“Lady Jalebi is a young, vibrant Londoner quite happily living the single life and playing the field. Her anxious parents however, think it’s high time she settled down and are on a quest to find the perfect Desi guy for her to marry. From set ups to speed dating, join her each month as she provides a light-hearted insight into some of her weird and wonderful encounters on the long journey to find The One.”

“Stay out of the sun, you have a rishta coming to see you when you get back and I don’t want you looking black”, were the first words my mum said when I called home from my Miami vacation. I was used to her blunt warnings against tanning but this was the first time I had heard about a suitor visiting. I pushed it firmly to the back of my mind until I returned to London.

Once home, dad became tenser with each passing day and it was driving me insane. He insisted I wear a sari for the meeting but the only ones I had were heavy wedding ones so I stubbornly refused. Then he started telling me to wear my hair in a middle parting and buy some shoes with a wider, flatter heel instead of my stilettos. Any criticism of his judgement resulted in a lengthy lecture on how it was important to create a good impression. If I followed his advice the only impression I’d be making would be of a village girl fresh off the boat.

My friends offered some advice too. Payal explained the importance of pouring the tea for everyone so I would look like a good traditional girl; while Kiron told me that if I didn’t like the boy I should keep a grain of rice on my face while eating and to snort occasionally.

The inevitable day arrived, as did the family. I ignored my dad’s fashion advice and wore a simple yet elegant Indian outfit. They came with Matchmaker Aunty who acted as the buffer for both families. I came downstairs and saw him standing in the hallway. He was a fairly good looking guy and I was pleased to note, slightly taller than me. We all went into the living room and I was so nervous my insides felt like they were eating themselves. Shortly after, mum brought in the tea and I geared myself up for my big Tea Pouring moment. Just as I was about to get up, disaster struck! Dad, oblivious to my plan, moved in and poured the tea himself. I was mortified and had no idea how to redeem myself, as making small talk in Bengali was not my forte. All I could do was sit tight with a fake smile plastered on my face - I hoped I looked demure rather than retarded.

Thankfully Matchmaker Aunty called me into the kitchen and I was glad of the distraction. Then she told me to go into the extension and wait while she called the boy over. I smiled weakly and obeyed. I wanted the ground to eat me as I waited for him to sit with me. It was awkward and I desperately wanted to escape but I stoically carried on smiling and tried to make conversation. The boy spoke softly and seemed shy with a quiet seriousness about him. I could tell he was a good guy even if he didn’t talk much. I, however, couldn’t stop talking. My nervousness had manifested itself into an uncontrollable bout of verbal diarrhoea and I felt slightly manic. I was cracking up under the strain.

When he managed to get a word in edgeways, he kept trying to steer the conversation onto serious issues about marriage, trying to gauge my views. It was all too heavy and unexpected for me so I kept steering the conversation back onto lighter topics. This did not bode well. I was a fun-loving holiday junkie who refused to talk about marriage other than in the briefest of terms, and he was a solemn guy whose idea of extreme excitement was going to the cinema. I squinted at him, picturing what our married life would be like - comfortable, quiet, mundane and not something I was sure my personality could handle. After what felt like a lifetime they eventually left, leaving me completely drained.

A few days later we got a call from Matchmaker Aunty saying that although the boy liked me, he didn’t think I was ready for marriage. It was true, and we weren’t even really suited to each other. Even though it was the right decision I still felt a bit miffed at being rejected. Mum was devastated that I let such a good catch slip, telling me off about being too immature and talking too much about holidays. Dad was convinced it was because I didn’t wear enough make up or a sari. Six months later we found out it was actually because he had someone already in mind and married her instead. My mum took some consolation in the fact that his parents still preferred me to his new bride who was apparently too quiet. It didn’t matter much to me, I was still young and my quest for a suitable boy had only just begun…

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