Nadia Riaz
From an upbeat Lahore newspaper TFT

A prospective bride and groom are given exactly 15 minutes to decide whether they can spend the rest of their lives together, while their parents sit in the next room, laughing over tea and biscuits


There he is, sitting in front of me. Our families have given us fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes? They must be joking. One needs fifteen minutes just to do one?s regular morning business on the loo; it takes fifteen minutes to bleach face-hair. And some say it?s just about possible to drink a cup of tea in fifteen minutes. But to decide whether or not you can spend the rest of your life with someone you have never seen before, never known ? fifteen minutes is definitely not enough time.

As I ruminate on the merits of our time (or lack thereof) together, the clock is ticking ? 14 minutes left. I start examining my suitor. He is tall, but not that tall. I can?t tell precisely, as he is sitting, but surely he?s not taller than 5?8?. I?m 5?2?, so we?d probably look good standing together ? even though my sister would tell me to forget it ?He?s too short,? she?d say. I take a good look at his physique ? broad shoulders, muscular arms and neat hands (including nails) ? and, horror of horrors, I cannot find anything to criticise. His hair is shiny, healthy and cut in a short, conservative style. Nothing spectacular, but nice ? very Ethan Hawke-ish. Attractive eyes, a thin nose and well-shaped lips in a handsome face; however, at the moment his complete lack of expression is a slight turn-off. He reminds me a lot of the male models I used to see as a child in Pakistan in PTV ads for cooking oil. The wife is making samosas and pakoras fried in cholesterol-free oil and in the end the husband enters with their son after a tiring cricket-match, expressing his joy at being offered a delicious, cholesterol-free meal.

Time?s a-ticking ? 13 minutes.

His clothes, although casual, appear expensive, as do his black boots. If nothing else, he definitely has good taste in clothes and shoes ? which would lead to the conclusion that he is relatively well off, being able to afford said items of clothing. So, let?s quickly re-cap ? good-looking guy, with a clean, conservative haircut and expensive shoes and clothes.

Can I assume that he has good taste? Maybe he has appalling taste and his mother or sister or someone else bought his clothes and took him for a haircut. Maybe he doesn?t even know that he?s wearing nice shoes.

12 minutes.

It occurs to me that although I am staring at him shamelessly, he is looking everywhere but at me. I can hear our parents laughing and chatting in the next room. Our dear satisfied parents, celebrating a new (yet still unborn) relationship. In a detached sort of way I find it amusing that, keeping in mind the changing times and attitudes of our generation, they have ?allowed? us to sit alone in my room to ?get to know? each other better. ?Get to know? ? that?s funny. After these fifteen minutes are up, I will be expected to know enough about this man to judge whether I can spend the rest of my life with him, and right now I can?t even remember his name.

11 minutes.

My mother laughs out loudly. Someone (I assume from his family) must have cracked a joke. Perhaps not a very funny one, but funny enough to give my mother an opportunity to display her overflowing happiness. And man, is she happy. But if it?s a question of her happiness, why am I wasting these 15 minutes of my life? 15 minutes that I could spend watching the second half of the Tom and Jerry Show. I look at my prospective husband; I feel like asking him if he watches Tom and Jerry and whether he prefers Tom or Jerry.

9 minutes.

He still hasn?t said anything. Neither have I. I try to catch him looking at me, but he doesn?t. He is flipping through a very old issue of ELLE, brought by a cousin from a few years ago. My mother insisted on putting it on my desk, saying it would make ?a good impression?. I remember choking mentally on her lower-middle-class mentality when she said it.

I keep staring at him. I want to ask him about his girlfriends. How many he has he had and which ones did he love the most? Why did he break up with them? Or did they break up with him? Maybe he?s not looking at me because his girlfriend is waiting for him at a nearby restaurant. Or maybe he?s just not interested in me.

7 minutes.

I?m beginning to wonder whether I?ll ever hear his voice. I imagine myself sitting in his bed at night ? ?that? night ? and hearing his voice for the first time, and it turns out to be the famous Saif Ali Khan voice. Thinking of my reaction, I smile.

He decides to look at me at that very moment. No! He saw me smile. He must think I am mad or something, smiling at nothing. I want to tell him why I smiled. I want to tell him that I like to smile and I love cartoons. And I want him to know that I talk a lot. But I still say nothing. Neither does he.

6 minutes left.

I try to concentrate on his facial expressions. Searching for expressions on an expressionless face is like wearing sneakers with shalwar kameez and not looking stupid. Still, I try. He must have noticed my sky-blue suit with matching shoes (my passion) and matching hairpins (my mother?s instructions). I put on some lip-gloss and sky-blue (what else?) eye shadow. I?m sure that I am looking good. But he?s certainly not going to say so! Maybe he hates blue or maybe he hates girls who use hairpins. Not that it would bother me, but it would be an addition to the empty ?things-he-likes-and-things-he-does n?t? basket.

4 minutes.

I can hear my mother laughing loudly again. Maybe his mother said something about his childhood pranks or maybe my father revealed the story of my first attempt to make coffee. I can make good coffee, but does he like coffee or does he prefer tea? Maybe he is allergic to caffeine and drinks neither tea nor coffee but milk, straight.

3 minutes.

I?m starting to get impatient. But I?m too proud and self-respecting to be the first to speak. I want to tell him how I sometimes don?t talk to friends for months after having a fight. I want to ask him about his best friend, whether he has many friends or just a few. I want to ask him whether he likes to walk in the rain, whether he likes to eat thandi daal straight out of the fridge, and who his favourite author is. Whether he likes cologne and what his favourite fragrance is. But I don?t. I quietly sit there, watching him, feeling ridiculous with my sky-blue hairpins. And I hate him for it.

Only two minutes are left, and my mother will be walking in any second now. I want to ask him why he stayed quiet all this time. Instead I ask, ?Do you like watching Pakistani movies??

Silence. He looks at me, surprised.

?I mean, with the vulgar dances and cheap comedy and all?? I venture.

He smiles, ?No, not really.?

As I hear my mother approaching the room, I think to myself, ?He?s passed.? He doesn?t watch cheap movies, so I will marry him.