25F Looking for Celebrity Chef for Marriage

I openly admit it. I have a Shaadi.com profile (which my dear friend Nabila reminded me of). Partially out of choice... the choice of wanting to spare my parents a few tear-stained pillows as they sit up at night in fear that I will never marry. I don't blame them for being at least a little worried. I'm crude, I chew with my mouth open, and refuse to wear deodorant - a specimen that would indefinitely repel that courtship of men of the gentile, educated sort.

So I put up a profile. My "About Me" section is as follows: "I am typing this sentence to meet the character limit required to post this profile in order to bring my parents some relief from either my inevitable doom of being single for the rest of my life, or ending up a lesbian. Whichever comes first." I was worried that my description would not meet the stringent quality standards upheld by the Shaadi.com team and yet, within a few hours time I was given notice that my profile was approved and then viewable by 1000s of potential suitors out there.

Then the phone rang. It was from an area code I didn't recognize. I picked up, and the conversation went like this:

Mystery Man: Hello. May I speak to profile ID #74825?
Me: Uhm... is this India calling or something?
Mystery Man: No. I am calling from Virginia. Why do you ask?
Me: ...Because of your thick Indian accent and you calling me by a random string of numbers as if I'm about to be the victim of identity fraud or something.
Mystery Man: [silence]
Me: Yeaah... I'm going to go. Please don't call me anymore.

Those assholes at Shaadi.com failed to inform me that contact numbers that were supplied to verify identities are also posted on the profile for the "sake of expedient communication" (their exact words from the complaint department). Suddenly, I was bombarded by countless phone calls from areas all over the country and Canada. I could hear it in their voices every time. No, not just the accent. But their horniness, and not necessarily for me, but for the crowned jewel of all jewels - US citizenship. I resorted to screening phone calls, which was not hard because no one ever calls me, and forgot about the whole incident.

While all this was happening, I developed my first celebrity crush on Vikas Khanna, a superstar Indian chef based in NYC, who ironically also holds the title of being a FOB. However, I look at him as a special kind of FOB. Unlike the majority, he does not have facial hair growing in strange places, does not lack any sort of personality outside of his tremendous amount of wealth, and judging by his impeccable grooming skills, probably does not smell of ghee (even though he is a chef) or at least covers it up with some high-end cologne:


I began fantasizing about the kind of life I'd have if I managed to "accidentally" run into him on the streets of Manhattan. I'd be waiting as he locked up his restaurant for the evening, and quickly come around the corner with my own homemade chicken tikka masala as he'd be walking towards me. I'd pretend I didn't see him. I'd run into him and have the chicken tikka masala splatter all over my dress. He would then, being the gentleman he is, wipe me down (particularly on the chest) with a handkerchief, taking the blame for the whole incident. "I should've watched where I was going," he would say. "No problem, would rather have that curry on my dress than in my mouth. Could never figure that darn spice ratio in chicken tikka masala," I would say. After having felt the heft of my breasts, he would not be able to resist and say, "Well, I'm a chef. I can show you how to make chicken tikka masala."

The rest would be history. We'd start vacaying in southern Italy, wintering in northern France. It would all culminate to a proposal involving an engagement ring with a curry leaf-shaped diamond and a wedding on the soft sandy shores of Mexico. Our married life would be in the spotlight though generally quiet. I would then have my dream come true of being the centerfold of Bon Appetit magazine (lets face it, Maxim and Playboy were never an option), where I talk about living a fairy tale life with a handsome husband on my arm, gourmet food always in my belly, and a wallet full of stacks of 100 dollar bills.

Now, I think of this dream every time I get one of those Shaadi.com perverts calling me. A typical conversation goes like this:

Pervert: Hello, I am interested in becoming your life partner.
Me: Well, are you a chef?
Pervert: No.
Me: Are you a celebrity of any sort?
Pervert: No.
Me: Is your name Vikas?
Pervert: No.
Me: Sorry, you are not anything close to what I'm looking for. Bye bye.

And the dream carries on.