by Raj Dhaliwal
The Love Lottery
a comic tale of lessons in life, love,
dating and the odd samosa party
Raj Dhaliwal
Contents
Title Page
Wannabe Girl Whisperer
Background
The Indian Connection
Function Introductions
Samosa Parties
Leap Into the Unknown
Let’s Go Shopping!
The Profile
Profile for a Friend
What a World
The Telephone Interview
Types of Dates
What Days and Who Pays?
Speed Dating Time!
Two-Faced or Multidimensional?
The Hank Moody Approach
When it All Goes Pete Tong!
Evolution or Revolution?
Lessons Learnt
Copyright
Wannabe Girl Whisperer
‘To figure out women is the equivalent of solving a Rubiks cube, blindfolded whilst suspended upside down!’
Quote formulated whilst drunk (a state when we are at our most informative and creative) on a night out in a Gentleman’s club with close friend and colleague David Jones. RIP buddy.
Background
I am not a writer. Never have been. After having written this I don’t think I could be, or would want to be, or more importantly asked to be. I am a humble accountant at a British-based automotive manufacturer of luxury vehicles.
There will be more caveats in this than in a legal document!
This is a light-hearted and hopefully humorous look at my dating exploits of past and sometimes present. It is in no way a guide on ‘how to’ or what you should or should not do, but merely a chance for me to share my experiences and hopefully some may mock, laugh or share some of those delightful experiences too.
I am not a pick-up artist or player in any way, shape or form. I wish I was, as my love life would have been a lot more colourful. More so than two shades of grey, let alone 50 shades of grey. I suppose I am one of many people out there who try and do anything and everything to find the other half, the missing piece of the puzzle, call it what you will. Yes, you’ve guessed it, I am desperate! I jest of course but I have come across many that are and I am desperate to not become one of them.
Dating in my teens to my mid-twenties was pretty easy and straightforward. Being married at 27 for seven years and then divorcing suddenly put me into a state of shock in terms of how the dating game had changed and moved on in such a short space of time. The same has been noted by the many I have spoken to about this. Was it evolution or a revolution? Depends on whom you ask.
Fortunately, I have tried to keep up with the evolution of dating over the last seven years and its various formats, and successfully avoided platforms such as Tinder etc., but am thankful I was only married for seven and not fourteen years. I would have been screwed otherwise and would have had to take a vow of celibacy and not out of choice!
Everyone I know is either married or in a long-term serious relationship and thus obtaining any form of advice is useless as they will be out of touch if they broke up also.
I, like many, have been bored of the same old lines such as:
“I promise you, there is someone out there for you” – where? Outer Mongolia?
“Be yourself, they will like/love you for who you are” – really!? Nope, I am gonna lie my backside off to add an air of mystique and cover the bullshit. Come clean eventually if it looks like it may be going somewhere. I don’t recommend this plan though.
“Be patient, you can’t rush these things” – any longer and the equipment will gather cobwebs and stop working! They say patience is a virtue, therefore I must be the most virtuous man I know.
The good news is that it is easier meeting people nowadays. However, it seems to be a minefield. Tread carefully, very carefully. What could have been an innocent comment or the norm back in the early 00s is now taken out of context or vice versa.
In order to write about and share my experiences, I had to take out some much needed (me) time. The dating and meeting purposefully for a potential partner had to go on the backburner. This was gladly done out of choice.
I suppose, only writing about it will allow me time to contemplate and reflect and plan going forwards, re-energise and motivate almost. That and also to highlight my own experiences and throw it out there and be judged. Well… it seemed like a good idea at the time.
The Indian Connection
What is the reason behind the name of the book? I was torn between two titles and had only decided upon the completion of it.
Well, to think it nearly could have been called Indian Accountant, That Makes Me a Catch Right? –that would have made the title come across as too long to remember and also me a tad narcissistic!
As for Wannabe Girl Whisperer, yes I am wishing and dreaming but I was inspired by a line from a show and it has stuck in my head ever since.
Traditionally the Indian (Sikh) culture have always believed in, and are keen advocates of, education, and the professions that portray being unique or even elite to an extent. Bean counter is indeed the personification of sexy, but elite? Hmmm maybe. I jest of course. Ben Affleck in The Accountant has raised the sex appeal of Finance Demi-Gods no end! Or so I like to think.
Lawyer, doctor or accountant (the top three) were the traditional ‘respectful’ professions a typical Indian (Sikh) parent would have wanted to have their child follow. As times moved on, engineers, architects amongst many others etc., were being acknowledged as being up there with the top three. As times moved on, yet again the spectrum of top professions in the eye of the Indian parent became broader. This was emphasised by the size of the house So and So lives in, and the how new their Mercedes Benz is compared to everyone else’s, or even how many BMWs they had parked in the drive.
Anyhow, my path was that of wanting to be an architect initially but falling into accountancy after having studied for an Accounting and Finance degree. Needless to say, mum n dad were chuffed!
Once having gained a degree and having started work, naturally the next step in the life plan was to find a ‘suitable’ partner and settle down and produce lots of mini-accountants! God help us!
Educated, working and single? Congratulations! You are now deemed ‘suitable’!
That means you are now eligible for entry in to the world of function introductions and Samosa Parties! Entrance is free and you will be scarred for a short while afterwards but hey, everyone has experienced it! Coming to a weekend that you wanted to use to do something else much more interesting!
Function Introductions
For the benefit of those who are not of an Indian/ Sikh background, I shall try and explain the function introduction as generically as possible.
When spring and summer seasons arrive and the sun is out for more than five minutes, Indians cannot resist clogging up the family calendar with functions every weekend. Any thoughts of a social life or planning a holiday have to be done with the greatest of planning. Almost down to an art any project manager/planner would be proud of.
There are the usual functions such as engagements, weddings, babies birthdays, 18th and 21st birthdays and for the tight-fisted bunch (they prefer to be called frugal), there are the religious functions where the family don’t have a party but a small gathering where we all just sit in the Gurdwara (Sikh Temple) and pray for forgiveness for our sins before committing a multitude of new ones upon departure. If we’re lucky, we may even get a slice of cake at the end of it all.
Basically, imagine having gone to a family function and whilst trying to consume butter chicken (at a party) or chilli paneer (at a Gurdwara as meat is forbidden on the premises), you
have a group of ladies or ‘Aunties’ (Matrimonial Intermediaries) watching you.
Trying not get freaked out but also trying not to make a mess, thoughts start running into your mind. “Did I not say hello?” or “Do they know mum and dad?” or even “WTF?! I am famished and trying to worship the needs of my stomach right now! Be gone and leave me be!”
Naturally, I just smile shyly and try to look angelic (bibba is the saying) whilst doing so.
Next thing you know, either one or both of your parents will approach you with an ‘Auntie’ (Intermediary) and ask you to look at a particular girl in the corner eating her food or standing there talking to family. Two things could be going through her mind when she notices a small group of strangers staring (squinting in my case as I am too vain to wear glasses when not in front of a laptop or tv) at her intently.
Optimistically, whilst trying to do my best pose and pout and showing my best side, I am hoping it’s “Oh! Why hello there handsome! pray tell, where have you been hiding?”
Realistically, and on most occasions a facial expression can convey a thousand words and it can be more like “WTF?! Oh man not again! Where are my parents?! These lot are freaking me out right now and I just want to go!”
I know this as I met my ex-wife at one of these Function Introductions and that was what she was thinking every time this would happen to her.
On the odd occasion when the lady has been forewarned by her parents that a ‘suitable’ guy is here at the function with his parents and they would like to meet her, it’s normally an awkward moment. Out of politeness she will agree to a quick chat and the fun starts.
Think of a covert operation but with Indian parents. Bless them. They try and come up with hand gestures and signals that an elite SAS/Navy Seal unit would be proud of in any undercover sting operation.
Rather than just say “Come over here” or “Let’s go over to that room or corridor where it’s quiet and you two can talk”, it becomes a Give Us a Clue session, minus Lionel Blair! Give Us a Clue is a British televised game show version of charades which was broadcast on ITV from 1979 to 1992. Lionel Blair was a tap-dancing team leader on the show from what I remember.
Anyhow, you end up standing there doing jerky half moves and not sure which way to go or whether to stay where you are. Thus ending up looking like one of the human robots you would see busking or performing on the Champs Elysee!
Why all the secrecy? Sikh Parents love to know all about everyone else and their business but don’t want all and sundry knowing theirs generally. Agreed it’s a sweeping generalisation but there are elements of it that are prevalent now and again.
The secrecy is to avoid any relatives or friends at the function asking questions later on about the fact their son or daughter was seen talking to another guy/girl when they are not related. “Why are they talking?”, “How do they know each other?”, “They don’t know each other?! Then why are they talking? Oh! Are you trying to get them married?”. Then before you know it, relatives will have assumed the person you are talking to is now somehow a fiancé! Blooming Indians!
Then after the lady and I manage to talk, I have become Jason Bourne and start using peripheral vision to observe both my family and hers looking across trying to decipher if they think they are about to become in-laws. I can see the function hall and DJ mentally being booked. Occasionally one of the parents will try and walk past us both innocently as if to be on their way somewhere. Times like this you can tell they wished they had all the spy gear like James Bond/MI5/MI6 etc., or be a fly on the wall.
Then when it’s all over, OMG! Greek tragedy or Indian Soap drama tragedy! (Even worse) the blood drains from their faces! The idea of what could have been, but will now never be, dawns upon them! Priceless! For everything else there is Mastercard!
Roll on next weekend for the yet another family function! Same time, same DJ (family discount applies), sometimes same people but different location!
Samosa Parties
For me, back in the late 90s and early 00s, there would be introductory events at an intermediary’s home. I have always known them as Samosa Parties.
Again as before, for the benefit of those who are not of an Indian/Sikh background, I shall try and explain the Samosa Party.
These are not for the faint-hearted or indeed any shrinking violets. They can be daunting unless you become acclimatised to many and have subsequently built up a good immune system. The experience is the same, just a different house, different girl and if you are in luck a different recipe used for the samosas!
Picture the scenario. My parents and I have just pulled up in front of the girl’s family home or the house of the Auntie who is trying to facilitate the pairing. If I am driving and I am feeling a tad brave or cavalier, I shall use the drive and make myself at home already!
The curtains/blinds in every window at the front of the house start to twitch. As we get out of the car, I hear voices. No not the ones in my head, they only come out on a Friday night after a couple of shandies! Numerous voices are heard, how many are living in this house? It’s a bit Walton’s!
Doorbell button is pushed. The door is cautiously opened. Why? Were they not expecting us? Anyhow, I decide to be a man and hide behind my parents and let them go in first.
As I walk in across the threshold, I scan around. Jeeeeesssssus! There are blooming Indians everywhere! They are hanging off the banisters on the landing, they are on the stairs, the entrance hall/reception is a tight squash anyhow as we get directed towards one of the rooms.
Blimey! There are even more of them in here!
Mum and Dad are directed towards the sofa. It feels like a group/family interview as we are surrounded by the girl’s family and the Aunties’ family too. In Punjabi I hear the obvious questions like “Is he the boy?”
There have been times when I have felt like responding in Punjabi with “Nope, I am the Dad, my wife likes a toy boy and Mother Nature has not been too kind to my son!”
I then would smile to myself and the audience (family members but feels like every move is being watched) would stare intently and wonder if I am actually on something. Try explaining to them you are high on life.
Then the awkward silence ensues. I have no idea why. Then one of the Uncles decides to break the silence and ask in Punjabi which route or motorway we used to get to the house and if we found it okay. Suddenly every male in the room decides that he is the Head Geographer and Oracle of Ordnance Surveys and the company that produced the A to Z maps is almost entirely dependent upon him for route guidance and traffic avoidance.
Then there is silence once again. The mothers and Aunties then perk up. After having ascertained I am the son, the key questions are then asked in Punjabi. “What does your son do?” followed by “How old is your son?” As far as I am aware, I can converse in clear and concise Punjabi but somehow feel like a small child who has been told to sit there, “Be good and don’t make a noise as mummy n daddy are talking to the grownups!” I could have answered the questions myself but hey ho. Accountants should be seen and not heard.
After more silence, the samosas are ready! At this point the family normally get the girl in question to bring out the samosas and sometimes she may be assisted by someone else. There are times when the girl is assisted by her sisters, cousins, and sisters-in-law and whoever else is female! The issue is whom am I supposed to be checking out? There have been many a time when I have thought the sister-in-law or the cousin is the actual girl only to find the one I didn’t feel an attraction towards is the one in question.
I have a code set with my parents for occasions like Samosa Parties. If I don’t feel an attraction or connection with the girl, I will subtly nudge my dad. He then knows the score. I think by now he may have lost all feeling in his ribs from all the nudging I have done in days of past.
Then the ultimate question is asked in Punjabi. “Would your son like to talk to our daughter?” Always at the most inopportune time when I am a tad peckish
and halfway through devouring a samosa!
Admittedly, there have been times when I have felt like saying “Nope, thanks for asking and thanks for the samosas too! That accompanying chutney really brought out the tangy taste of the potatoes and softened the pastry that could have sliced my gums with the edges!”
Instead, I would look over towards my dad, no point looking at mum as she would just smile and not do anything. If I had nudged him earlier, then he knew I would be back in five or ten minutes max. If I had not, then I would be back in half an hour and put my coffee on hold, Papa Bear!
I would occasionally glance over at my younger brother who used to accompany me in the earlier days for moral support which then subsequently turned into more of a mick taking session until he got bored and stopped coming along. He would just sit there and grin. I knew that grin would be a “Rather you than me” as opposed to “Good luck bro, I am routing for ya! Bring back a bhabi!” (bhabi means sister-in-law).
If I was in luck, I would get directed towards another room. If not, I would end up talking in a dining room or conservatory for all to view through the glass doors and look at my body language and level of flirtatiousness. I had no shame back then. Still don’t!
After having finished our conversation, we would both walk in to where the family are sat. Not surprisingly the conversation amongst the rest of the family members on both sides is in full flow. The dads are like long-lost brothers and the mums and Aunties have bonded and really encapsulated the meaning of sisterhood.
Then the final silence of the day is upon us. It’s detail swapping time. Phone numbers etc. are exchanged and promises made to phone on a certain day or date with regards to if the girl and I want to take it further and meet up again.
Looking back in fondness, it was so much easier back then to say no. The awkwardness was between the mums – the dads knew how to stay well out of this.
