The groom-hunting squad

The villagers fondly called him Pahalwan. And pretty aptly so; just that he would look suitable for wrestling with skeletons only, having just a slight addition of skin over the bones. A wrestler of extreme feather-weight category I would say.

Those were the days when the fabled Indian arranged marriage was at the peak of its authority over the society. It churned out fabulous pairs. Six-footer burly guys got paired with thin, midget-sized gals. Or an above six feet girl had a tiny dulha whom she could easily carry in her arms like a baby. Or an extra-heavy girl had a thin groom whom she could easily crush with her weight. Or a prince charming in looks got a wife that would make anyone run for life after looking at her face. Or a demon-looking guy got a heavenly houri.

People would just fall into the pools of matrimony with a distinctly unassuming self, sweetly giving into the tersely teasing illusions of youthful desires. It was more of a draw of lots. Luck was the supreme decider in what did you get. It could be a grain of sand or it could be a nugget of gold. Those were but extreme cases. Most of the time it was a rundown mix of all the good and bad in both sexes involving physicality and natures. And with all the expected frictions, altercations, fights and quarrels the creaking cart of matrimony would drag on with its drama. Despite all the triggers, there was no tear-jerking drama. The teasing travails of a rough and tough countryside life made a motley mix of everything available.

Beyond brooding over twisted destinies and doomed fates, after the brief spells of buck-passing, the sediments settled at last, and people usually accepted what fell in their lot and moved on with life. The seamless conundrum of marriage carried a huge social sanction and breaking it on such inconsequential grounds would amount to breaching social and divine law. So divorces and partings were an exception even though the husband and wife were the most ill-paired ones.

During those days, parties of elders from the girl’s side would go scouting for a groom. They walked authoritatively in a file, wearing starched dhoti-kurta, carrying well-oiled sticks and their big turbans fitting majestically like warrior helmets for the groom hunt in the battle of matrimony. They carried an onus to hunt successfully. Someone would recommend a name and there they would go creating ripples of excitement among the youngsters of marriageable age.

A party on scout for a suitable groom arrived suddenly at the house of this Pahalwan. He hadn’t been forewarned. He hardly got any time to turn presentable. He was washing clothes on a stone slab wearing only a sleeveless vest. They stood around him. He panicked like a little hare hounded by old turbaned wolves. The leader of the expedition inspected him closely and calmly said the words of wisdom becoming his age, in fact chimed matter-of-factly, ‘Don’t take him for pheras, take him to a doctor!’ The file of groom hunters walked out silently.