Groom in good time

All plans for my wedding, right down to the color of the ‘lehenga’ that my sister is going to wear, and the song that my maid servant is going to sing, have been worked out. Everything has been taken care of, except for one last detail—the bridegroom. My parents are still in the process of finding one.
When they first placed an advertisement in the matrimonial columns of a national newspaper, in their search for a suitable match for me, they were very pleased with the response. Knee-deep in mail, my father spent the better part of his days grading the bio-data of eligible young men.
Everybody around assumed that it was only a matter of months before things were finalized, because of the way the phone never stopped ringing and the rate at which photographs were exchanged and meetings fixed. Topics such as wedding dresses, guest lists and menu for the wedding monopolized conversation.
But I had my misgivings right from the beginning, I found the very idea of such a marriage and all that it entailed, very clinical and difficult to swallow. And the very thought of getting dolled up to enter a room full of prospective in-laws, with a tray in hand and bracing myself for a session of rapid fire questions, seemed so distasteful.
Of course, I was sure, I would never have to go through such an experience as I grew up in a liberal environment, secure in the knowledge that my choice of a life partner would be welcomed by my parents. I, however, failed to cash in on their broad-mindedness as all of my many infatuations fell short of growing into love.
So, when my father consulted me before placing an advertisement for a bridegroom in a newspaper, I opposed the idea tooth and nail. After much argumentation and reasoning, a deal was struck. I promised to co-operate on condition that I would not do anything that made me feel like a cow and that I would have the right to exercise my veto power at all times.
In the months that followed, I met young men from different cultures and professions. I came as close to becoming Mrs.Popli as I did Mrs.Verma. The meetings with my prospective husbands or should I say “could be husbands” and their families were interesting with many mess-ups, awkward moments and funny times. Though I definitely felt richer for the experience the bottom-line was that none of my ‘could be husbands’ became a ‘would be husband’.
When my parents felt satisfied about the family background and qualifications of the boy, I had some reservations. When I was ready to nod, they didn’t approve of some aspect. When my parents and I seemed to be in agreement, the stars, in the form of incompatible ‘janam-patris’ intervened. There were other twists and turns that my parents expect me to be discreet about.
Now, eight advertisements and fifteen months later, my mother is trying to unravel the mystery as to how this could be happening to her ‘tall, fair and slim’ daughter who is soon going over the hill. I, on the contrary, feel on top of the world, at twenty three years of age.
And every time my father looks at me suspiciously, I swear that I never tried to sabotage their efforts to find a suitable match for me. I would have thought that my family would be happy at this chance to have me enrich their lives for some more time.