Twist in the fairy tale: She was looking for Mr Right, she found herself

“… and so the princess declined the prince’s proposal, and chose to travel the world instead…” I finish my version of Sleeping Beauty, feeling proud and empowered, only to have my niece glare at me. “Why doesn’t he kiss her and marry her?” she asks me angrily. I try and tell her that it doesn’t always have to be that ending, but I stop. She’s six. I’m over thirty. Dreaming of Prince Charming, looking for Mr Right, I’ve been there, done that — for nearly a decade.

My first Mr Right came in the form of a nice, middle-class Tam-Brahm boy whose horoscope fit mine perfectly. And in the Five Spice outlet at Pali Hill, plied with alcohol and chicken, I thought triumphantly, this was it.

Hardly.

Today, I can walk into every suburb in Mumbai and point out at least one crime scene aka “rishta date” location: Chembur, Powai, Bandra, Andheri, Panvel. At first, there were feverish attempts at being matched into an arranged marriage. Some seemed promising while others ranged from the funny to the bizarre. Like the guy who in the confines of my room told me to reject him since I could do far better, while our families made awkward conversation outside. Or the one I never met, but only saw studio photos of in Indian and western wear, while his smug mother quizzed me on my rangoli-painting-singing-cooking skills. And, finally, there was the terse phonecall from No. 5’s mother to mine. They had run a background check on Google and discovered incriminating evidence of my non-Brahmin eating habits via my food reviews. Oops!

Somewhere between No. 6 and 8, I realised no one was marrying for love. They did, because it was the right age to procreate. Or find someone to look after one’s parents. Where I would backtrack from a match because the boy in question read only self-help books and told me he would pick the tab because he could claim it as expense, I was rejected because we would be “physically incompatible” (read you-are-fat).

Soon, I came about a new theory. What if I’d been looking high and low and Mr Right was just next door! So I kept my eyes wide open at the workplace, parties, the mall. A new kind of man crept in: Mr Wrong. He mostly made unplanned appearances: at a stand-up night, a friend’s office party, the bar during an off-site. While Mr Wrong usually meant whirlwind encounters, he could sometimes be soul-stirring… but I never once dreamed of making babies with him. The Mr Wrongs were short-lived but made for great dinner stories. But my romantic self gnawed at me. If all the Mr Wrongs were frogs, I’d kissed enough… where was He?

I had my moment one night. I’d been writing TV shows for three years now, and He was staring back at me from the Word document — my hero. He was as cocky, as edgy, as vulnerable as I willed him to be — a perfect Mr Right-Wrong! Lovestruck, I spent long hours labouring over him on paper, then longer hours watching him on screen. Forever? Nope. I hadn’t taken into account the harsh reality of TRPs. One day, I had to put him to sleep myself. That’s it, I told myself. No more searching.

A while ago, I took a trip with a friend. We sat on the beach at Mahabalipuram watching the sea, not talking, and something shifted within. I, who have always dreamt of sharing any remotely romantic scene with that special someone, was happy being there with a friend. Given a choice, I would also love being there alone. It felt empowering.

I went back and chose to work on only one show. I was involved in every aspect of it. I could search again, and this time not for Mr Right nor Mr Wrong, not a relationship, real or fictional, nor love. I didn’t feel depression, anger or cynicism but an overwhelming sense of freedom.

Janaki Viswanathan is a Mumbai-based screenwriter