Most Indian children are brought up to respect, obey and honour their parents. So boys and girls accept arranged marriages out of a desire to please their parents, even if, intellectually, they harbour doubts. Marriage is still a collective affair in India, a union between two families rather than two individuals. Young Indians realise this, which is why, in a survey last year, 78 per cent said it was “very important” for their spouses to be accepted by their families.
Here is how the hunt for a suitable boy begins. Parents put the word out to family and friends that they are looking for a rishta (Hindi for union or alliance). The specifications are stated. Height is a big thing in India, almost as important as income. Couples are matched to the last centimeter, virtually. Once a boy has been identified, the families exchange “biodata”, the term used for the CV-like summaries used to list a person’s caste, education and physical attributes. At this stage some lower middle-class families with no computer at home will congregate in a cybercafé to video-conference a prospective groom who lives in another city.
After the biodata exchange, the boy and his family are invited to the prospective bride’s home so that both sides can check each other out. Over tea, amid the clinking of cups and the passing around of cake and samosas, the boy and girl steal furtive looks at each other. If they like what they see, another meeting will take place, perhaps at the boy’s house, so that the girl’s family can see what his house is like, how it’s furnished, the state of the loo, and how they live. Later, if they seem to like each other, the couple will be allowed to meet separately, over lunch, coffee or dinner. After that, it’s decision time.
In these fleeting encounters, what can a girl ascertain, beyond the fact that she likes the look and sound of the boy? “Marriage is a lottery, whether it’s a love marriage or arranged. All you can do is get a ‘sense’ of what the person is like and a gut feeling for whether you want to give it a try. I met my husband alone only once and agreed to marry him. I trusted my parents,” says Mrs Nayar.
Sometimes, once the family has settled on a boy, discreet inquiries are carried out to verify his claims about his job, title and income. Cases of girls marrying engineers or accountants settled abroad only to find, on arrival, that their spouses are working as cabbies, have made parents wary. So Mum will call, say, the bank where the boy works and ask if he is indeed the deputy manager. The more suspicious will write to the bank explaining that a match is in the offing and could the manager, to set their minds at rest, please verify the young man’s qualifications, job title and income?
The Nayars are suspicious, too, because they are affluent. They live in a sprawling bungalow on Prithviraj Road, the most exclusive street in the Indian capital. Harish Nayar comes from an old family of textile-mill owners. A distance relative is Arun Nayar, Elizabeth Hurley’s beau. They are put off by families impressed by their address. Mrs Nayar admits to being a shade anxious about Arti and Bhavna. When parents like the Nayars talk about the difficulties of finding the “right” boy, it becomes clear that it is not just a burden, it’s a nightmare. When girls reach their mid-twenties aunties start twittering, wondering out loud how long it will be before they get settled. Timing is all. Leave it too late and the best boys have been snapped up. If the girls are in their late twenties, whispers go round: “What’s wrong with her? Does she have a ‘past’? Is she still a virgin?”
Arti and Bhavn are teetering dangerously close to being a bit old because, ironically, their liberal, broad-minded parents had assumed that their accomplished and attractive girls would find men on their own. But they haven’t. They socialised with boys, of course, but there was no one they felt serious about. The drone of aunties bitching in the background got louder. Mrs Nayar began to get fidgety when her own father-in-law began saying: “Do something!”
“They weren’t the type to go out partying every night,” she says. “I realised that they might never meet anyone and that I would have to help them find partners,” she says.
Arti and Bhavna were not displeased at the idea of Mum and Dad introducing them to eligible young men. “We’ve told them that it’s probably their punishment for being so protective about us, sending us to girls’ schools and not letting us go to mixed parties when we were younger,” laughs Arti. “I want to settle down now. Bhavna and I have met a few boys, but nothing has clicked.”
Despite meeting a few possible spouses over the past three years, nothing worked out. Nor are there any pending proposals. A certain tension is palpable as mother and daughters talk about the subject. The girls know their mother is under pressure from society. “It really weighs on Mum. I’ve given her the whole responsibility and sometimes I feel bad for her,” says Bhavna.
Over at the Kapoors, Chandni says she has met a couple of men. “I’m clear about one things. I want a guy with a good income, an investment banker or executive,” she says with disarming directness. Compare this with the experience of Mrs Nayar who, when she married her husband 30 years ago, did not even know how much he earned. Or Mrs Kalra, who did not open her mouth once during her one and only meeting with her future husband.
The two men were nice enough, Chandi says, but there was no chemistry. Nothing “clicked”, to use the word favoured by Indian mothers. Her sister Radhika’s experience has been the same: “The general standard has been low. Maybe my parents aren’t screening the applicants closely enough. I need someone on the same wavelength. They’ve all been total non-starters.”
Only one man had potential. “He was a film-maker in Bombay and at least the basics were in place – looks, the way he spoke and dressed and similar interests. But we just didn’t vibe so that was that,” says Radhika.
Last week her advertisement for a potential husband appeared in The Times of India. Everyone hopes it will turn up someone she likes. She hasn’t struck lucky the first time, as happens to some women. Arti Malhotra was one such fortunate. She got married last year to an Indian man in the US. They exchanged photos, then e-mails, then phone calls. He sent her flowers on Valentine’s Day. Then they met in Delhi, four times. It went well. Now they are happily married.
“We are aware that time is passing for Radhika. As girls get older, the available pie gets smaller and smaller,” says her father Pritham, a consultant with the World Bank. “But I’m not getting desperate.” At this point, Kumkum, who admits to being downright worried, interjects. “I’d like him to be firmer with the girls but he’s too indulgent. They can’t take forever.”
Pritham defends himself and his girls: “I’ll get firm with them the day I think they’re being unreasonable or dithering but they’re not.”
This elusive “click” is what settles the matter. The boy and girl warm to each other and the parents can see the mutual attraction in their eyes. Once that happens, the parents heave a sigh of relief and get down to printing the cards.
For Mrs Kalra, mother of Pooja and Kanika, it’s crucial that the boy has professional qualifications and modern ideas about working women. She does not want a boy from a rich business family, as many tend to want the bride to stay at home.
Mrs Kalra is stricter than Kumkum Kapoor on the number of pre-marital meetings she will permit her daughters. Kunkum does not mind how many times her daughters meet a prospective husband. But Anjali differs: “Not more than two to three times. If your daughter is seen out with a man, within 24 hours, people will gossip about your daughter ‘roaming around’. It will create a negative impression about her.”
Stuck in the middle, between clucking mothers and demanding daughters, are the fathers. Tender and protective, they refuse to become tense or desperate about their lovely girls.
“I just want a good human being for my daughters,” says Mr Nayar. “People come here and are impressed with our address, but that makes me feel uncomfortable. I want them to appreciate our girls, not our bungalow. I’m not going to marry them off to any Tom, Dick or Harry. And if they don’t get married, they don’t get married. As long as they’re happy, that’s all that matters.”
- Bride and Prejudice opens on October 8
