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So it turns out that Droylsden is a small town outside Manchester. More importantly, his story checks out. Though conducting research on a boy I met on the Internet, when nobody else knows I’m online, wasn’t easy. This is where I really appreciate the value of family background audits. I now totally see why mum calls all and sundry when we’re expecting a rishtaa visit.
Being Bengali and 26, I don’t have the luxury of getting to know a person over years and years. Though times have moved on beyond the two-meeting rishtaa, we still have a relatively small window to meet someone and decide if we want to marry them. We’re not allowed to live with boyfriends or fiances. Once we involve the parents, that’s kind of it. We better be sure.
It’s too big a decision to make alone. I needed someone... anyone... to validate what this guy was telling me. Google Maps told me Droylsden is the next town from Auntie Jusna, though I’d be loath to let her or any of my cousins in on my online dating secret. They’d have a freaking field day.
I don’t want mum finding out, either. On one hand, I’m not sure if she’d approve of me looking for a husband on the Internet. It is unchartered territory. On the other hand, she might commend my resourcefulness but get overexcited about this boy. She’ll want a progress report every single day. In this very early, fragile stage, I’d rather not get her hopes up. Or mine.
Big sis is too old-school and dad is... well... dad. So I confide in middle sis, as she’s my safest bet. From the confines of my bedroom, which is unusually sibling free, I call her to spill the beans.
Surprisingly, middle sis approves. “Let’s be honest, we haven’t come up with anyone good for you. Other people always suggest their rejects and these professional matchmakers only have a ten-row spreadsheet of contacts. So going online really is your best option.”
“I thought that the general view is that dating websites were for losers,” I say. “Plus I’m scared people can tell you a load of crap about who they are because there’s no way of you checking. What if I end up marrying a serial killer, or someone who’s already married?”
“Don’t be silly,” says sis. “You’re not gonna marry someone straight away without getting to know them first. Plus, if you think someone’s decent, we’ll still do the meet-the-family formalities and do our background checks. So, it’s not that different to an arranged marriage. You’re just doing a bit of initial filtering yourself. At least that way you can stop the ugly ones from coming through the front door.”
I never thought about it like that.
“Plus it’s also pretty safe. You don’t have to publish your photo, so you can shop around anonymously. To be honest, you should have gone online ages ago. If you did, I reckon you’d be married by now.”
She’s awfully clued up on this.
“How do you know so much about this digital dating thing?”
She pauses, before dropping a massive bombshell. “Keep this to yourself, ok, coz nobody knows but how do you think I met your brother-in-law?”
I nearly drop the phone. “What? But... but I thought you met through our family. He came to our house and everything. You were so shy?”
I can’t believe it.
Sis laughs. “As I say, online dating is like an arranged marriage. I came across him on a Muslim matrimonial website. We met up a few times. I guess you could call them dates – though the halal version with no funny business. We also spoke loads on the phone and I just knew he was the one. I told mum on the sly so dad wouldn’t hear. She did a bit of investigating into his family. Someone always knows someone. Once mum figured out that his family are OK, she called his mum. His family came around the following weekend. That’s the bit you’ll remember, when I was shy, as you say. Everything else was done through the formal family route. So nobody needed to know how we met.”
“So was mum in on it all along?”
“No, mum didn’t have a clue about the online bit. I don’t know if she’d approve as she doesn’t really understand it. Nobody’s done it before,” she confesses. “Plus, very few people were on dating websites back then. I told her we’d met through friends. The great thing about mum is that she’s the master of turning a blind eye, gotta love her for that. She didn’t ask too many questions. If this guy’s someone you’re serious about, you can do the same. We’ll be able to fake some sort of connection. At the end of the day, it’s who you meet that counts, not how you meet them.”
I need a moment to take this all in. Middle sis has always been street-wise compared to big sis but this has surpassed even my expectations. When I said everyone was online but nobody talks about it, I didn’t think that included my own family members. I’m shocked, relieved that I’m not the only one online and pretty annoyed that I spent an unnecessary amount of time feeling ashamed of this seemingly open secret.
“Why didn’t you tell me any of this before? I’ve spent months feeling like I was doing something bad!”
“I dunno. I guess I figured you’d already know to go online. Isn’t that the done thing now? It’s much less taboo nowadays. And as nobody knows I met your brother-in-law online, I want to keep it that way. Anyway, now you know, you can get off your judgemental high horse and give this guy a chance.”
For a family who inform each other about every rishtaa visit, we sure are crap at communicating. I wonder how many more secrets there are.
Middle sis redeems herself by hatching a plan. Her hubby has friends in Droylsden and, armed with the information I have provided, he makes some enquiries. It’s exactly as sis promised. In the small - yet convoluted - Bengali community, someone knows someone who knows him. While this person doesn’t know him directly, she can vouch that he’s from a respectable family, who keep themselves to themselves and don’t get involved in community gossip. Middle sis promises not to tell anyone about any of this.
When she delivers the news to me, I’m relieved. Then she shares one crucial bit of intelligence: “I’m guessing you don’t know this as you haven’t exchanged pictures yet. But he’s bald.”