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.