Finding Mr Perfectly Fine

I tried to ignore them both as I comprehended the magnitude of what I’d agreed to do, but I would have had to be deaf to tune out Mum and Nani’s excited ramblings; Mum was reeling out a list of people to send my biodata to, and Nani kept chanting ‘Alhamdulillah’– Praise be to God – over and over again. A biodata: a piece of paper that describes me in my most basic, no-longer-a-human-just-a-bunch-of-stats form. And according to the Bengali community as a whole, knowing my height, education and family background is pretty much all they need to determine whether or not I’m an adequate fit for their precious son/nephew/brother. If it wasn’t for my name right there on the top, this document could have been describing anyone.

While a part of me still can’t believe I’ve let my mum put together the most archaic of arranged marriage resources (it’s not exactly the romcom-worthy love story I had envisioned for myself), the other, more realistic part, knows that I don’t really have much choice. It’s not like I have a queue of tall, dark and handsome suitors lined up outside my house. Or any sort of suitor at all, in fact.

When you look at it logically, I suppose it’s not really that surprising that I’ve yet to find a match. After all, how many single Bengali men do you really think there are in the UK that are older than me, taller than me, educated, respectable, relatively religious, from the right part of Sylhet, the right family background, and somewhat attractive? And how many of them are going to magically cross my path so I can fall in love with them organically?

Last week, I turned twenty-nine. Along with the usual home-made Victoria sponge, helium balloon and Selfridges’ gift vouchers, my mum’s birthday present to me was the ultimatum that if I’m not engaged by my thirtieth birthday, she’s sending me off to the Motherland to find a fresh-from-the-Desh husband.

So there you have it. With a threat like that (picture a short, skinny engineer with a grizzly tash and dubious English) looming over my head, it’s no surprise that I was sitting there in my jammies, nursing a hot chocolate and a headache, putting together a Bengali version of a dating ad. Only instead of it being uploaded online, my parents would share it with friends and relatives.

‘So you’re going to be sending my personal information to every aunty, uncle and grandma in the British Sylheti community?’ I asked, nauseated by the very prospect.

‘Of course not!’ my mum responded primly. ‘I know we’re desperate, but we don’t want everyone to know that, do we? We’ll only share it with trusted middle people when, and only when, we’ve seen and vetted the potential suitor’s own biodata.’

It sounded pretty complicated to me but, apparently, it’s completely normal in our culture.

BIODATA

Bride’s Name:Zara Choudhury

Age:29

Height:5’ 8”

Complexion:Fair

‘Mum,’ I began tentatively, my finger poised over the backspace key. ‘Is it really necessary to describe my skin colour? I’m hardly “fair” and even if I were, why should it matter?’

‘Of course it’s flippin’ necessary,’ Mum snapped back at me, the grin turning into a scowl. It’s quite scary how my mum can go from deliriously happy to majorly pissed-off to brandishing a rolling pin in seconds. ‘People need to know what they’re getting into. You might like to think that no one cares about complexion any more, but trust me, no one will look twice at a biodata that has “complexion: dark” on it.’

‘So what are “dark” people supposed to do?’ I retorted, disgusted. I didn’t really want an answer. I got one, though. You always get an answer from my mum.

‘They say that they’re “medium”,’ she responded matter-of-factly, adjusting her saree. ‘Overweight people also call themselves “medium” build, before you ask.’

Nani murmured her agreement from her place on my bed as she twiddled with her glow-in-the-dark prayer beads.

‘Are you telling me that I’m going to have to describe my body on this?’ My hand instinctively moved on to my belly and my eyes darted to the hot chocolate I was about to gulp down, which now looked horribly unappetising. I couldn’t believe it. It was like I’d accidentally gone back two hundred years, before feminism, BLM or even common decency.

‘Stop moaning and get on with it,’ Mum said, rolling her eyes and muttering something in Bengali about girls these days being naïve and difficult. ‘We’ve still got Amina to think about, and we can’t even begin to look for her until you’re engaged at least.’

‘Good luck finding someone for Amina. She’ll never be as compliant as I am,’ I grumbled under my breath.

‘That’s my problem. Go on, carry on typing.’

And so I did. I swallowed my pride, dignity, self-respect and self-doubts, and continued to type. Slowly.

Build:Slim

Education:BA (Hons) English Literature. Upper Second-Class Honours. King’s College London.

Occupation:Community Engagement Manager. Haringey Council.

Father:Abdul Aziz Choudhury

Occupation:Director of Finance

Mother:Jubeida Choudhury

Occupation:Homemaker