©  2017 Tashan Mehta

Matchmaker

February 2, 2015

The desert is absolute silence, building in your ears like static. When the wind picks up, it howls, a personal song. The village we go to is meant to be a large one, with concrete houses. We wander around one such house, guilty at the intrusion. What must they think of us? Each room seems purposeless: spaces that I would think of as separate mingle here (bedroom/living room/dinning room; kitchen/storage space/garage). Furniture has no pride of place. Objects are—you find your way around them. The girl who follows us, Meena, shows me pictures of her brothers and points to the various objects of mine that she wants. Your earrings? No? Okay. Your scarf? No? Okay. Your sweater? No? Okay. She speaks Rajasthani, I Hindi. We talk at each other, pulling out stems of common terms and latching onto meaning. I tell her she is beautiful. She says “no” in English, and touches Charley’s hair. She says something that sounds similar to ‘gold’ in Hindi, but when I repeat it, she looks blank.

 

Her mother keeps her duputta lowered around me. When she learns I am from Bombay, she raises it. How old? she asks. I say, Twenty. Easier to say in Hindi than ‘twenty-three’. She widens her eyes and smiles. Married? she asks. When I finally understand what she means (‘shaadi’ in Rajasthani is rounder, more accented), I say no. She is both delighted and horrified. When will you marry? she says and I say, ten years. At thirty. Now she is clapping with delight, holding my hands in hers. We laugh together. Give me your number, she says. When I find you a groom, I’ll call. She disappears into the house and brings out a mobile that I don't know how to operate. All its instructions are in Rajasthani. The keypad, however, is in English and I type my number out. I’ll call, she promises.

 

Ram pyaariji, God’s Beloved, waits by the side. He is my camel. He looks bored of my inadequacy (I keep slipping to the right). His rhythmic movements are lulling, the bell on his neck a song. There is nothing for miles around except disgruntled bushes, birds and endless sand. Yet each house in the village is small compared to the space that could be theirs. As an urban dweller, I wonder why they don’t claim more—but then we move on, land stretching for miles around us and I see how pointless it would be to hoard a jewel when you own the mine.  

 

 

 

Share on Facebook
Share on Twitter
Please reload

Recent Posts

July 12, 2015

February 2, 2015

February 2, 2015

June 30, 2014

June 15, 2014

May 29, 2014

October 18, 2013

October 16, 2013

Please reload

Archive
Please reload

Follow
  • Black Twitter Icon
  • Black Instagram Icon