This morning the attack came before I rolled out of bed. An aunt called me with the ‘good news’ of N’s mangni. I expressed exuberant delight, wishing her happy etc etc. She also broke to me the ‘sad news’ that M had found someone else to lavish his affections on. ‘Wonderful’, say I, ‘everyone is happy’. ‘Almost everyone’ says she. ‘How so?’ Ask I. ‘Your mother is not’, she says. ‘Did she say anything?’ I Ask. ‘She didn’t have to’, she says. ‘Err, okay’. Say I. ‘But think’, she says, ‘don’t you want to get married? Want a husband? Kids? A settled life? A happy future?’ ‘Err, I don’t want to become an old, unhappy spinster with no one to depend on. No.’ Say I. ‘Then get married’, she says. ‘Err, to whom?’ say I. And the discussion comes to an unhappy halt while both of us independently reflect, rather sadly, on the current paucity of suitors. ‘Don’t worry’, says she, ‘someone is bound to turn up’. ‘I hope so’, say I. ‘You know darling, you shouldn’t have turned him down’, says she. ‘Maybe not’, say I. ‘Just promise you’ll say yes now’ She says. Even though I have no clue who-or-what I’m supposed to be saying ‘yes’ to, the guilt weighing me down leaves me with no other choice: ‘I promise’ say I.
Good ‘mourning’ world.