The Guffawing Matchmaker- A Short Story

I was unmarried then and the apple of the eyes of every; not would be brides, ofcourse not, but the flock of old, wizened with age matchmakers, who always look at you with a crooked expression, bifocals on their noses, just like a hawk who has spotted its pray. One such hawk was Mrs. M, the widow of Mr. M, who died a few years ago from a not so dreadful disease, influenza. Well, coming back to Mrs. M, unfortunately i was in her good books. She admired my family, and considered me a prized catch for some of the fair girls, the would be brides. She knew that i had a job in one of the big cities, but really did not know what job, our family had few tracts of land in the countryside and most importantly a status which was not marred by unpleasant things like married women eloping with stranger lovers or men losing their fortunes on vices.

She met me at almost all weddings none of which i was keen to attend. Being born a Goan, i would wish to say the weddings are more numerous and you have the phobia of being ostracised from the entire clan if you excuse yourself from attending one. She had a silly habit; at my sight she would abruptly stop all her witty gossip, with the members of her flock, rush towards me, dodging a few stray chairs meant for the guests, make a glance at me always starting from my face unto my feet and from my feet back to my face, extend her arm pointing towards the dias, on which the happy bride and not so happy bridegroom sat side by side chatting away non significant things in each others ears, smiling; guffawing at times. And triumphantly say " I would like to see you there next", and this time she guffawing in a pitch her failing lungs could afford.

So she met me once at funeral of Mr P. the grand patriarch of family P. which was into the business of studio photography. While Mr P. was resting on the floor amidst the smoke and the acrid smell of incense and and the oil lamp, i strided along to corner of the great living room, across to where Mrs. M was standing with her flock, with downcast eyes, sharing her knowledge about what happens to the soul in case it is not cremated by the customary feet facing south. "Hello Mrs. M" i said, disturbing her. After her top-down, down-top glance she offered me, i just extended my arms, pointed towards the dead body of Mr. P and triumphantly said

"I would like to see you there next" and this time i guffawed in a pitch my youthful lungs could afford thereby incurring the wrath of all mourners and espescially Mrs. M who never bothered me again.