The government confirmed Thursday that Priya Chowdhury, a 27-year-old software engineer from Dhanmondi, had triggered a cascade of emergency protocols upon waking on her birthday to find herself unmarried, unengaged, and in possession of what officials described as “a rent-controlled apartment she pays for herself, which is not helping anyone.”
The Prime Minister’s office issued a six-page advisory before noon.
The crisis had been anticipated. Chowdhury’s file had been flagged as early as last October, when she declined a match proposed by family friend Sultana Begum, 58, of Mirpur, on the grounds that the prospective groom had described his primary hobby as “sitting.” The rejection was logged. A note was added. The note said: “Picky.”
“We saw this coming,” said Sultana Begum, who arrived at her residence on Thursday afternoon. “A girl like her, good family, decent complexion, and she is wasting it. Every year that passes is a year less. I have said this to her mother. I have said it many times. Her mother agrees with me. Priya does not attend these conversations.”
The Ministry of Matrimonial Affairs activated its 27-F protocol at 12:01 a.m., the moment Chowdhury’s age officially changed. The protocol involves the automatic mobilisation of what the ministry’s internal documents call “the concerned network,” a term referring to aunts, neighbours, the mothers of married classmates, and at least one person who barely knows the subject but has a nephew in Canada and considers this relevant.
By 9 am, Chowdhury’s mother had received four phone calls.
Neighbours were less formal but no less thorough. Rubina Akhter, 52, who lives one floor above Chowdhury in the Dhanmondi building and has watched her come and go for three years, offered her assessment without being asked. “She comes home late. Always working. I see her through the window sometimes, on her laptop at midnight. What kind of life is that.” She paused. “My son is also in IT, but he is married. He married at 25. His wife is very homely.”
The word homely was deployed without irony.
Colleagues at Chowdhury’s firm, a mid-sized software company in Gulshan, were divided in their response, though the division was less ideological than competitive. Tania Rahman, 26, who sits two desks away and became engaged in January, said she felt “genuinely worried” for her colleague. “She is very capable,” Rahman said. “That is not the issue. But capability is not everything, is it. You need balance.” Rahman’s engagement ring caught the light as she said this. She did not appear to notice.
Farhan Islam, 29, who attended university with Chowdhury and has been sending his mother her LinkedIn profile on an irregular basis, called the situation “a waste.” “She was always the smartest person in the room,” he said. “You would think that would make it easier.” He trailed off. It was not clear what he meant. He seemed to feel he had made a point.
The government’s position was outlined at a press briefing on Thursday by Deputy Commissioner Faruq Hossain, 56, who heads the ministry’s Female Demographic Stability division. He was careful with his language. “The state does not mandate matrimony,” he said. “We simply note that the optimum window, as identified by our research division and also by every aunty in greater Dhaka, is closing. We are here to facilitate awareness.” The word facilitate appeared in his prepared remarks four times.
When asked what research underpinned the concept of an optimum window, Hossain said the question was outside the scope of the briefing.
Outside the briefing room, Sultana Begum had apparently made her way across town and was speaking to a journalist without having been invited to do so. “The problem with girls today,” she said, “is that they think they have time. They do not have time. Time is not their friend. I was married at 19. My daughter was married at 22. She is very happy.” A follow-up question about whether her daughter was in fact happy caused Sultana Begum to abruptly remember an appointment.
Chowdhury did not attend any of Thursday’s proceedings. She was, by most accounts, at work. A colleague said she had brought cake to the office, the good kind, from the Shyamoli bakery on Road 2, and had distributed it without ceremony. She had a meeting at eleven. She took the meeting. She ate a slice of cake at her desk around three o’clock while reviewing a pull request, which is a thing people do when they write software, and which has no bearing on their marriageability except insofar as everything does.
By evening, the concerned network had dispatched no fewer than three new proposals. One was the man from Sylhet. He had been resubmitted. His mother, it was noted in the accompanying message, had specifically asked.
Chowdhury has not yet responded. She is, by all available evidence, sleeping fine.
End Note: This satirical feature is fictional. The characters and events portrayed are imaginary, though the societal anxieties surrounding unmarried women may feel uncomfortably familiar.
