The comic book Supergirl

Adear friend who makes a habit of reading matrimonial ads texted me excerpts from them recently. He has no children who need to be married off. (Neither have I.)

One ad concludes with this statement about the prospective bride: “paatri lohaar viswakarma.” This obviously refers to the community to which she belongs. Put like that however, it set me thinking.

Might she be a supergirl, like the Small Wonder kid grown up, programmed to do any job in the world? Or like Viswakarma Himself? “Lord of the arts, fashioner of all ornaments... and a great and immortal god, with four hands, wearing a crown, loads of gold jewellery, holding a water-pot, a book, a noose and craftsman’s tools in her hands.” I wouldn’t mind a wife or daughter-in-law like that.

Is it the advertiser’s way of telling you she will bring a lot of gold in her dowry? Is she a princess too? Immensely hard-working? A reader? What about the noose? If her parents are pestered by grasping in-laws for even more gold would she use the noose on them? Wow.

With traditional skills of ironworkers she would be indispensable. Think of the plumbing and other household jobs she could do by welding the odd bits of iron together. Fix the recalcitrant mixie in a jiffy, the rusting parts of the fridge, add a little panel of iron to repair your favourite wooden chair or table. With such skill at her fingertips she could even learn to do the jobs of the electrician and the tailor, repair the sewing machine, mend the leaking overhead tank, construct grills to keep burglars out, or even do a side business of burgling the neighbourhood by unscrewing the hasp from those well-locked doors and then reattaching it so the neighbours do not even know they have been burgled.

Breaking and entering without leaving a trace: the dream of all burglars. Lal paar sari, loha-sindoor and mishti mukhkhana by day. Invisible at night in black figure- hugging garments and body covered in oil so she can literally slip away from the opposition. Wow again.

Another ad goes “Bride wanted for MBBS doctor earning 7 lacs, divorced within one month for ‘fraud’.” Now, now, Mr Advertiser, that is a trifle vague. 7 lakh in a day, a week, a month, a year or a decade? Is he still paying alimony? Or is he defrauding the erstwhile bride of it? Who defrauded whom in the first instance? Why did it take a month for the other to find out? Was the young man defrauded of the dowry he expected? Or was the bride defrauded of conjugal rights for this reason? (I think she might have lucked out actually.) Was she frigid or just not “fair” enough? Or he impotent? Was either of them insane? Was the horoscope of either forged? Did she elope with a former lover immediately after the wedding?

Were her records not to be found at the “convent school” she was supposed to have been educated at? Was her management degree a fake? Did she look like Hema Malini the meek when he saw her at her uncle’s home, bringing a tray of goodies and looking hard-working and biddable, then turn out to be the tougher twin who would put up with no nonsense. (If you haven’t seen Sita Aur Gita, a classic of its kind, get a DVD immediately.)

On Sunday mornings I concentrate on crosswords and diabolical, evil and samurai Sudoku puzzles (I wouldn’t be surprised if they were called hara-kiri, one of these days.) I now realise there are puzzles in the matrimonial pages too.

They say that if the aging learn a new language or work on puzzles, they keep senile decay at bay. Matrimonial ads anybody?

Sajni Mukherji

The writer, a former professor of English at Jadavpur University, can be contacted at sajni.mukherji@gmail. com