The cook doesn't mind their fashion sense, he's more inclined towards Giriraj Singh's way of thinking, which is: the fairer, the better, that merit alone forming the basis for his approval, or its lack. His assistant worries about their statistics. If she's slim, like Minty, he feels she might diet too much, which, if extended to the family, might warrant the kitchen surviving on a regime of lettuce, kale and rocket leaves. If she's, er, "healthy", then he fears an increased workload for the kitchen staff. "Bhaiya", he feels, "is better off single."
It's a status his mother resents, especially now that his friends have been queueing up before the marriage registrar. "All the other mothers are crowing," she says, "about becoming mothers-in-law." I have my grouse about the increasing number of nuptials of "nears and dears" too, but mostly on account of my son's demand for a fresh wardrobe since every wedding comes with a half-dozen collateral events and, apparently, you can't be seen repeating your clothes on Facebook. "I'll buy you new clothes," his mother promises him, "just tell me you want to marry - but not Tina."
Tina is new on the scene. She's a cute kid, though my daughter says she shouldn't wear gowns when she comes home (I agree), the cook says she isn't as fair as Bhaiya, his assistant cribs that she wastes her food, and my wife is convinced she's a gold-digger. In the past, she's fretted that Monica was a spendthrift, Disha was depressive, and Gehna was a home-wrecker. Sadly, they're all history, not so much my son's doing as much as the family's picky shenanigans.
"Everyone's only concerned about his marriage," my daughter cribs, "what about mine?" "Do you want to marry?" I ask in surprise. "I know I won't if you can help it," she says, unreasonably pointing out several young gentlemen whose efforts to pay court have been thwarted - I grant her that much - on flimsy reasons. I suppose it's tough to reconcile with a parent who walks into night clubs to remind his daughter that it's past the Cinderella hour, or accuse her escort of drunken driving when he's neither drunk nor driving.
But my wife is more nervous about Tina's lack of suitability as a bride. "Tchah," she dismisses our daughter, "just wait, na." My son is dressing up for a night out in town and the driver has been dispatched to bring his latest companion home for a family vetting before he's allowed out. "Her hair's so gauche," my daughter says, when Amber and he have left. "She does not smile," the cook and his assistant chorus. "I think she's nice," I offer support. "I prefer Tina," my wife says, "I won't let him marry Amber, ever."