Kishore Singh: Single and singular

Everywhere you look," my wife observed, "kids are getting engaged." "Or married," I agreed. "And all we're doing is finding presents to give them, and deciding what clothes to wear, and whether it's okay to have dessert at the reception," my wife cribbed. "It means the cook gets most evenings off," I grumbled, "when I'd love to settle for a home-cooked meal," having had my fill of exotic African cuisine or dodgy sushi. "Tchah!" exclaimed my wife, refusing to be distracted by talk of food and wine, "why aren't our children getting engaged?"

In truth, we'd both been concerned at the apparent lack of romance in their lives. They both seemed to have a lot of friends, but it seemed that all their friends appeared to be doing in recent times was rushing about with boxes of mithai to announce their ring ceremonies or extend invitations for sangeet. If our children weren't attending bachelor and bachelorette parties, they were getting measured for wedding wardrobes to wear to their friends' nuptials. "Don't you want to get married?" my wife harassed our son. "Not particularly," he said contentedly. While our daughter's friends were being "shown" to potential grooms, she showed no particular inclination to being similarly aired. Didn't she have special boyfriends, someone in particular she liked more than others, her mother wanted to know, only to find the bedroom door banged in her face.

"It's all right," I tried to calm her, "they'll tell us when they meet someone they want to bring home." Trouble was, there were always a lot of their friends at home - raiding the bar and fridge, ordering takeaway (and leaving us the bill), sleeping over (so we never knew how many there would be for breakfast) - but how were we tell whether there was a Mr or Ms Right in their midst? In any case, I couldn't understand my wife's enthusiasm for getting the children hitched. "Are you sure you're ready to become an in-law?" I asked. "You don't understand," she lamented, "Sarla and Padma are always complaining about their sons' girlfriends, and Madhu cannot stand her son's fiancee, but I have no one to whine about." Our daughter's single status added to her woes. "I can't contribute to the conversation and tell them how wretched a potential son-in-law makes me feel," she added miserably.

I decided to call a family conference, if only to soothe my wife's ruffled nerves. "Your grandmother," I explained to our son, "is keen to see you married." Turns out, he had been in conversation with his granny and the matter had been amicably deferred for a few years. "Your friends and colleagues," I said to my daughter, "are going away on their honeymoons." "I'd rather go on a holiday," my daughter confessed callously. "I feel a little left out," I admitted to the children, for our friends seemed to be sharing cigars and malts with prospective in-laws while they planned holidays together. While they were playing happy families, all we were doing was gathering our nerve to join the queue for the inevitable wedding dinner - "always the guests, never the hosts", as my wife carped.

With the children in no hurry to relent, my wife has decided to pretend about the special persons in their lives. "He's so witty, but also hurtful," she said of our daughter's pretend boyfriend to her kitty group. "She doesn't eat, how will she do any work," this about our son's pretend girlfriend. Guess we'll be hosting a pretend wedding soon, too.