And the curtain falls...

There are three ladies, and they look like your regular run of the mill auntis, on the heavier side, Guess (or Gucci or Hub Leather) bags, henna stained nails and a slightly comical and forced English dialect peppered into their Urdu. They enter the drawing room, and take their places like they own it. This is not just any coffee date which their demeanor suggests. Bear no notions otherwise, these ladies are taking their job very seriously, nothing will deviate from the purpose they came here for. The small talk and discussion about mutual relatives and acquaintances is not the purpose of this meeting, nor the latest “lawn” prints or the massi (maid) chronicles. Nor is the hostess especially well known for her tea tray, which today mainly encompasses homemade tea and sandwiches and pastries from United King(bakery).

The ladies talk among themselves and then the piece de resistance makes an entrance, with her aunt in tow. Dressed, to the sevens if not to the nines, she walks in with a tray, wearing the high heels recommended to her to make up for her lacking in height. She takes the tray to each one of them and offers its contents with a meek salaam(greeting), ending the round, she finally places it back on to the drawing room coffee table and then settles  next to one of the auntis on the sofa.

All eyes are on her. The auntis assessing every inch of her physical make up, to deem her suitable or otherwise for her laakhon- main-aik( one-in-millions) son, phupi (fathers sister, aunt) checking her outfit for any creases and indicators of bronzing powder on her face, a trick she’s used oft before to ward off similar matrimonially inclined aunties and she herself glances fleetingly at the mirror to see if her hair is behaving today. Phupi is also going to report back to her brother whether the girl was on her best “acceptable” behavior or not. To speak when spoken to, maintain a calm likeable composure and act like the visiting auntis are heaven sent, benevolent angels. The girl is almost a lost cause, she’s over well over sixteen, a full twenty one in fact, and does not fit into the approved and preferred dimensions of lambi-gori-patli (tall-fair-thin). People could start talking soon.

The speaking starts, they ask her about her education like it actually matters to them and her hobbies as if they would actually allow her to pursue them in the future. She takes deep breaths. Aunti asks her how old she is. She answers politely. Then general conversation ensues, they talk among themselves about how that woman said so and so about so and so, who is somehow distantly related to all the people present in that room. Nobody’s eyes are off the girl for more than ten seconds, and she prays for it to be over. Glancing at the plate of bakery goodies in front of her, she hazards estimates about how much more each aunti will eat before they finally decide to leave. All of them seem to be mighty fine eaters, nothing wrong in that, but the girl wishes she could offer to pack everything in lunch boxes for them to take with them so that they’d start moving sooner, it’s been almost an hour already.

Finally phupi gives her a slight nod, a predetermined cue for her to make her gracious exit. The girl gets back on her unsteady, slightly numb feet, says a quiet “Khuda Hafiz”(God be with you) and leaves the drawing room.

She hides right beside the heavy curtain that marks the entrance to the drawing room and listens. Now is when the important talk starts. It’s a question of who she will spend the rest of her life with and the next fifteen minutes are going to tell her if the auntis deign her good enough for their son. They are gratifyingly loud. 

“She seems okay, my son wants an educated one and you know boys once they make up their minds, they don’t listen to sense, and it’s up to me to look for one now. I think she'll do, she’s younger than the other educated girls we've seen, I think she’ll gel well enough with our family. All that university environment doesn’t seem to have gone to her head.”

The girl can imagine her phupi's relieved sigh, she wonders how mom would have reacted.

There’s a shuffling of feet, they’re about to leave finally. The girl is a mass of mixed feelings, contemplating what the future could hold for her.  Then the other aunti starts speaking.

“I think she’s okay, however, I want to see her mother. She’s fine abhi (now) but I want to see how much fatter she will grow with age and babies. Our boy is against fat girls and if she grows fat we will break up the union.”

Even phupi who has thus far always been the girl's champion and adept at handling such matters seems to struggle to find a diplomatic answer.

Really Ekta honey?

Not a moment too soon, they leave.

(Conventionally middle aged women, whether related to a person or not, are reffered to as auntis)