Kishore Singh: The prospect of a blind match

Having failed to keep up with various cousins over the years, I was suspicious about their sudden interest in my welfare. "Hello," one called in the middle of a busy day, "remember me? I'm Guddu." "No," I informed Guddu - as it turned out prophetically - "I'm not interested in buying anything." But Guddu would not be put off because he proved not to be a salesman at all. He was, he claimed, my middle aunt's daughter's son-in-law and he had called to enquire whether the rumour that I had a son was true. "It is true," I assured him. "Are you taking a census of the family?" But Guddu, who was lacking a sense of humour, said that what he had was a marriage proposal for the son whose existence I had just confirmed to him. "Gudduji," I said, "I would be delighted if my son did get married, as that might be the only way to get him to leave the house, but I don't think he will take kindly to your setting him up on a blind date."

Guddu was not easily persuaded to disengage from the phone. He was horrified that I had referred to his proposal as a date. If I persisted in declining, he insisted, we wouldn't find a suitable bride even if we scoured the seven seas. He pointed out that pride would be my downfall. He threatened to tell all of the clan to have no truck with me in regard to my son's marriage. On the last count at least, he probably had less clout than he imagined, for soon we were inundated by calls from relatives who probably ran matrimonial agencies on the side. Did I know how old my son was? "Er, yes." Did he have a job? "Definitely," I assured Ghungroo, "because his mother has hot lunch delivered to his office." I would have explained further, for it rankled that the same privilege was not extended to me, but Ghungroo seemed interested only in my son.

Suraj wanted to know how much he earned - I think the term he used was "How many zeros in his salary?" Meera was concerned about his height. Kanchan wanted to know if he had any vices. "I can send you a photograph of his room," I told her. "It's usually a mess." "You aren't helping your son's case by calling him untidy," my wife complained, worried it might reflect on her parenting. "Oh, he is," my son smiled in relief - the burden of being eyed as a commodity by the clan was wearing him down too. Did he have a girlfriend, Kanchan continued her interrogation. When I suggested that he had a few girlfriends, none of whom he seemed serious about, Kanchan declared, "Don't worry, the other family will adjust."

Of late, though, the number of calls has dropped as word seems to have got around that, curious as it might appear, getting married isn't on my son's bucket list any time soon. Not without some dire warnings about his - and our - bleak future, though. We'd barely heaved a sigh of relief when Guddu - did I remember him? my middle aunt's daughter's son-in-law - called to confirm a rumour he wanted me to corroborate. Did I know that I had a daughter? "Yes," I assured him, "that's what my wife tells me too." Guddu's sense of humour hadn't improved over the years, but I suspect our current prospects include viewing suitable boys that my daughter warns she won't be interested in.