Recently, certain “Arranged turned love” alliances have restored my faith on Arranged marriages. When my aunt first elucidated on the idea of having your other half presented to you in a pretty platter, I gulped a swear or two in total disgust. You wear a salwar kameez, not jeans which would mean you are not serious about this nor a saree which would scream that you are too ripe for marriage and you need to be hitched soon. So Salwaar kameez, preferably red or yellow since they are auspicious, not because they bring out the color of your eyes or make your cheeks blush.
So, it would be a step by step ‘process’. First, the elders of the family would talk about your qualifications not because they were proud of you but solely because they could weigh your possibilities of finding global v/s local groom, a doctor v/s engineer, a greencard v/s h1. Slowly, as weeks would pass by, your pictures would be passed around the town, you’d be obliged to go to the market with your mom with hope of grabbing notice of other moms hunting for homely brides, you’d be prettied up for weddings since those were the best places to get you in the ‘radar’. Finally someone would notice the expensive jewelry and good hair days and your dad would get a few calls or more. You would meet the boy, once if you are lucky, twice if you are destined to be together, and your third encounter would be by the holy fire and you’d be orbiting around it, hand in hand, gaze down, a few cameras focused on you, and all the elderly looking for another matrimony project. Kids, education, expense, nannies, more expense, retirement, poof. Life of an arranged marriage couple included no world tour or visit to an art gallery and definitely no bar hopping. I was wrong. The books and aunt’s stories were outdated with the last generation.
Last night, a friend called, thousands of miles away, on a foreign land talking about a foreign subject. Marriage. He’d met someone. I awed in response and asked where. He said, “what do you mean where?”. I said, “you know, in a train, in a bar, in a library, over the plane?” He replied in a higher pitch and a happier tone, “No, my mom and her mom are friends and it was sort of, (pause) planned.” He didn’t like the term arranged for obvious baggage that came with it. I was definitely surprised by his openness to the idea of his mom discussing his bio-data with a stranger. But he was happy. And in love. With someone he’d met a few weeks back based on an arrangement. Not because he had to or because he’d reached that age but because he wanted to. And here I was taking it as a personal offense because one of my best friends was hypnotized by the system, giving up on dating and buying a lifetime pass to the world of “supposed to”.
I think we only hold a grudge against arranged marriages because it feels like converting your religion from being an independent thinker to traditional thought. And because we hate to conform, or atleast look like we did. But, thanks to my best friend and another amazing duo who admit being goo-goo-ingly in love with each other, Arranged Marriage is on my good books. Yes, the paperwork, the lines, the irritating aunts is all worth it in the end. And I am so happy for the friend who can’t stop talking about how good it feels, how happy he is and how much he is looking forward to 2009 with a great companion. And here I am, coming to terms with the ‘other’ side, signing a peace treaty with tradition, promising not to gulp swears when people bring it up but instead sigh in awe and exclaim, ‘oh so in love!’ I am sure when I meet someone with my precedent opinion on arranged alliances, I’d be hoping to change their minds because its just another term for courtship, a happy couple and a lifelong of companionship and more.
