Arranged Marriage 1

Where my family comes from, arranged marriages are still very much the norm. It's really not what most people think when they hear "arranged marriage"; it's more like going on a blind date set up by people (usually your parents) who know you, love you, and have your best interests at heart with a very clear endgame. My parents always said that my opinion would be the only one that mattered in the end and that I could say no to whoever they brought home, no questions asked. A love match also wasn't entirely off the table, even if it wasn't their ideal choice for me.

I watched my brother go through the process, and then my two older sisters, and in each case, they said Ma and Papa had done well for them. They all seemed genuinely happy, so the idea of a traditional marriage didn't frighten me despite my western upbringing. I was confident that my parents would find a man with whom I could form a lifelong, loving partnership, just as they'd done for my siblings and their parents had done for them.

I was twenty two when Ma came home in flurry, an anxious smile on her face.

"Amita, come sit." She said, pushing me towards the kitchen table. "I need to tell you something."

" Is something wrong "

No, no, you worry too much! I have good news!"

I waited expectantly while she settled in her seat and grabbed my hands in her's.

"I have found you a husband!"

My heart fluttered into my throat while I processed what she had said. I had known this day was coming, my parents had made it known almost a year before that they were seeking an eligible bachelor for me, but it still felt very sudden in that moment.

"Aren't you happy, bityaa?" Ma asked when I didn't immediately respond.

"Yeah, of course." I said, giving her hands a squeeze. "Who is he? Do I know him?"

"No, but you know Aunty Chanda and Uncle Raj."

I nodded. They were close friends of my parents' from back in India. I'd only met them a few times when I was much younger, but I'd heard my parents speaking to them on the phone and knew they visited with them whenever they went back.

"They have a son about your age. Your papa and I have spoken to his parents and to him and everything seems perfect. He's smart, handsome, he comes from a good family. He is everything we could want for you."

"Does he have a name?" Her enthusiasm warmed my cheeks and the fluttering sank down into my stomach.

"Madhu."

She spent the whole evening telling me about him, how he was a 26 year old MIT grad with a degree in engineering, his love of travel and photography, what she remembered of him as a child. We shared similar life goals and expectations about what marriage would mean for us. The more she spoke, the more I felt like he really could be a good husband for me. By the time I saw his photo, which showed a handsome man with a slightly crooked, but charming smile, I knew I had to speak to him.

Ma set up a supervised Skype meeting between us and our parents a few days later, and when I saw him on screen, flanked by his traditionally dressed parents, I found myself feeling shy and awkward. Our parents did most of the talking, but he did ask me a few direct questions about myself and provided his own answers when I failed to ask him the same.

Instead of being put off by my sudden onset tongue tiedness, he was patient and warm and I was a giddy, blushing mess by the end. It was very unlike me, but it seemed to seal the deal in my parents' eyes.

"He's a good boy, bityaa." Papa said once the call had ended. "I think you will be happy."

"It's a good start." I conceded, not wanting to get too ahead of myself after one meeting, but Papa just pat my cheek and smiled knowingly.

Things progressed quickly, which was exciting and scary and overwhelming. We had a few more supervised "dates" where we got to knew each other a bit better and then one secret call between just the two of us.

" I want the decision to be yours, Amita, not our parents'." He said.

Usually Madhu was lighthearted and laid back, but now, when discussing our future, he was so serious, so intense, and it made me like him more.

"It is my decision." I said. "This is what I want."

"Then it's what I want, too."

We smiled at each other through the screen, both confident, assured, and, perhaps, just beginning to fall in love.

It was the last time I saw Madhu before the wedding.

He and his parents stopped the video chats, teasing that they were spoiling the bride too much, and we were made to communicate through emails and handwritten letters. I couldn't help but notice that something had changed in the way Madhu "spoke" to me; sometimes he was far more formal, other times, he was overly familiar. He was still sweet, still warm, but the ease with which we'd come to talk to one another seemed lacking.

I mentioned it to Ma, who clicked her tongue and waved a finger at me.

"Men aren't so good with words, especially when it comes to putting their thoughts on paper. Your father is hopeless at expressing himself in writing! Don't worry, when he is here, you will see he is the same Madhu that you have come to know."

I hoped she was right.

A week before Madhu's arrival, his mother, Aunty Chanda, flew in to help prepare for the wedding. We had hundreds of guests coming, an elaborate party to plan, important ceremonies to ensure were performed perfectly, and only a little time left to prepare. Her extra hands were a blessing and I was surprised to find that she treated me so well. I had grown up hearing horror stories about mother-in-laws, but it appeared that I had lucked out.

And all this was only for a single day event! It was daunting to think that this was the "small" ceremony. I could only imagine what the proper, days long wedding was going to be like when we held it in India a few months later.

With only days to go until the wedding, Aunty Chanda invited me to sit with her while she looked at a photo album of Madhu's life.

"He was such a sweet boy." She said and I saw tears forming in her eyes. "He's always taken such good care of me and his papa."

"Aunty-ji? Are you ok?" I got up to grab a box of tissues and set them in front of her.

"Yes, yes," she hid her face in a tissue and laughed in embarrassment, "it's just hard for a mother to say goodbye to her son."

We looked at pages and pages of Madhu growing up, all the way to a recent picture of him on a motorbike with a helmet tucked under his arm. At seeing his smile for the first time in over two weeks, I felt that familiar flutter start up again.

"You will be a good wife to him, won't you?"

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