“One more biodata for you,” said veteran marriage consultant Seema aunty, as she thrust a paper into the face of her client, like a secretary might thrust a job application on her boss’s desk. The last few had seen Pune-based Minnie Chanchlani yawn, much to the annoyance of the purported grande dame of marriage consulting, who had carefully curated a list of potential candidates for her young (debatable when speaking of a 31-year-old Sindhi woman) client.
Minnie wondered what was so special about these bio-data anyway? Old money or nouveau riche, she could not care less. What she was really looking for is something Seema aunty can never provide her with. A window into men’s souls, provided they exist. The souls, that is.
A thrill in the dark with no clue of what lay ahead
Minnie let her mind slip to when she was a tender girl of 16. There was this boy who lived in the same locality as her. Hailing from a genteel Parsi family, he was generously endowed with the looks of Imran Khan (the cricketer, not the actor) and an artistic streak not unlike Freddy Mercury’s. Those were simpler times. When they would lie atop the decrepit water tank in Jimmy’s building and gaze at the stars overhead. That first kiss happened there when a gentle drizzle fell. Jimmy Contractor took her to Disneyland, on a ride much like Space Mountain. A thrill in the dark with no clue of what lay ahead.
Somehow, this boy, this strapping young Parsi lad who had stars in his eyes that seemed a reflection of the astronomical objects in the night sky, connected with Minnie in a way no other boy could. She knew her parents would never let her marry a Parsi boy, but that did not stop her from getting a sinful taste of Jimmy every now and then.
A girl I dated once spoke of her best friend who was in a relationship that was doomed from the start.“Some people do it anyway,” she said. The sense of finality with which she peppered her statement made me wonder if she believed our relationship was doomed, too.
We goad our children into following their dreams, but end up writing their stories ourselves
How much agency do we have in seeking our soulmates? Pixabay
Back to Minnie. A date was set for an interview with the least undesirable candidate, Harvard-educated Mickey Punjabi, who checked at least a few boxes on her wishlist. Besides, “Mickey and Minnie?” How cool would that be! The Punjabis (who were also Sindhis) seemed more than generous, what with the vast array of snacks the dining table was laden with, when Minnie and her parents entered their home. Being chivalrous, a beaming Mickey took their umbrellas. It had been pouring since morning, a sign Minnie took to be serendipitous. Silences were more fun than the few words she exchanged with Mickey. Minnie had checked boxes while looking for an out of the box experience. Mickey was the merry-go-round she had long since outgrown. He gave her a “chhota Disneyland” kind of feeling.
After petty talk about the Pune weather, Mr Punjabi interjected, “December is the perfect time for the wedding. Mickey will be down in the first week.” As though on cue, Minnie walked out of the house, hailed a kaali peeli, and went home. Her parents did not speak to her for a year afterwards.
We goad our children into following their dreams, but end up writing their stories ourselves. When Minnie was just 10, she would play the violin with a finesse that surprised even herself. Her parents hailed her as a musical prodigy, even arranging a soiree with wine and cheese to toast their talented daughter. Years later, when Minnie told her parents she wanted to go to music school, her father quibbled: “Grow up, will you? Music is not a real profession.”
All that talk of Minnie becoming the next musical sensation (although she was far more modest about her musical prowess), suddenly meant nothing. Now, she had two choices. Go to law school or do her MBA. Minnie chose the latter, as though it were sealed by the toss of a coin. At least her parents would not be on her case anymore.
‘We always knew a love like ours was flawed’
Minnie wanted to be with Jimmy, but realised later that she wanted more from life Pixabay
Her soul was still into music. But then, the soul is not a tangible thing. Not something you can put in a biodata, anyway. Years later, Minnie was on a flight, travelling solo to Sweden. She could not imagine her luck when she discovered who would be sitting beside her. Jimmy, the love of her life from another life. Moments later, her heart sank. That pretty girl behind Jimmy? She was asking him to make space for her oversized suitcase. That melancholic look in Jimmy’s eyes, which she had missed seeing for so long, seemed to say: “We always knew a love like ours was flawed.”
Introductions were made. Jimmy was married, as Minnie had rightly inferred from Tina’s (that’s his wife’s name) body language. What was worse was that Tina occupied the middle seat beside Minnie’s window seat. Not Jimmy, her asli Mickey. Her soulmate.
Still, the familiar Disneyland had made an unlikely comeback, spicing up a boring plane ride.
Escape was futile, Minnie thought. One cannot get away, even on a getaway.
In Sweden, Minnie found solace in fresh air and verdant green landscapes. She often lied on the grass, sans thought. Perhaps life was meant to be experienced like this, she felt. Focusing on the stillness within.
A couple of years on, Minnie had a solo violin performance in London for a select audience. Tears streamed down her papa’s eyes as she played with feverish intensity. Had Minnie found it all? No way! But she was going on rides again. Rides that helped her comprehend the uniqueness of her experience in a strange, intangible manner. In hindsight, she reflected, marrying Jimmy would have never completed her.
Our souls, inherently flawed, have a keyhole in which no key fits. Not even our own.
Soulmates take the thrill quotient of Space Mountain rides several notches higher. No matter how Mickey and Minnie it gets, we only get a day pass to Disneyland.At night, we return to the darkness of our souls, trying to make sense of a larger experience common to us all. The experience of life.
Rohit Trilokekar is a novelist from Mumbai who flirts with the idea of what it means to love. His heart’s compass swerves ever so often towards Kolkata, the city he believes has the most discerning literary audience.