This too shall pass

It was that time of day again – lunch time finally, after a busy morning of writing code, and more code to improve on earlier functionalities. Ramana religiously logged on to matrimonials.com. He wanted to find someone in the Bay Area himself, after all he was a relatively successful software programmer and a couple of his friends had love marriages in the U.S.

He wanted to meet and fall in love with a desi girl. He dated an American girl once, and it wasn't a pleasant experience. It turned out to be all about her, and being a traditional Indian boy, he wasn't used to it. He wanted to be the center of attention, the way he was back home in India, in his family. Natalie was nice he thought, almost too nice and prudish enough to dispel his fantasies about the wanton ways of Western women. He tried to make his move on the second date, but she drew the line at kissing. He didn't want to talk about feelings all the time, or hang out just to be able to get a measly kiss at the end of it, so that was the beginning of the end.

There was no way he could even think about introducing her to his family. She was American, very American in her spaghetti strap tank tops and shorts. He felt a degree of pride from the envious stares of his desi room-mates, but even that wasn't enough to keep it going. Through his uncanny male instinct regarding commitment, he could sense that she was getting serious, and decided to get out while the going was good.

Soon after, he started browsing the net religiously, every day at lunch. He had been to almost every Indian matrimonial website, listings in the Deccan Chronicle, Times of India, matrimonials.com, and finally selected a few favorites that he would visit every day. He had his profile already set up in a few of them. No picture of course. Which desi man put up a picture of himself? It was almost a slap in the face to him. Weren't his “US based” qualifications enough? Of course he expected the girl to have her picture posted – he didn't consider ones that didn't have any pictures – didn't see the point of wasting time and effort, only to find out the girl is not pretty.

He had a standard letter of introduction that he sent to his list every afternoon. Girls in the US got top priority. Girls who seemed to have their own contact information online got even higher on his list. His letter started with his bio-data, towards the middle listed his likes and dislikes, and ended with his five year plans.

He browsed through his Yahoo! Inbox quickly, sorting out potential replies – junk, junk, interesting, no way, junk, wow! He stopped short – he didn't think Swati would reply so quickly. Her picture looked good too. He read through the brief email quickly – she responded, letting him know that she was looking out for guys too, and that she was under a lot of pressure from home, but didn't want to blindly accept any guy that her family saw for her.

Ramana was really excited. He replied, telling her that he felt exactly the same, and at the same time asked her more personal details about herself, asking her where she worked, lived, etc. Their back and forth exchange went on for two weeks or so. He forgot about his lunchtime routine, and all he could think of when he got into the office, was to see if Swati had replied to his latest email.

She seemed perfect to him, best part of all, she was in the Bay Area! She did her Master's at Santa Clara University, and joined Intel two years ago. He was glad she was in the US for a shorter time than he was – that meant that she wouldn't be too Americanized. She said she lived with her cousins, so that was even better, she must be a sheltered girl and oh – what a looker she was! He figured that she'd need some direction on American fashion, like most typical desi girls, as all her pictures were of her in shalwars or saris. He hoped she didn't go to work with a bindi and jeans, although from what he heard of big companies in the Bay area, that was the norm for girls there.

From what he understood, she was traditional, conservative, and a good cook, and along with her looks, she matched all his criteria for a “perfect” wife. He was anxious to meet her, hoping that they would click. He started fantasizing about her already, and completely let go of his afternoon ritual. She agreed to meet him in a week, on a Saturday for dinner. After a couple of emails, they settled on “Passage to India.”

Ramana couldn't wait. He couldn't stop thinking about it all weekend, and during the week, he kept thinking of romantic ideas. He thought they could go to the Real Ice-cream place for some good kulfi. One of his friends asked him to buy her red roses. He checked it out at Albertsons when he went to stock up on buttermilk, but they were $21 dollars. He was debating whether he should pay for dinner, but then thought against it. He decided he would wait to see how the evening progressed, before he went all out.

Finally, Saturday arrived, after a week that felt like a year. The only hitch in the meantime, was that Swati had emailed him about a possible conflict in her schedule earlier that day. She had to meet some friends in San Francisco, and since she didn't drive, she didn't know if she could make it to the restaurant in time for dinner. He laughed at how easily he was able to solve that problem. He asked her to take a cab from one of the earlier train stops and that seemed to solve the problem. It was a pity she didn't drive, but then, again, that was probably a good thing for him that she didn't have too much exposure or independence.

He wore his true tried and tested black jeans, with a full sleeved light blue shirt, with black sandals, aiming for a casual chic look. He bought carnations instead, which were $6.50 and reached the restaurant 20 minutes early, very unlike his normal Indian standard time adherence.

It was 8:15 p.m. and still no sign of Swati. He kept looking at the entrance every time someone passed through. The waiters were starting to look at him funnily. Wait – that's her he thought, and indeed, there she was. She was wearing a shalwar kameez, and she looked great he thought. He stood up and waved to her, calling out her name. She walked over to him and dazzled him with her shy smile. She said she had taken a cab from San Francisco as she missed the train, and didn't want to be late. She didn't have enough money for the cab fare, and she hesitatingly asked if she could borrow $45, and told him she would pay for their dinner.

Ramana was flattered. This was probably the first time a girl had bought him dinner, although technically, she wasn't buying, but that seemed fair. He had brought enough cash with him, and felt really good about the evening. He thought of a few jokes to tell her, he wanted to flirt with her a little to see what he could get away with, and while thinking of this, reached into his wallet, and gave her $50.

She smiled a dazzler again, and told him she would be right back. He returned her smile and told him he'd be waiting.

He waited for another half an hour, despairing with each minute as to how easily he had been taken for a ride. All this for $50, what would she have done for more he thought, feeling vindictive. As soon as he got home, he emailed her – her Yahoo! Id suddenly didn't work anymore. What a professional she was, already covering her tracks, he thought disparagingly. He wondered, how many other innocent men she planned on meeting that night, and imagined her with a desi “pimp” counting all their money with gleaming eyes.

He felt betrayed, angry that a desi woman did this to him, and wanted revenge. What could he do though, he thought? Anything publicizing this would be tantamount to making himself the butt of everyone's jokes. Ramana didn't sleep much that night. Sunday morning, he called his parents, and asked them to get some proposals together. He wanted to get married, and said he would be leaving in two weeks for India. He went back to the matrimonials site on Monday. By then, Swati's listing was gone – probably under another name, for all he knew. She was probably out there right now, trying to dupe more naïve men like him.

Ramana decided to let it go. He was never going back to Passage to India again. The tales he told his friends and co-workers, who asked about his date, slowly salvaged his bruised ego. Oh, she was ugly, he said to some, she couldn't speak one sentence of correct English, he said to others. It got better and better as the days went on, and he didn't feel so bad anymore, after all, he was a software engineer working in the U.S. – his mother would find ten girls for him at the drop of a hat.

Sometimes though, he got the distinct impression people were pointing out to him and laughing. He consoled himself thinking that it was probably just his imagination at best, or was it his worst nightmare coming true? What if “Swati” had posted his story on the internet?