by Romi Moondi
“Find your best partner for life! With pictures too!”
“Big database with thousands of possible matches!!”
“Help your child find the right marriage match!”
Well the last one wasn’t surprising. We were here to gain approval from our parents after all.
I shuddered but continued to the search field, which allowed you a “free of charge” limited search.
Well it’s not like I have anything better to do.
I typed in an age request of twenty-eight to thirty-five, a height of at least five-foot-nine, and just for fun I put an income of above one hundred thousand.
And out come the freaks.
The screen filled up with lawyers, doctors and engineers.
Okay so maybe they weren’t freaks, but was this supposed to turn me on?
Well aware that I was being superficial, the pictures actually made me laugh. I laughed because if the guy was ugly, the picture was taken from afar (well not far enough!). If, on the other hand, the guy was a pudgy chap, the picture was limited to exposure from the neck up (but that double-chin don’t tell no lies).
Most of the men were actually born in India, which wasn’t surprising, given how hard it was to find Canadian-born men with money. “The Canadian generation doesn’t work as hard,” as my dad always said.
After spending a bit more time reviewing hobbies like “watching Bollywood Films” and “long walks on the beach” (how many beaches are there in Canada?), I closed the laptop and moved it away in disgust.
None of you guys can write, none of you guys are super-hot, and none of you guys can make me laugh all day. I knew full well that I was making some assumptions but I didn’t care. So I closed my eyes and drifted off, hoping for my knight to come and rescue me soon.
***
I awoke to the sound of loud voices. This could only mean the boy and his family had left. I glanced at the clock to discover I’d been sleeping for over an hour.
I stayed right in bed because the voices weren’t the least bit muffled this time. I could hear it all, and I knew this script already.
It was my parents, sounding frustrated and angry. “Why can’t you say yes?!” they cried. He had a great family, a nice demeanour, and he made enough money to make a very good joint income. They were perplexed. What was the problem with their daughter?
Part two of the script was my sister. “I don’t know him yet,” she explained. She wanted to e-mail for a while before making a decision. And she claimed he wasn’t friendly in their one-on-one chat. These were sloppy excuses, and ones which were now too familiar to my parents.
I had no intention of returning to the downstairs world, as I was now quite comfy in my mutant-daughter cave of seclusion. So I put on my headphones and played a happy song. You can never go wrong with “Lucky Star” by Madonna.
I suddenly remembered James, and opened up my laptop with anticipation.
Hurrah, he replied!
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Hello Roms.
Interesting world you live in. Arranged marriage or not, I think you will find fifty percent of marriages end in divorce these days anyway. There is no easy answer.
J
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I sat there frozen in disbelief.
“Fifty-percent of marriages end in divorce?”
What kind of dickhead response is that?
Chapter Sixteen
“So El...do you think he’s jerking me around?”
It had now been over a week since James’s dickhead response to arranged marriages. We’d been e-mailing just fine about writing, but nothing else. Worst of all, I’d asked him again about his trip and it was still unconfirmed.
Eleanor and Amy were my only sounding boards, with Laura so lucky in love by now. I CANNOT handle hearing how happy she is. Without our office chats I’d be hopeless.
“So he still wouldn’t give you a date?” asked Eleanor. I shook my head. “But October’s only two weeks away,” she continued. “Is he waiting for a last-minute deal?”
“Maybe he’s cheap,” offered Amy.
I dropped my forehead onto my keyboard. Maybe he’s cheap? There had to be another reason for James’s aloof behaviour.
The three of us continued to discuss it at my cubicle, eating through my stash of emergency M&M’s on a quiet Friday afternoon.
Was he really going to keep me in the dark until October arrived?
Why would he ever do such a thing?
So he can chuck you if he needs to in the next four weeks. No non-refundable flight, no irreversible commitment.
“But that’s crazy!” I cried.
Eleanor eyed me quizzically. “You think it’s crazy for me to get highlights?”
Ah, a new and exciting topic was afoot.
“No. Sorry. I was thinking of something else.”
“Thinking of James?” said Amy. “You are SO obsessed with him!” Amy pointed and laughed.
The “point and laugh?” About my serious dilemma?
I cleared my throat. “I am not obsessed with him. But for all our pleasant contact, wouldn’t he WANT to meet me? Just to see if this is worth hanging on to?”
“Does he even know you like him?” said Eleanor.
My eyes widened. “Uhh hello, do we e-mail? Yes! Do we talk on the phone? Yes! That counts for something, right?”
“Depends on what you talk about,” she said.
“Whose side are you on anyway?” I felt defeated.
“Or...” Eleanor began.
“Or what?” I asked.
“Or maybe he’s a little gun-shy? I don’t know. Sometimes the fantasy is easier than...a reality that might not measure up.”
Yeah, I used to think that too. BEFORE I discovered that we’re soul mates!
“But why would he be disappointed? I’m freakin’ awesome!”
“Yes, I know that. And YOU know that...clearly. But he might not know it yet. Maybe you’re funny on the phone and in e-mails, but what are you really like?”
“Awesome!”
“Right.” Eleanor looked around at nothing in particular. Suddenly her eyes lit up. “You know what you need to do? You need to forget about all this. Just focus on tomorrow night. Booze and dancing all night long, with no parents here to stop you!”
It was true. With my parents on their way up north to visit a friend, my siblings and I would have the house to ourselves ‘til Sunday. My sister had agreed to watch the house and answer calls (since I’d played the part myself too many times), and my brother was a virtual unknown (maybe he’ll chill with his greasy loser-friends). I, on the other hand, with alcohol seeping from my pores, would watch the sun rise with Eleanor and Amy.
Either that, or I’ll be puking by the side of the road at four a.m.
Puke or no-puke, maybe I needed an anything-but-James kind of weekend.
***
Sometimes my blog posts took on crazy forms, and sometimes they felt pretty close to life. Like arranged marriage meet-ups, for example.
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Behind door number-one is a guy who will date you but screw you over later. Behind door number-two is a guy you have a crush on but who’ll never look your way. Behind door number-three is a secret, but you’ll likely have to try doors one and two before you ever find the answer.
But wait: what if you could skip all of that, and choose door number-four instead? Because behind that door you’ll find a husband, one that you can have for the low, low price of being strangers.
So which would you choose?
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This was probably the post where I’d piss off any readers who were “pro” arranged marriage. But having a voice had a lot to do with having an opinion.
So I kept on typing.
***
“AHHH!”
I yanked the curling iron out of my hair, throwing it to the ground once I
finally got it loose. All the while my left ear throbbed with pain.
I hadn’t burned myself with a curling iron in years. Was this a bad sign? Maybe I wasn’t supposed to go clubbing with my hair all sexy and my boobs on display. I smoothed out my shirt and stared into the mirror. A short-sleeved clingy blue shirt would not be a scandal on its own, but the ultra deep v-neck gave the shirt a special quality, the one that said: “Not appropriate for broad daylight”
On the flip side, the fact that I was wearing jeans versus girls who’d be wearing napkin-sized skirts? Well that brought me back to the level of a nun. But the NASA-engineered push-up bra I was wearing? I wasn’t sure how the governing nun would feel about that.
I picked up the curling iron and kept on going.
So what if I’m trying to look hot? Maybe I need some three-dimensional male attention.
How wrong could tonight even be, when James was always going to sexy seaside parties?
Once satisfied with the level of voluminous curls, I shut off the iron and quickly made my way downstairs.
I turned towards the kitchen to find my sister doing the dishes. It was definitely a surprise, because it’s not like my parents were watching right now, which was the only real reason she’d been doing extra chores all week (her attempt to diffuse their anger from her latest matrimonial rejection).
“What are you doing tonight?” I asked, as I poured myself a glass of ice-cold water.
“Nothing. Just watching a DVD and going to bed.”
Yeah right.
***
Following a train ride full of delays, I stepped out into an Indian summer night in the city. Amidst the lights, honking horns and sidewalks full of scantily-clad girls, I took a deep breath and smiled.
Feels like home.
I could almost taste the long-awaited vodka passing through my lips, a feeling that quickened my pace as I hurried up the street.
Toronto’s clubbing district wasn’t too far away, so I decided to walk there on this beautiful balmy night. As I cut across the financial district and headed west, I was greeted with the city’s homeless. I recognized a few from the daily commute, but they looked a bit different without all the safety of the sunlight. Like the one I was approaching, for example. Does he have yellow eyes?
I walked past him quickly, with the sound of his voice yelling “Rich bitch!” echoing after me.
Up ahead was an Indian couple, but the girl wasn’t really the sort you’d take home to your mom. I could tell as much from her super-short skin-tight dress and spiked heels. But that wasn’t all; it was the fact that her dress had a giant oval hole cut out of the back, all the way down to her butt crack, which tonight was adorned with a chain-link golden belt sliding low around her waist.
For once I didn’t make any snide little comments in my head. Instead I smiled at the idea of this girl breaking out, letting loose against the usual Indian restrictions. The more she walked her shaky high-heeled steps, the more I smiled. This girl was living in the moment, and wasn’t that what life was all about? The last three months I’d spent sitting in front of the laptop, or feeding my heart through a voice on the phone. Not without its benefits of course, but I needed to breathe in excitement as well, much like this spiked-heel hussy.
I rounded the corner of the street, and was suddenly hit with a troubling thought:
-Had James and I peaked?
I shook it off and walked towards the bar where a giant bouncer waited. He stared at my chest for a bit, and then let me inside without a cover.
This was the first time in my life I’d ever skipped a cover charge.
Yay for push-up bras, let’s party!
***
I entered the club and my eyes plunged straight into darkness, but the booming sound of music somehow guided me along.
My eyes eventually caught up to my ears, and when they did I could see that I was standing in a very cool club. Walls painted black with hardcore designs in red and purple, it was Toronto’s full-fledged rock club.
As I looked around the place I noticed a distinctive feature: there were approximately six guys to every girl in the club.
And the women who were even here? They weren’t the insanely hot ones who made me hate my face.
Things are looking up.
I spotted the back of Eleanor’s head by the bar (hair stick-straightened to perfection) and made my way slowly over, lingering long enough to get some horny stares from the fellas.
“A vodka and seven for my friend!” Eleanor smiled at the muscled bartender, and pulled me in for a hug.
“Hey El. Hey Amy...hello Stuart.” Amy’s tall and buff boyfriend Stuart was already well into the booze. He barely even noticed my presence as he snuggled up to Amy in the hopes of a kiss.
“So I’ve come to a decision,” I declared, as everyone stopped to listen. “I want to have fun, and I want to drink vodka!”
“Well I can take care of the second one.”
Huh? Who the hell is that?
The muscled bartender smiled as he slid me a drink. “This one’s on me.”
It’s on HIM? I grabbed the straw for dear life, and finished the drink in one breath.
Eyes watering and gasping for air, I proudly exclaimed: “Another!”
This is going to get ugly.
***
My body flailed around in the middle of a dense crowd. I’d lost track of Amy and her boyfriend, but Eleanor and I were in the thick of it. Or at least she was somewhere in the crowd, as the young attractive men were doing their best to smother her. As for me I had a killer buzz on. I eventually grabbed a shred of her sparkly black tank top.
“Are you okay in there?” I screamed the words but they barely floated over the music.
“Yeah I’m good! But I need to go to the bathroom soon! One more song?”
At that exact moment, everyone paused as the opening bars of a nineties favourite began. Then everyone screamed in delight, including me.
One more song? Hell yes.
As I head-banged my way through chorus number one of this teenage classic, I almost head-banged right into a random dude. Except he wasn’t some random dude, as he seemed to be dancing on the outer edge of guys swarming Eleanor.
“Is that your friend?” he asked, as the music slowed to begin the second verse.
I looked towards Eleanor and laughed. “Yeah, the guys really love her!”
“She’s alright, but you have a different look. I like it.”
ME?
The music started up loud and fast once again, cutting off our conversation. I continued screaming out the lyrics to the song, but snuck in little looks when I could. He was wearing a plain blue T-shirt, with a full-sleeved white one underneath. The long white sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, exposing a slim but strong-looking set of forearms. He was also a pretty fit guy, maybe a runner and six-feet tall at least. To top it all off, brown shaggy hair with a matching set of warm brown eyes.
Wait a minute...
Suddenly I realized this guy who was dancing in front of me, was an actual, official clone of the latte guy from three years past (minus the English accent).
Was this a test from the universe? A temptation to re-visit the past, and possibly screw over James?
Oh right, James.
“Come on, come on, I have to pee!” The song was suddenly over and Eleanor was dragging me downstairs, while the guy I’d been dancing with mouthed the words “I’m Andrew!” and smiled.
“Who was that guy Romes? He’s cute!”
“No, he’s totally creepy,” I lied, still confused as to the meaning of this lovely guy, and how I should actually proceed.
Once I finished washing my hands, I smeared my lips with an extra thick layer of gloss. This was no surprise, since my lip-gloss application while drunk was always sloppier. Which of course meant I tried to fix it by putting on more. There, perfect.
I spotted Eleanor by the hand dryer, furiously typing on her BlackBerry.
“Who the hell are you texting?”
“Just a couple friends who might meet us here.” She smiled to herself in a knowing kind of way.
“You’re up to something,” I decided.
“No I’m not. Now let’s go back there and dance! Maybe we can find some different guys. I’m kind of sick of those dudes.”
So Eleanor was sick of five dudes, but I was still intrigued by one. I immediately scanned for blue T-shirts once we’d made it back upstairs.
Unsuccessful in my attempts to locate Andrew, Eleanor and I were back at the suddenly overcrowded bar, with “last call” less than an hour away.
“Are you sure you don’t want another drink?” she asked, as she took her first sip of a fresh vodka tonic.
“No, no.” I shook my head and turned away. “I think I’m gonna ride the wave.” In truth it was less about the wave and more about the rumblings in my stomach.
I stretched out my face left and right then up and down, trying to eliminate the numbing effect of the vodka. By the fifth stretch, two big guys lumbered over and grabbed a hold of Eleanor.
“Let’s dance!” they cried. She simply laughed and let them drag her to the dance floor, as another nineties favourite began.
“Don’t mind my friends. They’re a little crazy!”
I couldn’t help but gasp from the sound of an unexpected voice. I turned and saw the same blue T-shirt, with Andrew’s lovely head right atop it.
“You’re not gonna waste this song are you? It’s less than three minutes long!” He cried. “Sing it!”
In a matter of seconds we were singing and smiling and dancing once again.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Romi!” I immediately looked away, hoping he wouldn’t weigh in. I really did hate my name sometimes.
“That’s a beautiful name!”
What?
How come James never said my name was beautiful? All he ever did was pronounce it wrong and laugh.
I focused my attention back to the song and Andrew. The more closely I looked at him, the more he seemed a little bit...bleary-eyed. I guess he’d had a lot more to drink since I’d seen him last.
“You know what I love about this club?” he suddenly asked.
“The wicked music? The cute male bartenders?”
