All he wanted was the perfect woman: fair, beautiful, loving, caring, educated, a great cook and a Hindu extremist. He got her.
The marriage was splendid and lasted four days, paid for by her father, a wealthy zamindar and also shakha pramukh of the Hindu Jagran Society. Pic/Getty Images
Dr Balmiki Kumar, BDS, 5'8" (presently not working) (Born 2-7-1989, 6.50 am, Bhagalpur, Bihar) Caste Brahmin, Gothra Bhardwaj. I want any very fair, beautiful, very loyal, very trustworthy, loving, caring, brave, powerful, rich, EXTREMELY PATRIOTIC TO INDIA WITH A KEEN DESIRE TO INCREASE INDIA'S MILITARY AND SPORTS CAPABILITIES, an extremist but compassionate, an expert in child-raising and excellent cook, Indian Hindu Brahmin working girl from Jharkhand or Bihar. Sampurna Kundali Milan and 36 Gunas Matching Must!
- Matrimonial ad published November 2021
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One year later
My brand new Nike Zoom Vaporfly running shoes were missing. Again.
And my darling wife Bhoomiputri had been out all night. Again.
Unless she came back soon and made her legendary breakfast chana ghugni for me, this day was going to start without my usual 10 km cross-country run plus on an empty stomach.
Married life had been bliss so far. She was everything I had dreamed of and more. But of late, her behaviour had been deeply disturbing. Inexplicable late nights, long phone calls, late-night texting - and a certain gleam in her eyes.
And what was it with her and shoes?
Three weeks ago it had been my Adidas PureBoost polyester sneakers. After turning the house upside down, I had looked under our bed, which brought back such steamy memories. I'd found two Swedish-made portable RBS-70 laser-guided missile launchers and her own bathroom slippers - but no shoes.
I finally found them in her closet. I also discovered six Kalashnikov assault rifles behind her Paithani saris. Further south, buried under a pile of belts and boots, were several ABC-M25A2 riot control hand grenades.
Don't misunderstand me. I still loved my Boom beyond words. That's what I call her when we're cuddled in bed together. Four-syllable names are mood-killers and a woman so fair and beautiful, not to mention loving and caring, deserves something more - well, tender. Sometimes I call her Boom Baby, which she adores. The family calls her Boom Bhabhi.
It had been a magical year. Boom's father had responded to my matrimonial ad with a single-page natal chart of his only daughter. One look at it and I knew my long wait was over. All 36 gunas matched! There was Sampurna Kundali Milan!
Then I saw her photograph - and my heart was lost forever. Hers were the Y chromosomes I wanted my sons to have. Those eyes! That face! And those two stupendous - well, let's just say she was a goddess no matter where you looked.
The marriage was splendid and lasted four days, paid for by her father, a wealthy zamindar and also shakha pramukh of the Hindu Jagran Society.
The wedding night was a surprise: she came masked and wearing black vinyl tights, carrying a red silk blindfold, handcuffs and other vaguely paramilitary objects. I laughingly indulged her when she ordered me to lie down, tied me up, blindfolded me and whipped me for half an hour.
Later, sharing a romantic kulfi, she explained that she had Googled the letters BDS after my name and understood that I liked being tied up, disciplined and subdued. I smiled and bit her arm lightly, as a Bachelor of Dental Surgery might.
There was a loud crash downstairs as someone broke down the main door to the house. I ran down in a panic - and there she stood, my goddess, the queen of my dreams. Though I could swear she hadn't been bald the last time I'd seen her. And she'd not been wearing a saffron blanket as her only garb. Her eyes shone with a strange intense light.
"Last night we destroyed three places of worship," she said. "We can build Hindu temples there now."
"Thank god you're here," I said. "I'm famished, Boom. And I'm waiting for my loving wife to make me some yummy chana ghugni."
"First let's get some basic rules straight," she said. I looked up into brave, fearless eyes. "I've changed my name. You'll have to call me sadhvi now."
I laughed and said, "Whatever, my sweet. Now tell me why you've hidden my shoes again? And why all those guns and grenades?"
"All to be donated to our jawans in the army and our great athletes, boojums," she said. "What else would you expect from a girl who's extremely patriotic to India with a keen desire to increase India's military and sports capabilities and is a compassionate extremist?"
I couldn't argue with that. "You're still my beloved Boom, an expert in child-rearing, brave, powerful and rich."
"Not Boom, won't tell you again," she said, conjuring a whip out of nowhere. "Call me Sadhvi Mahisha."
"Seriously?"
"Never been more serious," she said. "Your name has to change too. Which self-respecting Hindu would call himself Balmiki Kumar? Really?"
I really hoped she'd take that chana ghugni more seriously now.
"From now on," she said, "We'll just call you Balz."
Here, viewed from there. C Y Gopinath, in Bangkok, throws unique light and shadows on Mumbai, the city that raised him. You can reach him at cygopi@gmail.com
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