Namuna-nama-I

A dissection-slash-giggle seemed to take the blunt off rejection for both parties

My copy of Shanta Gokhale's autobiography, One Foot On The Ground: A Life Told Through The Body (Speaking Tiger) is on its way. Meanwhile, the preview excerpts were so charming and insightful, and cut close to the bone: "I guess I was also looking for a mate. It was not a powerful, insuperable urge; but I would not look away if a suitable man swam into my ken." A mentor and friend, Shanta Tai could well have been describing my worldview, when I was in my twenties. I laughed a déjà vu laugh when she described the namunas, who flitted in and out of her life. My favourite was the suitor who played Yeh mera prem patra padhkar, on the jukebox at a seaside café, by way of a proposal. "Sorry yaar. Really sorry," she told him. I promptly went into flashback mode, recalling the parade of namunas I have known and rejected.

When I was in my twenties, my parents, both liberal chaps, really, made humming and hawing noises about 'settling down,' that deadweight Indian phrase. I also hummed and hawed in reply; I was having too much fun in life already, with a great job, fun friends and more. 'Chalti gadi ka bonnet nahin kholneka' is my general motto (never open the bonnet of a car that's running fine). Eventually, my parents busied themselves inserting a matrimonial ad on my behalf in the papers and answering others' matrimonial ads on my behalf as well, while all this was beneath me. I commandeered a Shabari-like system, where the poor things would trawl through scores of letters, and proffer, maybe two, for consideration of Her Majesty. I was able to despatch the blokes pretty swiftly over a single coffee in swish suburban hotels (Hotel Centaur was a favourite; it was close to home, and you could get back in time to dissect the latest namuna over dinner). A dissection-slash-giggle seemed to take the blunt off rejection for both parties.

Then one chap's letter seemed promising, but the blighter lived in Delhi. How to organise this? So, when my sister's in-laws were going to Kashmir, we quickly piled on, because it casually gave us an evening in Delhi. When we met, the first question he asked me was, "How many greeting cards did you get at Diwali?" I froze. No civilities like, "Thank you, you've come all the way from Mumbai for this. How are your parents? Are you tired from the journey? Shall I order something to drink?" Kuch bhi nahin, bas Diwali card pe yeh banda nikal pada. You have to remember that this was all in the pre-Internet, pre-Facebook era, when dinosaurs roamed the earth. People wrote each other letters on paper and went to post offices or post boxes to post them, then waited for the reply a few days later. Anyway, I was not into Diwali card shit. Why? I asked him. I got nearly 500 cards last Diwali, he boasted. So? I asked, duh, still not getting it. "So I have nearly 500 friends," he preened. "How many Diwali cards did you get?" I was so furious, more so having come all the way from Mumbai to meet this twerp. "I'm so sorry I have an urgent meeting, we will be in touch over letters, okay?" I said, rising. Then I twisted the knife in the wound: I left cash on the table for both our coffees, turned on my heel and left.

I guess my namuna-nama will have to continue in another column.

Meenakshi Shedde is India and South Asia Delegate to the Berlin International Film Festival, National Award-winning critic, curator to festivals worldwide and journalist. She can be reached on meenakshishedde@gmail.com

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