Bride For My Son

Love in the time of classifieds.

- Ritu Kamra Kumar

It was a monsoon morning when the aroma of cardamom tea mingled with the rustle of the newspaper. My eyes wandered past the headlines — wars, weather, and weddings — until they tripped over a small matrimonial ad that looked ordinary enough at first glance. But by the second line, I knew I had found not just an advertisement, but a short story — one part Pride and Prejudice, one part Comedy of Errors, and a generous dash of stand-up comedy.

The headline was crisp: Bride for My Son.

The description read like a résumé for a CEO, with the hopeful suitor’s credentials carefully laid out: 29 years old, Hindu, 6'2", fair, well-built, BE from IIT, MBA from IIM-A, AGM in a reputed international bank, based in Chicago, earning handsomely, owns a house.

So far, so standard.

Then came the confession that made my tea do a double backflip inside the cup: “All this and my stupid son has got neither the charm nor the smartness to figure out a woman and convince her to marry him.”

I laughed — not the polite chuckle of dinner parties, but the kind of laugh that bursts out in public, causing nearby heads to turn. Here was a father, armed with brutal honesty, throwing his son under the matrimonial bus in the most public way possible. It was as if Mr Bennet from Austen’s world had wandered into a classified section and decided to tell it like it is.

The ad continued with an appeal for “any good-looking, matured and understanding girl who also hasn’t been successful in winning a guy’s heart” — and could provide a Photoshopped portrait for the son’s inspection. “Please feel free to ruin your life by marrying a total stranger,” the father concluded. “And don’t you dare call this Holy Matrimony... cause it isn’t!”

The Art Of Matrimonial Storytelling