The family WhatsApp group started buzzing even before the morning alarm went off this morning. The last time that happened, Bimal kaka had a heart attack. After fumbling to find my glasses I finally began to unravel the big emergency. Bulu maashi, my eldest aunt (now living in San Francisco), had just read on the news that the only solution to global warming was falling in love, getting married and having plenty of children. After conveniently omitting the “falling in love” bit, she was busy exhorting her younger brothers and sisters in the group to push their children to embrace the holy trinity of ‘biye, shongshaar, bachha’ (marriage, family, kids). The future of the world was at stake, after all.

Being the eldest, yet unmarried, son in an extended Bengali family, a lot of the anguish was obviously targeted at me. And in the truest spirit of Bengali ‘bhodrota’ (courtesy), none of my uncles and aunts made any effort to keep it subtle.

“Once Bubai gets married, we can all die in peace”,

“Bubai, you need to stop being so picky, OK?”,

“Bubai, be honest, are you living-in with someone? Chhoto told me the other day that he saw a photo on Facebook….”.

You get the hint.

After typing a few words of muted discontentment “Amake amar moto thaakte dao”, I slid back into my bed thinking to myself how long I’d have to endure this charade. For those of you in their thirties and unmarried, this might not be an all too unfamiliar situation. And this is not a uniquely Bengali thing as well, I’m sure. But boy do we add our share of flair to everything! — my grandfather used to do theatre in college, and he made sure to pass on the relevant genes to his many children. Luckily for him, he passed away before this explosion of family WhatsApp groups. God rest his soul.

But back to Bulu maashi and co, I couldn’t help but see a pattern emerging here. My loving extended family seems to have developed a certain knack for feeling personally victimized at my “misfortunes”. While I don’t see how my staying unmarried is a misfortune, my parents certainly see it as such. And as for aunt Bulu, well she thinks it’s a total travesty.

I’ve now come to realize that most Bengali relatives follow a vicious cycle of victimhood when it comes to the marriage of their children, nephews and nieces. For the first few years, they remain upset and annoyed at you, at not being proactive enough to marry early. For the next few years, they remain upset at your parents for not being proactive enough in getting you married. For another decade or so, they think you’re secretly living-in with someone (or even married), and didn’t bother to share this juicy piece of information with them. For another five or so years, and when they see you solo at family weddings, they contemplate the possibility that your recluse husband or wife must’ve left you for someone younger (or richer), or worse still poisoned themselves to rid their lives of the misery (that is you). Finally, and when all of these narratives run their course, they patiently wait next to their phones — waiting for you to finally call them and seek their help in setting you up with someone equally hopeless. So that two hopeless individuals can once again rekindle that which has been missing from our lives. That call never comes. So they get upset and annoyed at you, and the whole cycle of victimhood begins all over again.

But I’ve decided to cross that bridge when I get there. For this morning, for now, I’m just glad that WhatsApp groups have a mute feature. Too bad Bulu maashi doesn’t.

To be continued..