Alas, I found it difficult to start a correspondence with any of them. A part of me said nothing would come of it anyway, and I-d just make some girl feel rotten. Finally, I wrote to only two and met just one, in a coffee shop in south Bombay.

"Listen," I said. "That ad was just a way to meet like-minded women. You-re more than a paragraph for sure and I certainly am. May we forget the ad now and slowly get to know each other and see where this goes?"

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She was an intelligent, reflective woman. After some thought, she said, "That-s fine. How many times would you like to meet me before you feel you know me?"
I hadn-t prepared for this question. "Five times?" she asked.

"Ten? Thirty?"

When I remained speechless, she continued, "I ask because I-m 28 now, and don-t usually reply to matrimonial ads. Yours was so different that I really wanted to meet you — assuming you had written it. I-m already on the shelf. An Indian girl unmarried at 28 is as good as a spinster. And I-m only human. Each time we meet, my hopes will rise a little more. I-ll think He likes me, he-ll say yes. But one day you-ll tell me, sorry, love, this is not happening. I just don-t feel it. And I will be destroyed."

This was not how our first conversation was supposed to go.

"So, let me ask again," she said. "How many times must a man meet a woman before he knows her?"

"I never thought about that, to be honest," I stuttered. "I thought we could just let this evolve in a very natural way."

"Even if at the end of many meetings," she continued, "you decide you like me and propose to me — the day we marry, I will be a different woman. I will be your wife. And you will have to start getting to know me all over again. As I you."

She paused.

"It gets worse," she said. "Like any human being I expect to learn and grow and keep changing all my life. We-ll have children, and that will change me — and you. I-ll see losses, death, sickness, and those will change me. I-ll learn new things, develop new skills, and those will change me. So the chances are that even by the time we reach old age, we-ll still be discovering each other. I-m sorry to say this, but I doubt you-ll ever completely know me — or I you."

She sighed.
"In fact, I-d hope my husband and I never ever start thinking we know each other completely. That would be so boring," she added.

I did not even try to respond now.

"So — how many times do you want to meet me?"

She smiled, the warmest, gentlest smile.

"I can say that I-ve met you, and my gut says you-re a good man. I-m ready to say, here and now, that I-m willing to marry you and take my chances. Perhaps we-ll grow old and happy together. Perhaps we-ll grow apart. Life gives us no guarantees."

I went home, promising to think about it but I knew I could not do this. Later that night I wrote her a letter as kind as I could, saying that I simply could not decide to marry a person after one meeting.

That should have been the end of the matter. But she wrote back, already crushed by the rejection. I could not let that be the last word on this episode. I invited her to one last cup of coffee.

"You and I are the same," I told her. "We want to marry, be happy, have a family. The difference is that I-m doing something about it, and you-re waiting for lighting to strike."

With her permission, I crafted and placed a matrimonial ad for her, every bit as clever as my own. I screened the replies and gave her a shortlist of candidates. Then we lost touch.

I met her years later, by accident. She was with a good-looking, kind-eyed man, who she introduced as her husband. I learned later that he was one of those who-d replied to the ad I had put out for her.

The bump in her dress told me that soon there would be a happy addition to their lives.

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 Send your feedback to mailbag@mid-day.com

The views expressed in this column are the individual-s and don-t represent those of the paper

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