What reasons would you have to call a person who lives halfway across the world, who you have never met in person?
Chances are, it's not just to speak Hindi with them.

Chandermukhi, however, thinks otherwise. I met her on a forum more than a year ago, and decided to try build a friendship with her so that she would perhaps help me study Hindi. However, my lack of resources meant that that didn't go anywhere, until last December, when I bought a guide. Now I could email her in Hindi - and she was obviously very impressed, for two emails later we exchanged phone-numbers.
I really didn't expect her to call. If I did, I would have probably given her my cell-phone number and asked her not to call on a Friday evening.
Because that's when she called, and my mother answered.
"Some giggling person for you," she said. I took the phone. When I realised it was Chandermukhi, we continued talking for another two hours - thus missing dinner. My parents are rather fussy about Friday night dinner, and were not very pleased with me - especially when I explained it was a person I'd met over the internet.

Chandermukhi continued to call from time to time, and convinced my mother that she's from New Delhi - even though she's actually in Belfast, Ireland. My mother wracked her mind trying to think of what sort of work her parents must do to be able to afford these long-distance calls. She would guffaw when Chandermukhi suggested that I call her from time to time. One day, after another hour-long conversation with Chandermukhi, my mother interrogated me about her.
"How old is she?" she asked.
"Eighteen," I answered.
"So, doesn't she want to marry you? They do marry at this age, don't they?"
It is with shame that I admit that my parents still live their lives according to stereotypes. It's led to fiery arguments between us. Here, however, I decided to use this opportunity.
"Oh, I wish," I laughed. In my next conversation with Chandermukhi, I explained to her the prank that I had in mind: I knew that Chandermukhi and her family were rather mischievous. I decided to ask her if she could organise someone to assume the role of her father and discuss Chandermukhi and my marriage with my mother. She loved the idea and set about finding someone to assume the role. In the end, she found no one, but I asked my friend Arun to do it.
Arun agreed immediately. We discussed his character, and ultimately planned the date. All the while, Chandermukhi emailed me every day, eager to hear of the prank.

The day before the prank she called me, and we spoke about various things, including a man eight years older than her who had somehow fallen in love with her. She practised her next conversation with him on me.
"It's not going to work," she said.
"Ok," I shrugged.
"No, no, be harsh," she told me.
"All right."
"It's not going to work, and I'm still in my last year of school, and..."
"I don't think you like me."
We then proceeded with various cheesy lines that we both agreed would find a place in a Bollywood film. She now dared me to continue with this conversation - around my parents.
Since it would help the prank, I did so. I went to the kitchen, where my parents were, and poured myself a drink, all the while continuing with the cheesy lines. Ultimately it came to this:
I said, "I do love you."
"Yes," Chandermukhi encouraged. "Now, say that louder!"
"I love you!" I screamed. My parents showed no reaction, but my cheeks flushed, and I hurried out the room.

Then, the big day came. My mother in front of a soap-opera, I called Arun to tell him it was time. I told him to call my house phone. The phone rang. No one answered. At that point I realised the phone was nowhere to be found.
"Where's the phone?" I asked my mother. "I think it just rang."
"Oh, I didn't hear it," she shrugged. I hunted the phone down, and found it, just as Arun called again.
"Oh," he said, and chuckled.
"All right, just hold on," I said. "Yes, she's right here." I handed her the phone.
"Who is it?" she asked me. I shrugged, and hid just outside the lounge.
 
My mother started off the way she usually does when speaking to complete strangers: sounding like she is on the first crest of a roller coaster.
"Hello? Yes. Chandermukhi? I'm afraid I don't know any Chandermukhi. Oh!"
Then, she settled down and the two spoke. Most of it was just "Yes", but she also said,
"Oh! Well, good for you. I was wondering, how can they spend so much time on the phone on such a long-distance call..."
Then the interesting bit started. Her "yes"s became abrupt and confused. she burst out laughing at some points.
"Yes? yes? But they've never met... But, no, well, he's so young... he's in matric, you know? How are things done in your country? Well, we think differently... where will they stay?"
Now my mother left the lounge, apparently to seek me down. I hurried to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of coke. She whispered to me: is this a prank? I put on my best confused look.
"Well, I'd have to talk to him first," she said. "Where would they live? Oh, well, we think differently..."
Reading my confused look, she started to become nervous.
"By the way, what religious are you?" My mother's english isn't worthy of Oxford when she's calm, let alone when she's nervous. "Hindu? so it's ok for her to marry Jewish?" I spent my time chasing a butterfly in the meanwhile.
"Well, I'll have to speak to him... but he's very young! By the way, what's your name? Netus? Oh, Neote. All right. Uh, thank you." she said. they hung up.
"Tell me it's a joke," she growled to me.
"What?" i said.
"You know what. Tell me, is this a prank?"
"He wants me to marry Chandermukhi?" I asked. "oh, yes! that would be wonderful!"
That, however, was too far. My mother scowled, it broken upon her that it was a prank after all.

I emailed Chandermukhi the results. Arun and I guffawed about it for a while in Maths class the next day. Now I just await for the cunning Chandermukhi to call once more, and perhaps catch my mother - it would be fascinating to see what they would say next to each other!