SHOMA started reading Mills & Boon>® romances at the age of eleven, borrowing them from neighbours and hiding them inside textbooks so that her parents didnât find out. At that time the thought of writing one herself never entered her headâshe was convinced she wanted to be a teacher when she grew up. When she was a little older she decided to become an engineer instead, and took a degree in electronics and telecommunications. Then she thought a career in management was probably a better bet, and went off to do an MBA. That was a decision she never regretted, because she met the man of her dreams in the first year of business schoolâfifteen years later theyâre married with two adorable kids, whom theyâre raising with the same careful attention to detail that they gave their second-year project on organisational behaviour.
A couple of years ago Shoma took up writing as a hobby (after successively trying her hand at baking, sewing, knitting, crochet and patchwork), and was amazed at how much she enjoyed it. Now she works grimly at her banking job through the week, and tries to balance writing with household chores during weekends. Her family has been unfailingly supportive of her latest hobby, and are also secretly very, very relieved that they donât have to eat, wear or display the results!
The Times of Indiaâmatrimonial section:
âVery successful lawyer, good-looking, 33, height 6 ft 2 inches, South Indian, Bengaluru-based, seeks beautiful high-caste Hindu, well-educated, as bride.â
TARA looked up in disbelief.
âYou guys answered this? Without checking with me first?â Her temper was rising swiftly and her mother gave her a wary look.
âYour father thought â¦â she began.
âI didnât know he could think,â Tara said, whisking the newspaper cutting from her motherâs hand. One lengthwise tear, fold, tear again. There. One successful lawyer, ready for the dustbin. She carried the pieces across and threw them in. âIf they write back, tell them Iâm not interested,â she said.
âItâs not so simple, Tara,â her mother said. âTheyâre coming over this eveningâthe parents are at least.â
Tara stared.
âThat was ⦠fast,â she said. âWasnât that yesterdayâs newspaper? Are these people really desperate? Or are you that keen to get rid of me?â
âNo, weâre not,â her mother protested, looking unhappy.
Tara relented, putting an arm around her and steering her to a chair. âTell me all about it,â she said. âTill yesterday I thought you guys wanted me to become a schoolteacher and give up my âstupid plansâ to do a PhD in a strange city.â Her face darkened as she remembered the recent fight with her father. âNow you want me to marry a good-looking lawyer. Six feet, two inches, no less. Whatâs going on?â
âHeâs Mr Krishnanâs son,â Taraâs mother explained. âMr Krishnanâs the new general manager at the plant, and he happened to mention heâd put out this ad â¦â
Tara let a low whistle out through her teeth. Now, that explained a lot. Her dad was a lowly supervisor at the steel manufacturing plantâhis daughter marrying the GMâs son would be the ultimate in social enhancement, something like marrying into royalty. This needed some thinking through. Bengaluru ⦠Taraâs brain was racing. It could work. As long as she figured out how to manage it smartly. Marriage at twenty-two was not what sheâd planned. But it beat running away from homeâsomething sheâd been seriously considering over the past few days.
âWe wouldnât force you into anything,â her mother was saying, her worn face looking even more anxious than usual.
âWeâ meant her father, of course. The last thing Taraâs mother had forced her into was a pair of pink dungarees when Tara was three. Tara had hated pink, and the dungarees hadnât lasted five hours. But her father was a different story. His parental style was very closely aligned to the âbecause-Iâm-your-father-and-I-said-soâ school of thought, and he and Tara had clashed since the day Tara learnt to talk. Her mother had been stuck in the middle for the last twenty years, too scared to contradict her husband even if she secretly sympathised with Tara.
âItâs a very good family,â her mother continued, looking at her daughter appealingly. âI know you wanted to study further, but we might not get an opportunity like this again. Itâs not as though you have anyone else in mind. And the son is really good-looking.â
Tara frowned. Her motherâs definition of good-looking was deeply suspectâit was likely that the man looked like a Bollywood movie star from the eighties, complete with shaggy hair and oversized tinted spectacles.