I fell asleep rage-tapping on Shaadi.com after a rishta prospect messaged: "Can u make aloo paratha in heels?"
The screen froze. A glitchy "Match Found" banner blinked across my phone, followed by total darkness.
And then the rose water hit.
I woke up lying on a floating biodata, mine supposedly. Name: Aishwarya Sharma. Age: 30. Complexion: "Wheatish, but glows in natural light." Hobbies: "Smiling without showing teeth." Career: "Suitable for part-time only after children." Height: "Tall enough for kitchen cabinets, short enough for husband's ego."
Excuse me?
"Wake up, beta!" a shrill voice boomed above. "Your rishta auction begins in five minutes!"
I bolted upright, my head spinning like a Bollywood dance sequence. The air smelled like a mixture of garam masala and desperation.
Around me floated a pastel pink sky, bordered like a Kanjeevaram saree. Velvet carpet clouds. Hundreds of biodata scrolls hovered, their owners looking like matrimonial stock photos in purgatory. Women in various stages of arranged marriage preparation – some practicing demure head tilts, others perfecting chai-pouring angles.
"Where am I?" I croaked, my throat dry as my Tinder matches.
"Matchmaking Purgatory," came a reply from a floating peacock-shaped speaker. "Where bios go to get judged, matched, and auctioned. Welcome, candidate 108-A."
A screen above me flashed:
RISHTA BIDDING STARTS: 4:59... 4:58...
A parade of aunties descended, floating on umbrellas, wearing Kamarband-shaped Bluetooth speakers. Each held ladles, rose petals, and unsolicited opinions. Their sari pallus flapped like judgment flags.
"She's 30?" gasped one, nearly dropping her hot rollers. "That's practically vintage! Her eggs must be collecting Social Security by now."
"Can she deliver heirs with a smile?" sniffed another, who was somehow both texting and judging simultaneously.
"Too feminist," declared a third, peering at me through magnifying glasses shaped like wedding mandaps. "Her uterus might unionize. Look at those rebellious eyebrows!"
The aunties cackled, their gold bangles jingling like warning bells. A biodata printed out of thin air and slapped itself onto my chest with the force of family expectation.
"Fun-loving. Knows when to speak and when not to. Enjoys cooking. Worships elders. Allergic to opinions. Excellent ROI on dowry investment."
"Who wrote this?" I yelled, trying to tear it off. "This isn't me! I have a Masters in Literature and once told my grandmother her biryani needed salt!"
A collective gasp rose from the aunty cloud. One nearly fainted, caught mid-air by her designer purse's automatic airbag.
A loudspeaker crackled. "Presenting... the all-knowing, algorithmically enhanced, soul-matching deity of matrimonial destiny: BITTU UNCLE!"
A man descended on a giant samosa, draped in a sherwani made of Shaadi.com stickers. Bluetooth chappals, ghee-slicked hair, and eyes like rejected Aadhar photos. His mustache twitched with each matrimonial match he had ever made.
"Namaste, beta," he boomed, his voice reverberating like a tabla at a wedding reception. "You've entered the divine sortation chamber. Here, you'll be paired with your karmic match based on caste, bank balance, and your mother's approval rating, or recycled into an Aunty. No returns, no exchanges, terms and conditions apply."
"What?! I didn't sign up for this!" I protested, trying to find the exit. All I saw were doors labeled "Kitchen," "In-laws' House," and "Maternity Ward."
He ignored me, consulting his iPad Pro (Wedding Edition).
"Today's top pick: MBA, Caste-No-Bar but Definitely-Preferable, Gym-Optional, 5'11 with a Canada dream and a mother who still cuts his nails!"
A suitor walked up, chest puffed out like a peacock who'd just discovered hair gel. His label read: "Liberal But Likes Obedience."
"I respect women," he said, straightening his tie. "As long as they don't correct my English in public, earn more than me, or expect me to find the laundry hamper without GPS."
I squinted at him. "Your profile says you're 5'11. You're wearing heels."
"They're platform Crocs," he snapped, voice cracking. "Performance footwear for modern men. My life coach recommended them."
Bittu Uncle chuckled, slapping the man's back. "Beta, this is your 92% compatibility match, based on chakra alignment, your last seven pooja attendance records, and mutual fondness for destination weddings in Goa."
"No, thank you," I said, crossing my arms.
"Rejecting a match?" gasped an aunty, clutching her pearls so hard they turned to diamonds. "Sound the sanskaari alarm!"
A bell rang. Aunties began circling me, chanting from Matrimony Digest Monthly, their umbrellas spinning like marriage-minded UFOs.
I backed into a booth labeled "Bribe Bittu — Samosas Accepted" and hit a red button. A coupon emerged from a slot shaped like a mother's guilt trip:
"One Retry – Insert Self-Awareness to Exit Loop. Limited time offer. Rebellion may cause family WhatsApp group removal."
Bittu floated closer, holding out a velvet pouch embroidered with disappointed parent emojis.
"You may rewrite your bio," he said gravely, as if offering nuclear launch codes. "But remember, happiness comes from compromise, and compromise means giving up everything you want."
I stared at the sheet hovering in front of me. It still read:
Fun-loving. Flexible. Open to compromise. Enjoys long walks (to the kitchen). Dreams of becoming the perfect bahu. Special skills include mind-reading in-laws and folding samosas into exact triangles.
Who was she? This stranger wearing my face cream?
That wasn't me. That was algorithmic gaslighting with a side of patriarchy.
I grabbed a glitter pen from a passing peacock-shaped ink cart and scribbled:
Aishwarya Sharma. 30. Editor. Laughs loudly. Hates lauki. Will not touch your feet unless you're bleeding. Seeking equal partnership, not a merger. Can debate politics and still make good chai, but won't do both simultaneously to protect your ego.
The biodata glowed like a phone screen showing a blocked call from a relative.
A beat of silence.
Then chaos.
"Overwriting sanskaar detected!" screamed the aunties, their umbrellas flipping inside out. "Unauthorized bio edit! Rebellious girl virus spreading!"
Bittu's samosa tilted mid-air. The MBA suitor's nose flared like a bull who'd spotted a feminist bookstore.
"I'll accept her feminism!" he shouted desperately. "If she lets me podcast about it and mention it in my LinkedIn profile!"
Gold bangles flew. Mangalsutras whipped through the air. Aunties began bidding like it was the last sale at a Sabyasachi store:
"One chartered accountant with his own flat!"
"Two Marwari grooms with ancestral land and only slight mommy issues!"
"Three ghee laddoos and a prepaid honeymoon with complimentary 'When to expect a baby' calendar!"
I held up the rewritten scroll like a torch. "I'm not for sale! Not for samosas, not for security, not for society's approval!"
The sky thundered. The floor trembled. Bittu Uncle dropped his Limca and his jaw simultaneously.
The biodata exploded in light.
***
I woke up in my bed, phone still clutched in my hand.
My screen pinged. A Shaadi.com notification flashed:
"New Match: Bittu's Cousin — 6'0, Cooks Decent Pasta, Doesn't Know What Feminism Is But Supports It Anyway."
I laughed. Hard. The kind of laugh my biodata would never approve of.
Then deleted the app.
And sent a text to my best friend:
"Found my match—me. The rishta cartel can choke on lauki. Brunch tomorrow?"
React
