Parents, rather mothers are a kind that few really understand. The worse kinds are the Mrs. Bennets’ of the world. In the Indian scenario, to have your daughter married to the most right person within the parameters of your value system is their numero uno crises.
For someone who has been ‘put up on the marriage market’ and has a trillion reasons to either be turned down or to turn down; the deal is quite simple, walking away. Can Mrs. Bennet do that? Unfortunately, she can not. I have mocked at her just like everyone else. Called her a drama queen, a gold digger, a castist and more. It was in a brief moment today, when my phone sang that I realized how wrong I have been. No denying she is all of that but there is more to the obnoxious nonsense. It is sadness, paternal love, and insecurity. She lived through times and juggled between families, siblings, in-laws. She knew that love had little to do with life post marriage. However, she’d never been in love. 55 years. No love. There is care, of course, and there is need – and it is her only argument against love, when it comes to the ‘stickability’ of marriage.
There was a resume, she liked for the status of a potential son-in-law. The horoscope matched to the T, the boy was from the supremely pious Brahmin family, tall, fair, handsome, lived in Uptown Bombay, and had a flourishing career as a doctor. The pluses were multiplied once she learned that he could sing; that he called at odd hours to sing to her daughter, and that he was seemingly in love with her. K being herself, restrained. She found the singing a bit annoying (one song is fine; six at a go, are not.) It was pestering to tell a man in his early thirties to hang up at 3am because she was in no mood to listen to a gazal or a Sufi story. His megalomania of his talents and credentials was driving her overboard. Initially it was funny that he addressed himself as a Dr. Soandso is calling you or Dr. Soandso will now sing a song for you. My dismissal was dismissed quite briskly, calling his irate behavior ‘romantic’. Likewise was my luncheon experience was dismissed too – “you are so sarcastic, so what he chose the restaurant you do not like? So what if he wanted to share your soup or coffee into ‘one-by-two’? So what if he does not use a perfume? So what if he ordered all by himself, maybe he is not used to a woman’s company? Burping is a natural phenomenon and so is farting. Maybe, he is unwell! So what if he made you walk till his patient’s house. Maybe he wanted more time with you! So what if he uses fowl language and has a perpetual cringe? Don’t knit pick. Men change after marriage, he will too. You could teach him all the table manners and personal etiquette!
Once the parents met, the cardboard mantle collapsed. The Uptown house was a shanty. The garb was cheap smelly polyester. His parents, house and him sitting there (with a pot full of attitude) were below average and stank of miserliness. Mrs. Bennet dressed in her Kanjiveram, K in raw silk, and Loud mouth who decided to accompany us in order to provide a neutral unbiased judgment was dressed in linen.
Post the fiasco, btw my cackles and Loud mouth’s remarks, Mrs. Bennet’s silence turned to tears. She could not contain her desperation and her ‘shoving off’ of her beloved child into the arms of a crude, sloppy ape with manboobs. As we tried to cajole her, she uttered something that broke us evenly:
“Mrs. Bennet: Why is it supposed to be so? Why could he have no manners? Why did his family need to be so crass? Why was his mother not dressed for the occasion? Is it imperative for a mother to be blind in order to find happiness for her child? How many things do I have to let go, to know that the potential son-in-law will take care of my baby daughter? How much do I need to feed into the families’ treasury and how much do I have to educate you and make you beautiful, in order for them to treat you like a princess and not a golden hen? K, as a mother, I am falling every minute; I’m failing to give you a husband who would be everything your father is and more. I’m failing to digest and let off of all petty things that I know will hurt you in future. When I see you, I see myself, at 28, I was running behind you, helping you strengthen your legs. How can I today send you off with a wobbly crutch? I’m failing, and I want you to forgive me for putting us through this.”
