroundings. However, the overwhelming disdain of the then-climate, conditions, and restrictions that shackled teenage life in Dhaka further propelled my need to escape the country that I was born into yet felt as far alienated as possible. Taking my O and A Levels and in fast pursuit of SATS and TOEFL became a crazy necessity in order to liberate myself from my surroundings. In short, I could not wait for the day when I would depart from Zia International Airport for a new foreign land, where I would not be as foreign as I was in my own birth land. The day could not have come sooner and as the plane glided off the runway I whispered to myself there would be no need for me to ever look back or desire to return to a land that I never belonged.It took a completely foreign land and foreign people to make me discover my own identity. To say New York City is a convergence of myriad cultures and diversity is truly a weak and hollow underestimate.Those who have only lived in New York can understand how a city as diversified as her can at the same time make people feel united under one overwhelming umbrella yet strongly connected to their own respective roots. Once planted in a private liberal arts university at the center of New York metropolis surrounded by people not only from different ethnic backgrounds but disparate socio-economic upbringings, I began to understand the complexities of my skin tone. It was in New York that I felt different and unique both by my skin hue and by my cultural milieu.Walking down any street of New York, whether the Broadway of Jackson Heights or the loftier Broadway of Soho, I became ever conscious of my skin hue and the responses it would trigger in other people. Are you Indian, Puerto Rican, Dominican, Brazilian, Haitian became the mandated questions I would encounter when meeting any one new for the first time. At first the question amused me – do I really look anything different than Bangladeshi? Sure, maybe Indian but the rest must surely be far fetched. But time after time which quickly became year after year when the question still remained constant, I grew irked by people not being able to identify me as Bangladeshi? And the more they could not the more I yearned to be identified as such. What was it in me then that compelled such strong identification to a country and culture that I once was readily alienated from and easily exasperated by? The more I socialized with different people the more I became conscious of my own rich and varied heritage and ethnicity. The more I encountered new cultures through new friendships and newer interests the more I discovered and embraced my own culture.The more years I spent living, studying, and growing up in New York, the more conscious I was of my own formative years in Bangladesh and beyond. I learned to objectively look at my teenage years in Dhaka. I began to question my own previous feelings of alienation – could it possibly have resulted from teenage angst I began to truly (re)discover and appreciate my culture and my country while residing in a foreign land.. Every minute details of living in Dhaka that I once took for granted and disregarded made me wince to recall how precious and pivotal they were in nurturing my identity. I realized I evolved into the person I am today because of the experiences that I encountered, shared, and learned while growing up in Dhaka. Experiences that not only shaped my persona but also bestowed my cultural identity. Experiences that evolved into lessons that I still abide by during my present adult years. Experiences that demarcated me yet allowed me to contribute a singular and innovative approach and outlook to the discussion when called upon. Experiences that undoubtedly made me as unique an individual unlike any other. So what is it that truly makes someone patriotic? Is it a willingness to die for their country, or contribute to the future evolvement and safety of the country, or to simply be a representative of their country? In my case, I have found my answer. I have discovered and fallen in love with my country that I have long been uncertain and confused by. I have learned to identify and appreciate the richness of my culture as well as to educate and preserve its history. I have even learned to accept the shortcomings and limitations of my country and am subsequently emboldened to contribute in diminishing those restrictions. My country may not be as perfect as it should be yet but at the end it is the only one I have known and truly now feel I belong.
Courtship
She looked frozen. Trapped in a rectangular box, confined within a mundane setting, caught in a limbo. Her smile looked phony. Decidedly fake and implied that it was only put on to convey comfort and familiarity with the setting. Her shoulders stood tall and rigid and broad and strong. Possibly, she was a swimmer, a regular and natural swimmer. A tinge of masculinity was infused in her posture. Her arms were crossed rigidly across her chest in a brazen challenge to the looker. Her round face was adorned with too much make up. It cast a grayish tint to her skin. The glaring red lipstick was smeared around the edges indicating hastiness, and it painfully clashed with her rosy pink eyes. The cheeks were bathed in too much color, and a thin layer of shiny powder film peeped out bravely. Her smile looked strained and defiantly fake. Her eyes caught my attention though. Small slanted eyes peeked out from bushy eyebrows daring to be judged and dismissed. Her eyes refused to be trapped. They refused to obey.
My mother drew my attention to the fact that I had been staring at her photograph for an uncomfortably long time. “Toss her aside,” she commanded, already expecting the inevitable refusal,” she’s dark and mannish.” She stretched out her hand to take the photograph. “What a shame, though,” she began, “she had such high qualifications.”
My mother’s criteria for high qualifications involve an illustrious lineage, preferably going back to two generations, a foreign education, added bonus if completed in an English university in business or economics, and finally dainty fair features. Bearing in mind, the daintiness and fairness take center stage above the rest.
I let out a deep sigh and leaned back into the chair. The aroma of frying samosas and dal puris drifted from the kitchen. Afternoon tea was quite the event in my family. Strictly for members only, if outsiders had to be included they could not under any circumstances show up empty-handed. Otherwise Nana would not think twice about hurling a verbal avalanche of ill-breeding and immoral manners. Inevitably, the rare occasions when guests partook in this afternoon tradition, boxes of deliciously nauseating mishtis were the delicacies du jour.
However, on this particular afternoon, all the elder men of the family were conspicuously absent except for me. It was a badly contrived opportunity for the women of the family to induce me to skim through the bevy of fair and dainty prospects they had picked for me. I settled into the chair, stretching my legs under the table. It was going to be a long tea for sure. My right leg still bothered me. I used to feel nervous twitches that ricocheted upwards to the thigh. An old high-school football injury that never fully disappeared.
“Akaash, you’re not a young man any more. You need to make a choice eventually,” drawled Amma, in fluent English while arranging the table for the pending food.
“Neither am I old and decrepit,” I answered.
“All your friends have married. And look even a few of them are having kids already,” continued Amma, “While you are running across the globe like an untamed horse.”
”I’d rather wait than rush into anything. Anyhow meeting them won’t guarantee a sure deal, ma.” I wimply offered my sole rationale, “and how can I possibly know which one is the right one?”
“Uff! Wait… a new defense for a lazy generation! During my time we had no luxury. And it’s a ridiculous luxury, if you ask me. Your father came to see me one week and by the second week I was already settling into my in-laws house. We did not wait. We did not date. It was fated. And look at us now, we’ve been married for almost 40 years!
Several more pictures of girls laid on the table. Some of them were attached to resumes. Not resumes indicating work experiences, mind you, but rather their familial background and connections.
“All the good ones are taken at a young age. Only the defective ones stay behind,” muttered Amma, grimacing at the pile, “imagine being unmarried at 25. What a shame that would bring to the family.”
“And we most definitely don’t want to be stuck with the defective ones” I said, my sarcasm lost to her ears.
I sifted though the pile randomly scanning the pictures. So many girls are still wiling to market themselves through this channel. What happens to them when they don’t get picked? Do they continue on their quest making the rounds every time news of a fresh bachelor reaches them? How many years will they continue? Who ends up picking them? Do they have a choice to choose and dismiss suitors they don’t like similar to the way they are cast aside?
She caught between my fingers, her dark eyes peeped out between the crevices. Her strained smile and unfeminine posture challenged me. Daring me.
“If one is good looking than she has nothing to offer. If another is okay looking, she has not enough to offer, “ echoed Ammu’s words.
She was standing next to a grandfather clock. Possibly a family heirloom? She was most definitely bigger than the clock. The pose seemed staged now, as if she and the photographer had endlessly discussed which locations would most enhance her chances. The more I looked I noticed besides the grandfather clock the picture was devoid of any other objects indicating its setting. For all I could discern the setting could have been hastily staged at a studio in order to convey a homely ambience. And her smile now did not seem strained anymore. Nor phony. But almost mocking. Mocking me.
“Your Dipti khala is of no help. She talks nonsense about all these beautiful girls she has found for you and then she sends over this lot!” grumbled Amma.
Her eyes were twinkling now. Merry amusement blatantly shone right through. She was deliberately undermining herself to be dismissed! It would explain why her arms were locked in such a defensive pose. Which girl with a mind to seduce suitors would pose in such a manner? Only one who wanted to repel all suitors. I almost laughed out loud at her bravado and ingenuity. What spirit!
“Just wait till she comes, I’ll give her an earful. I’ll throw the photos on her face!”
This girl certainly had guts. Undoubtedly, this was her only way to not acquiesce to an undesired circumstance. Undoubtedly, a character worth meeting. Am I the only one to see through her farce? I could not wait to hear her reasons behind this absurd façade.
“What about this one?”
“Which one? WHICH ONE? Did you like someone?” questioned Amma, excitement surging through her.
“This one in my hand,” I held up her picture.
“Oh, that one.” Her voice was suddenly subdued. “You like her? Isn’t she un-girly? Look at her shoulders, she seems broader than you. No, no, there’s a better one for you, Akaash, I was just admiring her a moment ago.”
“No, ammu, I want to meet this one,” I quietly stated.
My mother looked stricken temporarily, but she recovered quickly enough. “I think she is too old. 28 or 29. Maybe older. You know how they lie about their ages here. You need someone younger. 25 at least.”
“No, this one looks just right. Anyway, being 35 requires choosing someone closer to my age rather than a decade younger. Moreover, in my situation I should not be one to demand a lot”
“Akaash,” began Amma, “ What situation are you taking about? Girls should be glad to have someone like you choose them. Don’t be quick to dismiss yourself. See some more pictures. Your khalas are bringing more.”
“But amma….didn’t…”
“Beta, don’t rush! You said you wanted to take it slow. Same logic applies here. See more pictures and then decide.”
My mother swiftly grabbed the picture from my hand. Before I could protest, my khalas entered the room and she began to make a huge scene greeting them. Ruefully, I accepted a losing battle. I knew when I was dismissed. But it wasn’t my mother who had dismissed me. It was this unknown woman in the picture. This woman had answered my question. Few of them do have the choice to reject as well. All they have to do is look unappealing to the mothers of the prospective grooms. Once the mothers are repelled, they are emancipated from unwarranted suitors. I would have enjoyed meeting her. Even for just coffee. What must she make of all of this? I pulled my legs closer to my body. Waveringly I pulled myself up with the crane to greet my khalas. My right leg hung limply as I hugged them. An old high school injury that never fully healed.
It wasn’t enough that I was here waiting for him. I could not think of any excuse suitable enough to break it off. Lying was never my shinning talents. I always found it perplexing to keep tabs on the numerous lies that sprout to validate the original sin. The skies had darkened considerably since I arrived at the café. The small café perched above the street gave an unwelcome view of the front road clogged with stilted traffic. It smelled of rain on asphalt – a salty and pungent stench that enveloped the grime of the city. Someone’s watch beeped the hour mark. It just turned six. He was running late. I had waited almost fifteen minutes for him. I hated the fact that when people in this city say they’ll be there at 6, it generally means they’ll leave their house for the destination around 6. Why is it so hard for Bangladeshis to be punctual?
A small white Toyota rolled to a stop in front of the café. My pulse leaped and sweat balloons erupted underneath my arms. A Man emerged out of the car and strolled into the adjacent library. Is that him? I don’t usually do this. Allow myself to be set up on a blind date, albeit a blind date with the expected potential to evolve into something serious and committed. I did have a choice to say no. But I opted to exercise a tentative eagerness and boldness in agreeing to meet the stranger. A potential stranger might I add. The Man made his way upstairs where the small café was located. I looked up at him expectantly; however, he shied away from my glance and headed into one of the back rooms. So, it isn’t him after all.
Should have at least seen his picture. Who sets themselves for a blind date in Dhaka of all places. Must be crazy. Asking for trouble.
When you are of a certain age in Dhaka, you fall prey of your family’s concerns about your aging single status. When you are at a certain age in Dhaka, you fall victim of your family’s abjection of your divorcee status.
Another car rolls up. This time one of those sleek Mercedes that are glimpsed frequently on sunken roads and streets. A young couple emerges heading towards the nearby ice creamery hand in hand.
I sighed. So much for strained nerves. Relax; he’ll come, he phoned didn’t he?
As a woman of an aging age, I am expected to accept subserviently to opinions and feedback of my disastrous first marriage and my bleak future. As a woman with an independent and secured income, I have the prerogative to not pay heed to other people. But cultural traits are inherently installed, and I find myself oscillating from projecting unaffected nonchalance to deep empathy at my misfortunes.
But age and marriage or lackof or far worse the termination of one can lead to severe complications in the prototype of an ideal Bengali woman. What should a woman of an age far advanced when she is considered eligible, with one messed up marriage under her belt, do to convey her desirability? How can she portray naiveté and docility while harnessing her sexual past? Sex is always an integral part of a female’s eligibility. Is she or isn’t she? How many did she have? Who is she with right now?
The older you get the far less complicated you attempt to make you life, the more complicated life makes of you.
So now I’m on a blind date, waiting for a stranger who hopefully shows up in the next fifteen minutes or I’ll be out of the door. I should have left 20 minutes ago. Should have said I had an urgent engagement and could not wait longer. But I stayed back and now that lie doesn’t seem plausible anymore. I can hear him question why did I wait for so long already if I had a pressing meeting? Do I come off as desperate?
Is that him? Gorgeous…sweating again.
The man sat at a corner table near to the exit. He brought along a book, Coetzee, I managed to glimpse, which he unconsciously proceeded to read. The waiter hovered around till the man quietly muttered his order. I stared trying not to stare hoping to catch his eye.
Sole woman in the café. Should know it’s me. Should smile at him. Catch his eye. Should I? Smile at him. Stop staring. See you stare.
My body answering a primal call began a string of actions. I found myself unconsciously twirling locks of hair, lips slightly pouting, and my back arched prominently thrusting beckoning breasts.
He stared!
Look away! Look outside! I glanced at the traffic, pretended absentmindedly to check my watch. Should convince him that I am waiting for him. Is he the Man?
I sensed his eyes looking over me. Appreciatively? My body warmed to his reprisal. I dared not look at him now. Would sever this deliberate unconscious flirtation. My cheeks were flushing, heat escaping through my pores. I desperately needed a drink.
I spied another glance at him while ordering. Crisp white shirt worn underneath an aging jacket. The jacket had plaid elbow patches like the ones I often saw my father wore. A pair of glasses perched on his nose, professorial like. Definitely reading glasses. Graying hair peppered with white streaks. Bushy grey eyebrows framed light eyes that were staring back at my scrutinizing face.
Look away!
I reddened. Warmth effused my cheeks. I felt temporarily caught with my pants down. I hurriedly sifted through my bag looking for my mobile. No calls. Should I text him? Is that him?
He got up and I hesitated before looking to see if he was walking towards me. What courage it must take him to approach! Unexpectantly, he headed towards the back rooms and disappeared. My face fell and exhaustion at my silliness swept in. Must leave now.
As coincidences are apt to occur, just then my mobile beeped. I checked to see a message from the tardy stranger trumpeting his imminent arrival. Worth it? Kept me waiting close to an hour. I did wait though. Didn’t have to. Just did.
The enticing stranger had re-entered the room while I questioned my resolve. He reclaimed his seat but instead of resuming his place in the book was now lecherously smiling at me. Again, warm embarrassment pulsed through me. I looked at him in defiance, but his staring crippled my resolve.
It’s challenging at times to be a woman in this city. Chauvinism seeps through the social stratum like an intoxicating elixir. Incidences, trivial as this, ascertain and evoke the familiar uncertainties of settling here as a single woman. The sensation of worthlessness never truly effaces.
I ready to leave. The man continues to leer, but I refuse to acknowledge anymore.
He smiles as I cross his table. In my attempt to hurry away, I nearly collide with a Man slowly limping up the stairs heavily supported by his crane. His crane makes a loud clacking noise that draws me away from my mortification. I looked at him. He looked at me and smiled. A kind-knowing smile.
“You must be Ridi! I’m Akaash. I apologize for the tardiness. Quite uncharacteristic I assure you! Traffic congestion, you know how it is here. Are you about to leave? Please stay for a bit. Or we can go elsewhere if you prefer,” tumbled forth from this beautiful stranger.
My mother drew my attention to the fact that I had been staring at her photograph for an uncomfortably long time. “Toss her aside,” she commanded, already expecting the inevitable refusal,” she’s dark and mannish.” She stretched out her hand to take the photograph. “What a shame, though,” she began, “she had such high qualifications.”
My mother’s criteria for high qualifications involve an illustrious lineage, preferably going back to two generations, a foreign education, added bonus if completed in an English university in business or economics, and finally dainty fair features. Bearing in mind, the daintiness and fairness take center stage above the rest.
I let out a deep sigh and leaned back into the chair. The aroma of frying samosas and dal puris drifted from the kitchen. Afternoon tea was quite the event in my family. Strictly for members only, if outsiders had to be included they could not under any circumstances show up empty-handed. Otherwise Nana would not think twice about hurling a verbal avalanche of ill-breeding and immoral manners. Inevitably, the rare occasions when guests partook in this afternoon tradition, boxes of deliciously nauseating mishtis were the delicacies du jour.
However, on this particular afternoon, all the elder men of the family were conspicuously absent except for me. It was a badly contrived opportunity for the women of the family to induce me to skim through the bevy of fair and dainty prospects they had picked for me. I settled into the chair, stretching my legs under the table. It was going to be a long tea for sure. My right leg still bothered me. I used to feel nervous twitches that ricocheted upwards to the thigh. An old high-school football injury that never fully disappeared.
“Akaash, you’re not a young man any more. You need to make a choice eventually,” drawled Amma, in fluent English while arranging the table for the pending food.
“Neither am I old and decrepit,” I answered.
“All your friends have married. And look even a few of them are having kids already,” continued Amma, “While you are running across the globe like an untamed horse.”
”I’d rather wait than rush into anything. Anyhow meeting them won’t guarantee a sure deal, ma.” I wimply offered my sole rationale, “and how can I possibly know which one is the right one?”
“Uff! Wait… a new defense for a lazy generation! During my time we had no luxury. And it’s a ridiculous luxury, if you ask me. Your father came to see me one week and by the second week I was already settling into my in-laws house. We did not wait. We did not date. It was fated. And look at us now, we’ve been married for almost 40 years!
Several more pictures of girls laid on the table. Some of them were attached to resumes. Not resumes indicating work experiences, mind you, but rather their familial background and connections.
“All the good ones are taken at a young age. Only the defective ones stay behind,” muttered Amma, grimacing at the pile, “imagine being unmarried at 25. What a shame that would bring to the family.”
“And we most definitely don’t want to be stuck with the defective ones” I said, my sarcasm lost to her ears.
I sifted though the pile randomly scanning the pictures. So many girls are still wiling to market themselves through this channel. What happens to them when they don’t get picked? Do they continue on their quest making the rounds every time news of a fresh bachelor reaches them? How many years will they continue? Who ends up picking them? Do they have a choice to choose and dismiss suitors they don’t like similar to the way they are cast aside?
She caught between my fingers, her dark eyes peeped out between the crevices. Her strained smile and unfeminine posture challenged me. Daring me.
“If one is good looking than she has nothing to offer. If another is okay looking, she has not enough to offer, “ echoed Ammu’s words.
She was standing next to a grandfather clock. Possibly a family heirloom? She was most definitely bigger than the clock. The pose seemed staged now, as if she and the photographer had endlessly discussed which locations would most enhance her chances. The more I looked I noticed besides the grandfather clock the picture was devoid of any other objects indicating its setting. For all I could discern the setting could have been hastily staged at a studio in order to convey a homely ambience. And her smile now did not seem strained anymore. Nor phony. But almost mocking. Mocking me.
“Your Dipti khala is of no help. She talks nonsense about all these beautiful girls she has found for you and then she sends over this lot!” grumbled Amma.
Her eyes were twinkling now. Merry amusement blatantly shone right through. She was deliberately undermining herself to be dismissed! It would explain why her arms were locked in such a defensive pose. Which girl with a mind to seduce suitors would pose in such a manner? Only one who wanted to repel all suitors. I almost laughed out loud at her bravado and ingenuity. What spirit!
“Just wait till she comes, I’ll give her an earful. I’ll throw the photos on her face!”
This girl certainly had guts. Undoubtedly, this was her only way to not acquiesce to an undesired circumstance. Undoubtedly, a character worth meeting. Am I the only one to see through her farce? I could not wait to hear her reasons behind this absurd façade.
“What about this one?”
“Which one? WHICH ONE? Did you like someone?” questioned Amma, excitement surging through her.
“This one in my hand,” I held up her picture.
“Oh, that one.” Her voice was suddenly subdued. “You like her? Isn’t she un-girly? Look at her shoulders, she seems broader than you. No, no, there’s a better one for you, Akaash, I was just admiring her a moment ago.”
“No, ammu, I want to meet this one,” I quietly stated.
My mother looked stricken temporarily, but she recovered quickly enough. “I think she is too old. 28 or 29. Maybe older. You know how they lie about their ages here. You need someone younger. 25 at least.”
“No, this one looks just right. Anyway, being 35 requires choosing someone closer to my age rather than a decade younger. Moreover, in my situation I should not be one to demand a lot”
“Akaash,” began Amma, “ What situation are you taking about? Girls should be glad to have someone like you choose them. Don’t be quick to dismiss yourself. See some more pictures. Your khalas are bringing more.”
“But amma….didn’t…”
“Beta, don’t rush! You said you wanted to take it slow. Same logic applies here. See more pictures and then decide.”
My mother swiftly grabbed the picture from my hand. Before I could protest, my khalas entered the room and she began to make a huge scene greeting them. Ruefully, I accepted a losing battle. I knew when I was dismissed. But it wasn’t my mother who had dismissed me. It was this unknown woman in the picture. This woman had answered my question. Few of them do have the choice to reject as well. All they have to do is look unappealing to the mothers of the prospective grooms. Once the mothers are repelled, they are emancipated from unwarranted suitors. I would have enjoyed meeting her. Even for just coffee. What must she make of all of this? I pulled my legs closer to my body. Waveringly I pulled myself up with the crane to greet my khalas. My right leg hung limply as I hugged them. An old high school injury that never fully healed.
It wasn’t enough that I was here waiting for him. I could not think of any excuse suitable enough to break it off. Lying was never my shinning talents. I always found it perplexing to keep tabs on the numerous lies that sprout to validate the original sin. The skies had darkened considerably since I arrived at the café. The small café perched above the street gave an unwelcome view of the front road clogged with stilted traffic. It smelled of rain on asphalt – a salty and pungent stench that enveloped the grime of the city. Someone’s watch beeped the hour mark. It just turned six. He was running late. I had waited almost fifteen minutes for him. I hated the fact that when people in this city say they’ll be there at 6, it generally means they’ll leave their house for the destination around 6. Why is it so hard for Bangladeshis to be punctual?
A small white Toyota rolled to a stop in front of the café. My pulse leaped and sweat balloons erupted underneath my arms. A Man emerged out of the car and strolled into the adjacent library. Is that him? I don’t usually do this. Allow myself to be set up on a blind date, albeit a blind date with the expected potential to evolve into something serious and committed. I did have a choice to say no. But I opted to exercise a tentative eagerness and boldness in agreeing to meet the stranger. A potential stranger might I add. The Man made his way upstairs where the small café was located. I looked up at him expectantly; however, he shied away from my glance and headed into one of the back rooms. So, it isn’t him after all.
Should have at least seen his picture. Who sets themselves for a blind date in Dhaka of all places. Must be crazy. Asking for trouble.
When you are of a certain age in Dhaka, you fall prey of your family’s concerns about your aging single status. When you are at a certain age in Dhaka, you fall victim of your family’s abjection of your divorcee status.
Another car rolls up. This time one of those sleek Mercedes that are glimpsed frequently on sunken roads and streets. A young couple emerges heading towards the nearby ice creamery hand in hand.
I sighed. So much for strained nerves. Relax; he’ll come, he phoned didn’t he?
As a woman of an aging age, I am expected to accept subserviently to opinions and feedback of my disastrous first marriage and my bleak future. As a woman with an independent and secured income, I have the prerogative to not pay heed to other people. But cultural traits are inherently installed, and I find myself oscillating from projecting unaffected nonchalance to deep empathy at my misfortunes.
But age and marriage or lackof or far worse the termination of one can lead to severe complications in the prototype of an ideal Bengali woman. What should a woman of an age far advanced when she is considered eligible, with one messed up marriage under her belt, do to convey her desirability? How can she portray naiveté and docility while harnessing her sexual past? Sex is always an integral part of a female’s eligibility. Is she or isn’t she? How many did she have? Who is she with right now?
The older you get the far less complicated you attempt to make you life, the more complicated life makes of you.
So now I’m on a blind date, waiting for a stranger who hopefully shows up in the next fifteen minutes or I’ll be out of the door. I should have left 20 minutes ago. Should have said I had an urgent engagement and could not wait longer. But I stayed back and now that lie doesn’t seem plausible anymore. I can hear him question why did I wait for so long already if I had a pressing meeting? Do I come off as desperate?
Is that him? Gorgeous…sweating again.
The man sat at a corner table near to the exit. He brought along a book, Coetzee, I managed to glimpse, which he unconsciously proceeded to read. The waiter hovered around till the man quietly muttered his order. I stared trying not to stare hoping to catch his eye.
Sole woman in the café. Should know it’s me. Should smile at him. Catch his eye. Should I? Smile at him. Stop staring. See you stare.
My body answering a primal call began a string of actions. I found myself unconsciously twirling locks of hair, lips slightly pouting, and my back arched prominently thrusting beckoning breasts.
He stared!
Look away! Look outside! I glanced at the traffic, pretended absentmindedly to check my watch. Should convince him that I am waiting for him. Is he the Man?
I sensed his eyes looking over me. Appreciatively? My body warmed to his reprisal. I dared not look at him now. Would sever this deliberate unconscious flirtation. My cheeks were flushing, heat escaping through my pores. I desperately needed a drink.
I spied another glance at him while ordering. Crisp white shirt worn underneath an aging jacket. The jacket had plaid elbow patches like the ones I often saw my father wore. A pair of glasses perched on his nose, professorial like. Definitely reading glasses. Graying hair peppered with white streaks. Bushy grey eyebrows framed light eyes that were staring back at my scrutinizing face.
Look away!
I reddened. Warmth effused my cheeks. I felt temporarily caught with my pants down. I hurriedly sifted through my bag looking for my mobile. No calls. Should I text him? Is that him?
He got up and I hesitated before looking to see if he was walking towards me. What courage it must take him to approach! Unexpectantly, he headed towards the back rooms and disappeared. My face fell and exhaustion at my silliness swept in. Must leave now.
As coincidences are apt to occur, just then my mobile beeped. I checked to see a message from the tardy stranger trumpeting his imminent arrival. Worth it? Kept me waiting close to an hour. I did wait though. Didn’t have to. Just did.
The enticing stranger had re-entered the room while I questioned my resolve. He reclaimed his seat but instead of resuming his place in the book was now lecherously smiling at me. Again, warm embarrassment pulsed through me. I looked at him in defiance, but his staring crippled my resolve.
It’s challenging at times to be a woman in this city. Chauvinism seeps through the social stratum like an intoxicating elixir. Incidences, trivial as this, ascertain and evoke the familiar uncertainties of settling here as a single woman. The sensation of worthlessness never truly effaces.
I ready to leave. The man continues to leer, but I refuse to acknowledge anymore.
He smiles as I cross his table. In my attempt to hurry away, I nearly collide with a Man slowly limping up the stairs heavily supported by his crane. His crane makes a loud clacking noise that draws me away from my mortification. I looked at him. He looked at me and smiled. A kind-knowing smile.
“You must be Ridi! I’m Akaash. I apologize for the tardiness. Quite uncharacteristic I assure you! Traffic congestion, you know how it is here. Are you about to leave? Please stay for a bit. Or we can go elsewhere if you prefer,” tumbled forth from this beautiful stranger.
To Marry or Not?
Women are akin to cattle. Bear with me, whereas cattle are highly coveted due to their promising abilities of milk production and reproduction, meaty constitutions; women are desired for their fair complexions, promising signs of sturdy procreation, and familial connections. These aspects create eligible women, and marriages define women. Does that make sense? Marriage identifies women through their marital status. Social norm dictates women are born to marry. Unmarried women are anomalies and desecrations to the social customs.Marriages should serve as the peak of a woman’s life. Let me depict my friend’s predicament. Her professional career is skyrocketing, where she is making colossal creative strides and has the prominent multi-national firms positively in a frenzy trying to recruit her. However, all is not well in her domestic front. Said female friend has just stepped into her late twenties and is still single/unmarried. Shocking! Her family, instead of basking in the glories of her professional progress, is deeply distraught by her single-ness. Whereas her female siblings were rapidly married of in their early twenties and are now ensconced in domestic bliss with burgeoning children, my friend is still single at 26 and has a career! She isn’t solely focusing on her career, she really does make an effort to meet all the men introduced by her relatives, but no one seems to interest her yet. Hence, she has ample time to direct all her energies into her career. I must admit at the face of the escalating tensions perpetuated by her parents’ and extended family’s worry over her unmarried status, my friend is displaying a staunch detachment and acceptance of her fate. She knows her parents would rather see her married off now than further progress up the career ladder. She has no choice in the matter. Marriage is the zenith of her existence.My friend’s dilemma brings me to my point – women are defined by these two simple questions: “Are you married? Are you looking to get married?” An unmarried woman is depicted emotionally and psychologically inferior to her married sisters. As an unmarried female in her twenties, how many times have you been asked the above two questions? How many times have you been coerced, persuaded, and in few instances, bullied into blind dates to snag a prospective husband? It is inconceivable to be a Bangladeshi woman in her twenties and happily single. People assume single/unmarried women cannot be genuinely content with themselves because happiness can only be attained through marriage. Therein lies the crux of marriage – marriage endows happiness. I am frequently bombarded by the two dreaded questions. Negative responses are quickly pacified by pitying looks, reassuring squeezes and pats, and a whispered admonition“don’t wait too long, it’s not good.” It’s not good for whom? Me? What are the plausible pitfalls attached to ‘waiting too long’? Shall I magically transform into a gigantic pumpkin, with my face contorting into ogre-esque proportions? And who decides how long is too long? In instances where I am expected to justify my unmarried status, the possible ramifications of my decision are clarified. Eligible males usually prefers maidens in their early twenties, procreation can be difficult during the thirties, my selfish individualism will hinder attempts to compromise and adapt to a husband’s needs. Ironically, my own needs and wants are discarded. I am a trooper dutifully trained to marry and breed. In times where divorces are in vogue, extra-marital affairs are solutions to ill-fated unions, who dare plunges into the sea of matrimony? Would it not be feasible to prolong my single-ness till I’ve met my match? Alas, they say I romanticize the concept of marriage. Sorry, I forget, I am supposed to marry and breed. It is a pragmatic merger. So I have determined the next time I am asked the above questions, I will glibly question my inquirer if he/she can give me three beneficial factors acquired by marriage. However those benefits must exclude the following assertions – so that my parents can see their only daughter married, so that my parents can have grandchildren to nurture, so that the inquirer can partake in the wedding festivities, and my happiness depends on it. I can honestly say the inquirer will be hard pressed to come up with a concrete rationale. Sure there are many females who gladly delve into matrimony for myriad reasons ranging from love to emancipation, but in general, can they all honestly decree marriages led to their happiness? I have been given a privilege that my friend never received. I can choose to wait to get married, whereas she doesn’t have that basic prerogative. Shouldn’t I be doing her a favor and myself by exercising that right?
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