One Indian Girl by Chetan Bhagat

‘Enough, mom,’ I said. She tossed another parantha on my plate.
I didn’t want a husband. I needed my mother with me in London. So she could cook me hot
gobhi paranthas every Saturday morning for breakfast.
‘Why do you stay in Chelsea? Southall has so many Indians. Better, no?’ she said.
‘Have you seen the park view outside? See how charming this is,’ I said.
‘But do you get achaar and chutney? In Southall you get it. Sharma aunty told me.’
‘You get it here too,’ I said. I tore open the second parantha. ‘Just stay with me. Forever,’ I
said.
‘See, even you miss having a proper home. Is this even a life? Go to office early. Come back
late to an empty house.’
‘Mom, I have one of the most wanted jobs in the world.’
‘And I have one of the most unwanted jobs, but I love it. Taking care of my family,’ my mother
said and gave me a glass of lassi. She kissed me on the forehead. I hugged her.
‘I love you, mom.’
‘I love you too. Now show me the responses. You have made me wait all week.’
I had modified my profile on the matrimonial website. I had removed obnoxious bits like
‘husband to take care of me’ and ‘no liabilities’. And added: ‘successful career at one of the world’s
top investment banks’. I also mentioned I wanted a secure and easygoing man.
‘Fine,’ I said. I opened my laptop and logged in.
‘Fifty responses, very good,’ she said excitedly. ‘Open them.’
‘Opening, mom. Be patient.’
The first query came from a Mohit Ahuja, from a business family in Delhi. They owned three
restaurants, Mohit managed one of them.
‘No,’ I said.
‘Why?’ my mother said. ‘They look well-off.’
‘I don’t want to be with someone who runs a family restaurant.’
‘What nonsense!’
‘Mom, see the qualifications. BA from some random university. No. Next.’
We continued scanning the responses for the next few hours.
‘This one is ugly. I can’t wake up next to a man like that,’ I reacted to one.
Mom came up with one of her wise sayings: ‘There is no such thing as an ugly man.’
Just to get back at her I rejected some men due to their ‘looks’. Others didn’t make it because
they had jobs in India where they earned a few lakhs a year. Despite all my feminist leanings, I didn’t
want to be with someone who made so much less than me. Why does a woman feel a man’s income is
more important than hers? Maybe because it is important to men, and very few men are secure
enough to just let this issue be.
‘No, mom. He lives in Bulandshahr. Joint family. Family business. No, no, no,’ I said as my
mother showed me another candidate.
I was realizing by now that sifting through prospective grooms was harder than valuing
distressed assets.
‘You are not doing this properly,’ my mother said as I rejected a guy because I didn’t like his
printed Hawaiian shirt.