So what goes on inside the head of a man when he goes to meet a girl for a prospective arranged marriage?
This, a man of the 21st century, who has dated serially in the past, hooked up on random occasions, has never succumbed to patriarchy and been a little too cavalier with his personal life?
You’d think it would be a little like going into battle. You’re probably right. But more on that later.
Thing is, after four stupendously failed relationships, it was time to accept the bitter truth: “apun ka toh ladies department mein bad luck hi kharab hai.” No kidding. I had replayed “Tadap Tadap” more times than you could count, crying piteously every time KK held on to a particularly high note, and it was time to spare my neighbours that misery.
Of course, the prodding came from my mom. Having watched patiently on the sidelines as I tried – and failed – at every effort at epic love, she finally lost said patience and came up to me one day:
“You are getting old now, almost 30, and you’re not even close to getting married. Let me bring some nice girls home for you.”
I replied – “But Mom, I bring nice girls home all the time, they just leave in the morning. That’s a nice girl right there!”
Would you believe it, she didn’t think it was funny.
It took weeks of persuasion, but I finally gave in. I was dressed up, trussed into a vehicle and taken off to meet my mother’s friend’s friend’s daughter, sometime late last year – in November.
Of course I was given plenty of information to go on: I was told she was a promising attorney, quite tall, very pretty, “convent educated” and every other stereotype that my mother (and the latest newspaper matrimonial ad) could shortlist.
The Traditional Meeting
While arranged marriages continue quite regularly in India, they are an old school concept. However, over the years, their execution has changed. The age-old scenario from most 70s Bollywood films where the girl trots into the room with a trayfull of “tea cups and samosas” does not happen.
Instead, how it usually pans out today, is that the parents set up the “arrangement”, if you want to call it that, and then the independent man and the independent woman meet, on their terms, at a club or a nice jacuzzi by the pool – whatever suits their fancy. Parents don’t get involved till said independent children tell them they’re ready to get hitched.
Unfortunately? NONE of that happened in my case, despite indignant insistence.
I went the whole nine yards (no pun intended), did the traditional shebang. As afore mentioned, nice prospective groom (me) walked into the girl’s drawing room and waited to meet THE GIRL. Both families of course wasted no time at all in lapsing into overly enthusiastic conversations about Naxalites, the problems at the Centre and Uttam Kumar’s great contribution to cinema (in case you hadn’t figured it out from the abysmally long surname, I am of course, Bengali). And then SHE entered. The girl I’d come to meet, laden with a tray full of goodies like Santa on Christmas Eve.
My first reaction? Oh dear lord, that’s a pretty woman! Like a hapless comic book character, speech bubbles starting popping up everywhere.
Yes yes, I know. That’s pretty shallow. But come on! It’s an arranged marriage set-up, and let’s cut to the chase – if that’s the first thing you look at (read: the face) when you’ve logged into a dating website, then why not in this case? Besides, are you telling me you could get married to someone you’re not attracted to?
The Conversation
The meeting soon veered to a one-on-one between her and me. I feel I must tell you – there’s little in life that has flummoxed me as much as that conversation with her that afternoon. I’ll get to that in a bit.
Now, call it an “arranged meeting” setup, or what-have-you, it was still a meeting of equals on equal ground, right? Wrong.
One had expected the liberal 21st century prospective bride to have sharp relevant questions for the man she was expected to bed for the rest of her life.
Not so.
In fact, once I was done asking questions off the top of my head to figure out if I’d like to take this forward, it was her turn. This is how that conversation went.
Me: So, do you have any questions for me?
Her: No, not really.
Me: Is there someone else? Are you being pressured to get married?
Her: No, I have never had a boyfriend, not even a male friend. And no, I also want to settle down in life. Have a family.
Me: So, do you like me? Do you want to take this forward?
Her: Yes, I do.
Me: But wouldn’t you want to know more about me before you decide to take this forward?
Her: We’ll have our whole lives to get to know each other. What’s the hurry?
Me: But I could be a nut job, a wife beater or a patriarch – worse yet, I could be a Modi bhakt.
Her: That’s fine, I am very adjusting.
Well, after that, getting to the nearest exit seemed like the smartest thing to do. When my mother asked me later what I’d thought, I told her honestly, the the girl was weird. I also told her – it’s not her fault, she was raised this way.
It’s funny how even in this day and age, amidst the rows and rows of Starbucks and PVRs, there exist floating heads of conservatism everywhere. My prospective bride was never “allowed” to make male friends, never “allowed” to fall in love, never “allowed” to do anything but “adjust”.
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