Finding Mr Perfectly Fine

‘Yes I can, Mum. I’m nearly thirty, as you pointed out. I can’t rely on you and Network Aunty to find me someone. What if you don’t find anyone? Then what will I do? Live with you forever?’

There is a silence as Mum ponders my reasoning. I can tell by her expression that she knows I’m right, but she’ll never admit it.

‘OK, well if anything gets serious you must let me know,’ she reluctantly agrees after a while. ‘And in the meantime, your dad and I will carry on getting the word out.’

‘Fine.’

‘Great! On that note, we’ve received a couple of biodatas and need to decide whether or not we want your one sent to them, too. Your dad has one on his phone and I’ve got the other one here.’

Mum hands me an A4 sheet and goes back to the cooker to check on her curries. The fragrances wafting out of her stainless steel saucepans are making my stomach rumble, so I join her and lift a piece of lamb out of one pot and stuff it in my mouth before she can tell me off. It scalds my tongue and I squeal. Serves me right for being so greedy.

‘Serves you right for being so greedy,’ Mum says, handing me a glass of water, and I’m reminded of how alike we are at times, a thought that sends a shiver down my spine.

I go back to the table and feign reluctance as I take hold of the paper, but I’m secretly quite curious to see who’s on offer. I feel as though I’m at a fine dining restaurant and the waiter has come to tell me what today’s specials are.

Scanning through the page, I read that Iqbal is a thirty-year-old computer engineer. He’s 5’9”, has four sisters and is the only son. His dad is a retired business owner (code for ex-restaurateur), and his mum is a housewife. I turn the page over to be assaulted by a collage of pictures of him. There’s a cringey selfie, one full-length one of him posing alone in a three-piece suit and another one of him in the same suit, but this time with a group of girls who I assume are his sisters. They’re all short, skinny, really fair-skinned with huge hijabs on their heads that make them look like little lollipops. They’re wearing matching sarees and look so perfect that I immediately know I won’t fit in.

Feeling queasy, I study the smug expression in all his pictures. He looks like a typical Bengali boy from East London, with shiny black hair, slick with gel, a little goatee and smooth, dark skin. For a second I wonder why he’s darker than his sisters. Are they all wearing foundation that’s three shades lighter? Or perhaps they edited themselves in the picture. Or maybe he’s their half-brother because their dad has multiple wives. None of those scenarios are acceptable to me.

I say all this out loud and Mum gives me a deadly look.

‘You know there are people out there judging your biodata and picture the way you’re judging them, right?’

‘It’s different if I do it,’ I mutter a little illogically. ‘I’m a woman. I’m more vulnerable and I will always be judged ten times more harshly than a man.’

‘Only God can judge,’ Mum sniffs.

I look at the picture again. I can tell that he loves himself. I turn the paper over to check where he lives. Yep – Tower Hamlets. No surprise there. So much for fine dining, this is more like our local Perfect Fried Chicken.

‘Well, what do you think?’ Mum asks as she gets started on the usual salad of finely chopped tomatoes, cucumbers, onions, green chillies and coriander to accompany the curries. ‘And don’t give me any nonsense about his sisters being a different colour to him. Take this seriously please.’

I shake my head, taking a huge gulp of water. ‘Mum, look at his hair! Look at his tight suit! Look at his overdressed sisters! I’m really not feeling it.’

Mum sighs. I can tell that she’s dying to give me a shake but she needs to appeal to my logic to get me on board. ‘I know it’s not the perfect proposal and he’s not even from a great family (which, in Mum-ish, is code for not being from a good caste), but it’s not bad. What’s the harm in meeting him? He might be completely different in real life. Not everyone photographs well.’

‘He’s a computer guy,’ I continue with growing fervour. ‘I hate computers. The only thing I know what to do on a computer is open up Word and Chrome!’

‘Well, maybe it’s time you learnt more about them,’ Mum responds primly, taking out dishes to set the table with. She gestures for me to help her.

‘But he’s from Tower Hamlets,’ I whine, a pained expression on my face as I begin to set the table. ‘I can’t even speak Bengali properly. You can tell by looking at him that all his friends are Bengali.’

‘So what? Do you think you’re better than him because you’re from North London?’ Mum whips around from the cooker and gives me a look so dirty that a weaker person would probably turn into stone.

‘No,’ I lie, looking away. ‘We’re from two different planets.’

‘Well, right now you’re on Planet Nearly Thirty. Unless you want to stay there forever, you need to keep your options open.’

‘I don’t see what the big deal is about turning thirty!’ I reply, crossing my arms defiantly. ‘Why has it got you in such a tizzy? There are loads of people older than me who aren’t married!’

‘And why do you think that is? It’s because they left it too late.’

‘What if I don’t want to ever get married?’

‘Don’t you?’

‘I didn’t say I didn’t, I said “what if”! Are you going to disown me or something?’

‘Of course not, stop being such a drama queen.’ Her dismissive tone pisses me off even more. Noticing the two spots of pink growing on my cheeks she sighs, putting down the dish she’s carrying.