I don’t know what they want from me.

Its show day and the girls scuttle around the tent, gathering skirts and veils and bangles and shoes.

We are all made to sit on chairs; our smiles frozen on our faces.

They enter the tent, clipboards in hand. The prospective men don’t come into the tent; just their parents.

I’m arranged in a mid-list circle, along with all the other girls who do not hold MBAs or law degrees or medical degrees. Despite our lacking in educational value, we all have some other skills and assets that increase our market value.

Many of them walk by me, turning their noses up at my darker colour, my crooked teeth. They act as if their staged whispers don’t reach my ears. She’s too fat. If she doesn’t have any post-graduate degree, she’s just going to leech off our son. Her smile is too weak. Could we maybe bleach her skin lighter? Its too dark. She’s from such-and-such village, that won’t work. Not at all.

I pretend I can’t hear and the gold and red colours of the tent swirl in front of my eyes. I smile even wider. Now her smile makes her look like a joker.

We all perch on our chairs, our hair set high atop our heads, our heavy wedding veils framing our faces and draping to the floor. We are all decked in wedding finery; pounds of gold jewellery, red lenghas, and painted faces so that they are guaranteed our appearances on the wedding day and keep their status in front of their family and friends.

The ringleader ushers them into the other rooms, where other girls perform their cooking, sewing, walking, talking, posing, and social skills. I can hear the oohs and aahs drifting into the main tent, and many of the new visitors rush towards the noise.

The auction has truly started now and the rest of us stay in our seats, listening as one set of parents promise a lavish wedding, one that will put the Queen to shame; another speaks about the high dollar value of jewellery they will give the bride, while another set shouts about how handsome and accomplished their son is, and how their future children will be genetically superior to everyone else.

One pair comes to stand in front of me, and I extend my neck out further, sit up straighter. The gold choker makes me neck droop but I lift it up.

They read off the list on their clipboards, pens in hand.

“Can you cook this and that?”

“No.”

“Have your pictures received any critical acclaim?”

“No.”

“Have you won any awards? For social propriety, poise, posture?”

“No.”

“Are you under 90lbs?”

“No.”

“Are you taller than 5’7?”

“No.”

My head lowers in shame as I give answers that they don’t want to hear. But lying isn’t acceptable. Besides, the evidence is in front of them.

Eventually they leave, and the ringleader leads the leftovers to the common room, where we anticipate phone calls and letters indicating the response from today.

Unlike other days, I receive a letter. Beautiful script forms the letters of my name. Maybe this is what the wedding card will look like?

I tear the envelope slowly, my permanently henna-stained hands smoothing over the thick paper, turning it over.

The response is short and to the point.

No.