Most marriages are made in heaven; and then, there are Marwari marriages. Which are made anywhere between bare papaji’s office to Dolly aunty’s living room. But most significantly, they’re made under the auspices of a special clan — marriage brokers.
I was only 25 on that sunny summer day, when my cousin sisters, mother, aunts and best friend started swarming my bedroom, picking from a pile of clothes, matching trinkets and jewellery with each piece of garment, fussing over me the way only women in an Indian family can. The grand event was my first and impending dekha dekhi, or what the kids would call a blind date (only much worse). And before it, came an even grander photoshoot, which was to become this bible of sorts that would be sent out from my family to those with bachelors just as eligible as I was, five years ago.
I dressed up in flowy, embellished kurtas and gorgeous yards of traditional Indian wear. Then, I slipped into cool and funky western clothes, you know, just in case, they want a “modern” bahu. It’s shocking even to me how clearly I remember the details, because truth is, I detested what was happening. For a young 20-something with the twinkle of ambition in her eyes, it felt insulting — no, belittling — to be treated like a family heirloom pashmina — washed, dried and steamed to be sent out to another home.
Down to business
Five years and several unsuccessful Bumble, Hinge and Tinder dates later, I have to admit that I am no longer as opposed to the idea of an arranged marriage as I was back then; it’s just another conduit to bad dates, for all I care. But the business of weddings within my community is so perilous, one close look and it could put even Sima Taparia to shame. Mired with patriarchy, massive cultural hang-ups, anachronistic values, age-old misogyny and utter disregard for the girl’s wishes (in most cases), this is a system that is as daunting as it is amusing, though the latter only because I am lucky.
I have been through 37 matches only to swipe (left) out of the room, but all through it with my family by my side. So, thank god for that. And through all the pain, anger and (sometimes) humiliation, I have to say, I’ve also had fun. It’s like finding comedy in a tragedy, or being grateful for alternatives to sugar available alongside a cup of terrible coffee. And you’ll know what I mean.
Modus Operandi
To begin with, we’ll have to understand how this works. At the outset, it seems simple enough — you have a marriage broker who matches portfolios and if both parties show interest, they meet. If that goes well, the matter progresses or it doesn’t. But did you really think marriages between families that have crores of business, Bentleys and Gucci belts at stake, were that simple? Nope. It’s nothing less than a business deal. A regular wedding in my community could cost anything between Rs 3and 5 crore on an average. And the broker — who charges a one per cent commission on the total amount spent — has the potential of cashing out big, if everything works out. Needless to say, by one point, they’re far more pushy, domineering and (straight-up) annoying than any jaded bua/mausi could ever be.
Objectively speaking, I do understand their plight too. I mean, so many years later, I alone have not been able to meet the ladke waalo’s criteria, and poor Mahesh uncle (name changed for anonymity) has to pacify both ends. Firstly, he is given a spectrum that itself may seem vague, because folks in my hood say, “Humein teen ka rishta dikhao,” which translates to “Show us a match for three,” or Rs 3crores is the total amount to be spent at the wedding. He then painstakingly matches slabs within the portfolios he has under his roster. Now, this step is so crucial, that some Mummyjis I know also source the potential dulha/dulhan’s family-owned business’ balance sheet from the RTO to confirm their net worth. And God forbid if there’s a disparity, because that means Mahesh uncle needs to start from scratch. Once this is sorted, there are the more usual, vanilla ‘requirements’ that need to be cross-referenced — skin tone, height, career, education and so on and so forth, which I assume are applicable to my fellow sisters from all Indian communities.
What’s better to woo a girl — Gucci or Hermes?
Then the really terrible part begins: the meetings. I recall my first one with a bonafide Munna (as spoilt, rich, brat-men are often lovingly called), who asked me a question I still don’t understand. “Will you travel for work after marriage?” he asked me, as if it was a clever limerick that was going to sweep me off my feet. I was telling him about my travels to Singapore and Spain and all the jolly-trotting I had done around the globe, and the only thing that struck him was how I could possibly travel this much? By not meeting dimwits like you, and utilising my time in enriching my brain, I wanted to say. But I held my tongue. The second meeting was with a guy who was more socially awkward than Chandler Bing and Sheldon Cooper put together, and I am sorry if this makes me sound a bit racey, but I honestly liked his dad more. By my fifth meeting, I was already beginning to lose all and any hope in this, because my parents and I legit flew all the way to Delhi, only to meet a nincompoop, flashing his orange Hermes wallet and casual misogyny with equal flair.
Strictly vegetarian, please
Then there was a truly special one. This time, it wasn’t a straight up one-on-one. I arrived at their home, dressed to the nines and with my most effective, and yet, coquettish smile on, with my mom and dad to boot. We sat, had chai and all the fancy fare, as the family asked me about everything, right from my favourite colour to dream honeymoon destination. To be fair, this family was quite nice — they were open-minded, relaxed and friendly. After, I think, 245 questions, it was subtly (by brown parents’ standards, which is not subtle at all, by the way) suggested we spin off for a tete-a-tete. And that’s where things really went to the dogs. After quizzing me about my favourite foods and comfort dishes, he asked, “So you eat meat then?” I responded with a curt, matter-of-fact “yes”. To which he said, “Oh! So I won’t be able to kiss you.” I am still unsure if he was trying to be funny, or if it was something that he really meant. I will never know, and you know what? I don’t want to either.
Thank you, next…
By now, I have lost count of the number of boys I have met (last I remember, it was at 37) and also, the barrage of inane questions they ask — from whether I will give up on work; to what time I think I can return home from work so as to be able to help the mother and grandmother with dinner-making; or my willingness to give up meat and alcohol and my ability to balance work and home; hardly is there a corner that hasn’t been turned. Seldom, these questions are within the limit of basic human courtesy, but often, they just make for good stories to tell friends and fiends over (ironically) booze and barbecue.
To be honest, I jibe and jest about the circus that is the marriage economy because I have a supportive family on my back that knows not to overstep my thresholds. But for many out there, who have to woefully cow down to this flawed system built on money, barter and pressure tactics, life as a girl from my community may not seem as sunny as a ghewar plucked right out of the cauldron. And I am aware of that. There is also a sense in wanting or needing a checklist to guide you before you take — what is touted as — one of the biggest decisions of your life. But what pains, humours and confuses me in equal measure, is if demands like having Arijit Singh sing at the wedding can qualify as a worthy bullet point on that checklist. And if you ask me, the answer is a straight: Oh, hell no, please!
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Then there was a truly special one.... After quizzing me about my favourite foods and comfort dishes, he asked, “So you eat meat then?” I responded with a curt, matter-of-fact “yes”. To which he said, “Oh! So I won’t be able to kiss you.” I am still unsure if he was trying to be funny, or if it was something that he really meant. I will never know, and you know what? I don’t want to either
Five years and several unsuccessful Bumble, Hinge and Tinder dates later, I have to admit that I am no longer as opposed to the idea of an arranged marriage as I was back then; it’s just another conduit to bad dates, for all I care. But the business of weddings within my community is so perilous, one close look and it could put even Sima Taparia to shame. Mired with patriarchy, massive cultural hang-ups, anachronistic values, age-old misogyny and utter disregard for the girl’s wishes (in most cases), this is a system that is as daunting as it is amusing, though the latter only because I am lucky
The writer is just another single girl in the city on a quest to find love… without any dietary restrictions preferably