I Relived My Own Traumatic Arranged Marriage Journey While Watching ‘Indian Matchmaking’ on Netflix

“Arti, you see, I think 100 percent you will not get. And if 60, 70 percent your wishes are fulfilling that what you want… your criterias… I think you should move ahead.”

Watching matchmaker Sima Taparia or Sima aunty, as she is now popularly known, say these words to Arti Lalwani, a 31-year-old woman from Miami, Florida, who is looking for a match, in the latest season of Netflix’s Indian Matchmaking, I felt a familiar wave of terror wash over me. The scene reminded me of the many times I’d been asked to do the same: to compromise. 

Why, you ask? Because GIRLS COMPROMISE. And guys? Well, if they’re rich, have passed the tenth grade, and look fairly decent, that’s usually enough to qualify them as “desirable.” What this translates to is that while Indian men on the “marriage market” can be mediocre, have no real personality or even hobbies, it’s the women who ultimately – wait for Sima aunty’s favourite word – must “compromise” or “adjust a little.” 

What did “happily ever after” mean to you growing up? Did you imagine you’d someday meet your Prince Charming or did you picture yourself as Raj who would rescue your Simran à la Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge? Did you know then that adult life aka reality would be far from what you’d grown up reading and watching? And anyway, even Kuchh Kuch Hota Hai’s Anjali had to grow out her hair, learn how to do her own makeup, and bury her talent as a basketball player to get the guy of her dreams. See? Compromise. This idea of women needing to compromise is so deeply rooted in our communities and so-called Indian culture that deviating even slightly from the norm carries the “risk” of being labelled rebellious, which is just ridiculous in my opinion. 

“In India we don’t say ‘arranged marriage.’ There is ‘marriage’ and then ‘love marriage.’” Of the many things the self-anointed top matchmaker of Mumbai has said, this is probably closest to being true.

Arranged marriages aren't always specifically referred to as “arranged,” because they're the norm, whereas “love marriages” or marriages where the couple met independently of their families are the exception. In a 2018 survey of more than 160,000 households, 93 percent of married Indians said that theirs was an arranged marriage. Only three percent had had a “love marriage,” while two percent described theirs as a “love-cum-arranged marriage,” which usually means that the relationship was first arranged by the families before the couple agreed to marry each other. 

For me, a 90s kid from an upper middle-class Gujarati family living in Mumbai, who’d led a largely sheltered life up until then, it was preordained that my parents would choose my life partner. The understanding was that I'd eventually end up falling in love with him and have my own societal-approved “happily ever after.”

It's not like my peers weren’t falling in love and getting hitched on their own. It’s just that it felt like there were so many blocks to finding the right person that I was willing to entrust the responsibility of finding a life partner to my parents and professional matchmakers. I’d also had my fair share of heartbreak and was struggling with trust issues so, at the time, going the arranged marriage route seemed like an interesting concept to explore. I mean, who wouldn’t like someone setting up dates for them, going on them, and having some fun getting to know new people, right? Seemed way less chaotic and stressful than swiping left a million times to find one worthy of swiping right.

The less formal route for the arranged marriage journey begins fairly casually with the “help” of a neighbour or relative, who might ask your parents if they’re interested in “looking” by which they mean if they’re interested in seeking potential matches for you, as you’re now “ripe” for marriage. Other less considerate elders might not care to ask and simply volunteer their services in the form of potential partners and unsolicited opinions. You might even get ambushed at a friend’s wedding by your parents’ friends, while you’re obliviously stuffing your face at the buffet counter. This attack will be followed up with non-stop commentary on how your generation doesn't listen anymore and should settle fast before it's “too late.” Too late for what, I wonder. To have sex? To reproduce? Or too late before you realises that you can make decisions for yourself and survive, even thrive, in the world? We might never know.

If you do succumb to the pressure, a meeting between both families will be arranged. Meetings usually begin with members of each family seated facing each other. After some time, the couple will be asked to move to another table where they can talk privately, while the parents engage in chit-chat, punctuated by hopeful glances thrown in their direction. 

At the time when I agreed to go through this system, I had 100 percent control in terms of accepting or rejecting the matches, as my parents, thankfully, never once pressured me into meeting someone I didn’t like at the get-go, which I know is not the case for most women in our country. So, it seemed fun. Until it wasn’t.

After filtering through dozens of marriage bureaus, my mom had my profile registered at three. Of these three, two didn’t require a registration fee while one required a fee of almost Rs 25,000 ($305). For the last bureau, I had to upload my “biodata” every Saturday on a different WhatsApp group. 

For context, a biodata is kinda like a professional CV, but filled with facts on your address/physical appearance/lineage and devoid of the actual stuff that makes humans interesting. You’re most likely to see a small “hobbies” mention on the last line of the biodata where you’re nudged to add insipid stuff like reading/travelling/cooking – the last being the most favoured, of course. Which means, there’s no scope for me to mention my talents for stalking someone online, my propensity to bring home stray kittens, or how I enjoyed writing letters to newspaper editors.

Back to the WhatsApp groups where my lifeless biodatas were religiously sent every Saturday. These were created on the basis of the individuals’ marital status. So, there were separate groups for “fresh” (meaning single), “divorced,” “widow/ widower,” “engagement breakup,” meaning people who got engaged but then broke up and so on. Prospective grooms had to upload their CVs every Friday in the groups they were interested in. And so began the saga of answering calls and accepting/rejecting proposals. To help steer clear of potential weirdos, I put in my mom’s number instead of my own with the bureau. Also, we chose the three bureaus on the basis of the areas they covered, so we had options right from south Mumbai to Borivali. 

In one of these bureaus, my profile was stored in a file labelled: “Fresh 88 batch” that had biodatas of people born in 1988. Are we fucking mangoes, I wondered? But I chose to ignore that voice in my head in the hope that one day, this would all be worth it. 

The sexism that accompanies this entire process comes up in ways you never imagined. For example, when you and your fam meet a prospective boy and his fam, it’s always the girl’s family that ends up picking the tab. One of my friends has spent the equivalent of a car over such meals. My family has spent a considerable amount too.

Then there’s the obvious objectification. Over one meeting, when I excused myself to go pee, the prospective match’s aunt and sister who had tagged along for the meeting followed me into the restroom. They then took my face in their hands, turned it this way and that, in a bid to check it out under better light. They then marvelled at my hair quality. Kinda like how you weigh a pig before slaughtering it, I remember thinking then. All I did in return though was smile.

The biodata I was earlier speaking about sometimes is accompanied with a photo or two. I remember my aunt and uncle once coming over to tell my parents to arrange for a photoshoot for me where I wouldn’t look “too fat” and my canine teeth wouldn’t look too sharp. I did it. I will forever regret giving to demands like these. I wish I’d known earlier in life that I had agency, that I could actually say no. I’ve put myself through crash diets and endless gym sessions not to feel good or meet a goal I’d set for myself but to be considered slim enough for sexist pigs who don’t give two hoots if men have beer bellies or are balding. The same allowances are rarely extended to the women.

Personally, I didn't anticipate how stressful the so-called journey would be and how it would slowly erode my sense of self-worth, as I kept agreeing to ridiculous stuff that, in hindsight, I can't believe I agreed to. I was a 23-year-old nerd on the “healthy” side, who had never been in a real relationship. At the time, I was working hard to earn my professional degree in chartered accountancy and married only to my books. I was asked if studying or working outside the home was important for me if the guy was earning well. I was even asked for my birth time in the middle of a bureau session for kundli (birth chart) purposes, obviously. When I told the prospective groom’s mother that it was 5:55 PM, she laughed and asked if I smoked 555 – a brand of cigarettes. I guess she was trying to sound cool and show me how “modern” and open-minded she was to be okay joking on taboo subjects but I could see her watching my reaction to confirm if there was indeed a link between women who (want to) work and vices. 

These mothers sometimes have far greater say on who’d make a good match for their son than the sons themselves. So you better be nice to them mums – even if patriarchy has failed them and made them judge, measure up, and attack younger women who the patriarchy is failing as well.

I eventually met 17 boys before meeting my now-husband, who, ironically, is someone I also went to school with.

But whenever I share this stat with relatives, they either flash the “obviously, who is going to settle for a full-time working woman” look or the “you were fat, so you had to go through so many,” or as Sima aunty might say (about one of her clients), “she’s picky, she’s stubborn.” I too was told that I had lost out on several rishtas (matches) because I’d insisted on working post marriage. It didn’t matter that the daughters of prospective in-laws’ themselves worked in multinational companies – the rules for prospective daughters-in-law were different. 

How did I get through it? Faith and I think I tried to even manifest good things to happen but ironically, everyone around me kept repeating one of Sima aunty’s iconic lines: “The stars are not aligned. If it is destined, it will happen.” Something they say very commonly when an arranged marriage proposal isn’t working out. In my mother tongue Gujarati, they call it “anjal nathi” – a good way of saying it’s not destined which obviously frustrated me even more. My self-esteem took such a hit through this process that sometimes, I feel like I’m still picking up shreds from it.

If you’re new to the arranged marriage market, you should know it’s a cutthroat business and you need balls to survive in it. I use the word “balls” figuratively because both women and men are put through the grind and I say “cutthroat” because should you match with someone you remotely like and is also considered conventionally good-looking and rich enough, you don’t get much time to mull over it. You better move fast before he’s snagged up. And when you’re not considered conventionally attractive, are not petite, and worst of all, seek to live a life beyond being a wife/daughter-in-law/mother, you better move lightning fast should someone be – praise the lord – interested in you.

But, while having gone through several matches before meeting someone I found I liked was regarded as me having been too demanding or high-maintenance, when boys put through this system say they “rejected” 76 girls – as I’ve heard a friend claim – it’s said with pride. Worn like a badge of honour. Oh, how lucky for that 77th girl to have met his standards. 

Catch ’em young

So, when does a person begin being groomed for marriage? Early. While growing up, my mom would tell me that I needed to learn how to run a kitchen, including cooking basic meals as well as a few “fancy dishes,” or “you'll regret, once you get married.” So, I learnt to roll out round rotis (but not fast enough) and a whole lot more, not knowing I had a choice. My mom encouraged me, saying that I’d be able to roll out rotis faster with practice. Well, it’s been eight years since and I’m not there yet. Thankfully, my mom now laughs about this, but maybe her laughter has more to do with relief that I’m married. 

Today, my husband and I run a jewellery store and have been equal partners in the business for the last eight years. Guess I lucked out in finding a partner in more ways than one. And yet, the scars of my experience with the arranged marriage setup haven't left me. Maybe someday I might need therapy to get over it. 

Indian Matchmaking is a reality series that seems like it’s been tailor-made for NRI audiences, one that Diet Sabya aptly refers to as the “cringe binge.” But the reality of the Indian arranged marriage set-up is neither as glossy nor as glamorous. Arranged marriages can be beautiful and can work well, but they’re still a business. Save some folks who’re into matchmaking not for the money but because they think it’s a skill they should share with the world, getting two people to spend the rest of their lives together is a lucrative business proposition, almost too tough to pass up on. I just wish it was done more sensitively, without making unmarried women feel like they’re a liability no matter how successful. Without playing with the lives of vulnerable people looking for love and filling them up with your ideas to be “flexible, compromising and adjusting” which is simply heartbreakingly terrible. 

Because for those who might want to opt out of the system, the only other option, apart from divine intervention, seems to be to keep swiping right endlessly.  

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