Over the last few years I, too, have been married over the phone, not once but several times.

Are you reading this, Shoaib?

"Sir, I'm calling from HSBC Banking Services," said the hot voice. "Your credit ratings are excellent. We're offering you a free credit card."

"Excuse me," I asked, "How'd you get my number?"

"Your details are on file, sir."

"But everyone's details are on file."

"That's right."

"And yet, from millions of consumers, you chose me?"

"Yes, sir."

I sat down and drew deep breaths. This was the first gift I'd been offered in 20 years, and call me innocent or whatever, but at that moment I knew this was the woman I was to marry.

I asked her name and she said Shefali or something.

"Call me Wank," I told her. My full name is Wankeshwar Himmesh Shah but I wanted her to use the same moniker as all my pen pals in Doha.

"So, Mr Wank, you want a credit card?"

I could hear her masticating bubblegum, and teeth-on-teeth action really turns me on. "Are you single?"
The long pause was her way of saying YES. Now, you might bitchslap me saying, Dude, you're a total schwick, how can you marry someone you haven't even seen?

Let me explain: Some women sound fat on the phone. Not this one. She was so tonally thin I wanted to buy her octaves a size zero dress. Unlike you, I don't do team sports but I instinctively sensed she was a chick I could take to a cricket match and no one was ever going to say to me, Bhabhi is as big as a telecom tower.
Besides, you'll agree, looks don't matter. If you wear a blindfold, you can shag anyone, and guess what? I have!

Anyway, I asked Shefali if she'd marry me. She hung up on me. Now, unlike you, I didn't file Shefali under Phat and forget her. No, champ, I chased her. I rang HSBC for months. The bank finally reported me to the cops, who issued an arrest warrant for disorderly conduct or threats or something the MNS hasn't ever had their asses busted for.

I fled to Italy.
u00a0In Rome, last August, my landline broke the dark silence of romantic exile. A brutish voice asked for Valentino. I said Valentino did not live here but Wankeshwar Himmesh Shah did, and because I felt an immediate and lasting connect with the caller, and because I was so fitfully lonely, I asked him his name.
"Fabio," he replied.

"What do you want from your life, Fabio," I asked as by then I'd realised life was too short, and if you weren't wrestling a lame existential query on a Saturday evening you might as well be DEAD.
"I want a job," he admitted ruefully. "There are no jobs in Italy."

I knew what he was really saying and so I just came out and said it. "Marry me."
"Are you crazy?" he asked.
I said, "I do."

Now you might shout, Hey, no homogiri here! But my point is true love is blind, deaf, and as you've just proved, incredibly dumb. For weeks, I rang Fabio and promised him dhokla for breakfast, my grandma's crummy Fiat, even a ministerial position, since that's par for course for Italians in India. He resisted saying he was happily married with three kids and I said calmly, "Such things are irrelevant, Fabio." Finally, he changed his number. In despair, I set sail for India.

I felt divorced not once but twice, and my divorciness showed on my face. From one of the most eligible men in the Gujurati community, I was its most unmarriageable. But this, Shoaib, is not about Wankeshwar Himmesh Shah. This is about you not turning into me. This is my long-winded, loopy way of telling you to stay as far from a phone as possible and to run off with Sania, cause you scored some serious shit, mate.u00a0

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