'The One'

A vintage snap of a Victorian couple sitting down for a portrait

A few months ago, I was enthralled one evening by a cousin’s horrific account of a ‘set up’, orchestrated by her eager parents. As I listened mortified to the details of what seemed like ample material for Quentin Tarantino’s next cinematic display of gruesome violence, the thought finally dawned on me: ‘There is a very real possibility I will never fall in love’.

Hearing my cousin’s account of the horrific set up made my insides churn. I’m not unrealistic, am I? I know fairy-tales are bogus. But surely the notion of ‘real love’ isn’t completely dead? Today, I can tell you, it is well and truly dead. It was slowly tormented and mutilated in a ‘Reservoir Dogs’-style torture scene by the birth of Asian matrimonial services. For today, I experienced my first, and what I desperately hope to God was my last ‘Muslim matrimonial event’.

Firstly: Shannon’s Night Club – really? Yes, I realise there is a banqueting hall beside it, and that’s where your event was technically held, but it doesn’t do much for first-impressions, does it? For those of you who don’t know, Shannon’s is like the ‘Faces’ of Essex, circa 1993. Now, imagine within this very haven, a room filled with round tables, and chairs draped in white head covers, with purple organza bows, a stage at the end covered in large, plastic-floral arrangements, and a division running down a quarter of the room with bits of fabric. No, I’m not describing a poorly decorated Asian wedding reception. This was my setting to find ‘love’…supposedly. Of course it wouldn’t be complete without the sound of instrumental Bollywood music, flowing softly from the speakers above my head, serenading me into the arms of Number 39 – whoever he may be – so that I, for one second in my life, can feel like Kajol, and he, Shahrukh Khan.

‘Stab me in the eye with a fork now, please!’ my brain yells. No, no – be realistic. You came to support your cousin. Who, by the way, is sharp, witty, beautiful, creative, ambitious, loving, and 5’10. Yes, I know what you’re thinking. ‘Did you run out of adjectives?’ No. In fact, there aren’t enough words in the English language to convey the delights of her character. And yet, she is defined in the eyes of said matrimonial service and its attendees by the fact that she is, first and foremost, 5’10.  5’10 for an Asian girl is a slight predicament, in that on average, Pakistani men don’t exceed 5’7. But Pakistani men above 5’10 are not unicorns – they exist. Difficult to find, perhaps. But they exist. Somewhere. Just like normality exists. Somewhere. At least that’s what I hoped after this afternoon…

It’s difficult, of course. One table, four girls and four boys – five minutes to introduce yourselves to one another, and then the boys rotate to another table. The idea is that you get a fair idea of the person, and note down their ‘badge number’ should you want to talk to them further. Once that’s over, lunch is served and you are free to proceed to ‘The Wall of Profiles’ to find out more about your badge-crush. Should you be satisfied by what you read, mount your steed in search for the fair maiden, and ask to speak with her further. The idea isn’t abominable. The potentials, however, are.

I know it’s difficult, men. There’s a lot of pressure on you. You are encouraged to begin the conversation, fill the awkward silences, and seem interested without appearing to be a pervert all in the same breath. It’s a hard job. And I sympathise, I do. But it’s really not a good idea for basic etiquette to leave you at such a crucial time. And if you feel you don’t have any – basic etiquette, that is – please, for your sake and ours, pretend. If you’re a Bollywood-fan, in that moment, channel Shahrukh Khan in Kabhi Kushi Kabhi Gham as best as you can (we both know you try in your bedroom mirror at home, anyway – so now is your time to shine) If you’re a Hollywood fan, think Robert Redford in Out of Africa or Leonardo DiCapiro in Revolutionary Road. It’s really not difficult. You just have to exude some poise and decorum. It will save you from the following fatal car crash:

Badge Number X: I’m X, 27, I live in Ilford, I’m a businessman; I own three chicken shops – you know – us Asians – gotta’ have the chicken *pervy and unnecessary wink and nudge, followed by snorting laughter*….You know Ilford Station, yeah?
Me: yes…
Badge Number X: Turn right, yeah – an’ you see those ‘free shops on the right, yeah? They’re ALL mine.
Me: …

Lesson number two: I promise you we don’t award brownie points for number of chickens shops owned. I know it may appear that way – given that I obviously look like I enjoy my food, and value it greatly in my life – but I assure you that your chicken-shop inheritance will not be sealing the deal for us.

Also, your mother is lovely - in her fluorescent pink shalwar kameez with gold embroidery. I can tell that she has made a great effort to pick out her largest set of silver costume jewellery, bedazzled in large cubic zirconia, with an equally impressive, subtly dyed hairpiece. She has taken time to apply a myriad of eye shadow colours at 11am on a Sunday morning to look ‘just right’ for her search for a daughter in law. I see that she is smiling lovingly at me, and has already been over to The Wall of Profiles to decipher my credentials. As she continues to spy on our table, I can see her already envisioning our impending nuptials. I will fit in perfectly with your family – you are very fair, and short, and overweight. I am – well – exactly that. You see – it is fate. We are meant to be…

These, my dear fellow blood-liners, are not ‘credentials’. Fair, skinny (or should I say malnourished), 5’6 – how, HOW on God’s green earth is this the criteria for love? Ah, but it isn’t. It is the criteria for marriage. And how depressing is that sentiment alone? In my (almost) twenty-four years, I have only seen one – maximum two – examples of a loving marriage. Otherwise, the idea basically seems to be a ploy to pro-create. Or if you’re Asian, have an extravagant party. 

If anything has saved, and simultaneously destroyed the idea of marriage, it is those infuriating Hollywood rom-coms, with the dazzlingly unobtainable Ryan Gosling, gushing with love for the woman of his dreams – who, by the way, is always much less attractive and ‘obtainable’, but realistically, will never be one of us.

But here we are, at Shannon’s Nightclub, obviously with a view of getting married, and me having accepted that you will never be Ryan Gosling, just like I will never be J Lo. But perhaps we can be the starring couple in our own love story? Let’s give it a go. What would you like to ask me?

“Would you live with your in-laws?”

Yes, your situation may require that question to be asked first. But here’s some advice: deliver the question with a little more enthusiasm instead of your current, grim reaper expression. How am I to envision you as being someone I could love, when you currently look like my executioner? With that face, I am AFRAID to live with my potential in-laws – are they part of a cult? Do they gut daughters in law like fish?  “I’m a doctor.” I’m going to assume that’s your attempt at remedying the current situation. Okay, I’ll happily meet you half way. “Oh, that’s interesting. Have you specialised in anything?”
“I’m a General Practitioner.” … Please, tell me more… Or not. Yes, that’s a better idea – just sit there with your arms folded, and that foul expression on your face. I will consequently think of and sympathise with London’s diseased and decapitated who will have to face a doctor with no bedside manner – or any manners at all, for that matter.

And there goes that bell. Lunch is served. The aunty in the fluorescent pink hovers at our table and smiles at me lovingly once again. Before I have a chance to speak, my cousin yanks me towards her, “Please let’s go home now”. Yes, let’s go home…