The Secret Diary of an Arranged Marriage Page 2
For too long there’s been a misunderstanding but arranged marriages are actually a bloody brilliant idea. They’re a dead cert against being a spinster and growing old alone. It’s a cast-iron guarantee that no matter how ugly, how fat or how boring you are, there will be someone for you.
In this modern western society we live in, how many people do you know who are in their thirties, or even forties, that are single? I bet you know someone. I do. Her name’s Laura and she’s my eldest sister’s friend. She’s in her late thirties, never quite got on the dating ladder and possibly never will. Having been single for so long, she doesn’t have the confidence to meet someone new.
The BBC says there’s a spread of loneliness in Britain, a growing epidemic of people living in isolation as they haven’t settled down and are facing old age alone. This is where the arranged marriage would have come in handy. In western culture, you’re left to it. If you’re single, it’s not really anyone’s problem but your own. In Asian culture, it’s everyone’s business and mission to find you a match. The process may be daunting, cringe-worthy and borderline comical but you’re pretty much guaranteed a suitor at the end. If you find someone of your own accord, even better. I’d like to. But if I don’t, I can take comfort in the fact that I’ve got my arranged marriage trump card to fall back on.
I wish I had the balls to say all this to Fiona. But it’s hard. We work together, speak the same language and drink tea from the same stained office mugs. We have more similarities than differences. But the arranged marriage is the one thing that the Fiona’s of the world can’t get their head round. To her, they’re a strange brown phenomenon. It’s an uncomfortable conversation to have in an open plan office, so if I do serialise this diary as a blog, I might just send Fiona a link.
Unfortunately, pity, confusion and misunderstanding isn’t just confined to the office in my world. Even my best friend Julia sometimes struggles to get her head around it, even though she’s possibly the brownest white person I’ve met.
I’ve known Julia since I was five and she’s one of just a handful of friends I’ve kept in touch with from school. Not only did she come to my rescue when Carly played spot-the-other-brownie, she’s never once asked an ignorant question, or put me on the spot. We made friendship bracelets for each other, gossiped about our high-school crushes (though she could pursue hers) and shared our ambitions in life.
Over the years, Julia’s also had a few glimpses into my culture. She’s seen my mum pick me up on my first day of school in a billowing floral saree. I was mortified. I mean, who picks up their kid from high school anyway? And don’t get me started on the saree. She’s been round for dinner. Though I think she was disappointed when it was fish fingers on the menu, rather than the chicken curry she could smell wafting in from the kitchen (mum thought it would help me better fit in by serving up an English meal. I had the chicken curry as a second dinner after Julia had left).
When Julia went and studied at a University full of Hindus, she became something of an expert in arranged marriages, courtesy of her more forthcoming brown friends. She even briefly dated an Indian guy who later had an arranged marriage with a girl from the community that he’s known since he was six. So while Julia kind of understands the world of arranged marriages, she doesn’t necessarily agree with it.
We meet for lunch at our favourite rustic Italian the weekend after the Fiona fiasco and I couldn’t wait to tell her all about it. Partly because Julia loves hearing my work stories – she thinks PR is so glamorous compared to her role as a trainee family lawyer. But also, I wanted to know that I was right to feel offended and that Fiona was indeed a nosey cow.
Prim as ever, Julia arrives in what I would call smart business casual, with tailored trousers and a camel-coloured blazer. Her brunette hair is worn in her standard shoulder-length polka straight look. I’m half-wondering whether she’s on call this weekend. I’m also wishing I’d made more effort. My hair hasn’t seen a straightener since I washed it three days ago, so it’s scraped back in a trusty ponytail. And I’m wearing Diesel jeans. I must have overlooked the dress-code.
Not only is she dressed for business, it seems that Julia can’t shake off lawyer mode. She normally pipes up whenever she gets a whiff of ignorance but is surprisingly diplomatic about Fiona’s intrusion. “The way she asked you could have been more... tactful but I think she was just intrigued. I suspect she doesn’t get to interact with many Asian people, so the only thing she knows of your culture is what she sees on TV, which is hardly helpful.”
No shit, Sherlock. In the last few years, according to the news, you’d be forgiven for thinking anyone Muslim is a terrorist, an oppressed woman, or both.
“But I didn’t sign up to do the PR for all Muslims, so the idea that I’m a spokesperson available on tap for any personal questions is just a joke.”
Seeing my offence, Julia holds her hands up. “You’re right, she was out of order in the way she asked. But... like I say, people are just, well, interested.”
Julia takes a long sip of her iced tea, downing with a visible gulp, as if she was preparing to deliver an uncomfortable home truth to a client. “And maybe she also wanted to check in on your... welfare.”
“My welfare?” I see Julia’s face change. I iron out the crease on the cotton red check tablecloth with my hand, pressing harder with each stroke. That crease has been annoying me since we sat down but the rough cotton material is strangely soothing, like it’s scratching an itch.
Here comes the pity party.
Julia does her empathising (yet patronising) face, the one she reserves for divorcing couples going through mediation. “Look, I know about arranged marriages more than most... non-Asian people,” she begins, avoiding eye contact and instead focusing on her unused knife, which she is running along the rim of her plate.
Julia and I are careful not to refer to each other as brown or white, though that is totally what we mean.
She continues, choosing her words carefully like the good lawyer that she is: “But I just... well, I worry about you sometimes. There. I said it. Oh, don’t look at me like that.” She smiles, trying to lighten the mood as she notices my grimace.
Julia rests her knife on the table. “I get that arranged marriages are the done thing. And God knows, sometimes I wish someone would sort me out with a guy. I’ve been single for two years now and it’s getting boring. Plus, since I moved to London, dating is a nightmare. I thought it’d be easier to find someone decent there but nobody wants anything serious. But at least I’m getting to date...”
We suddenly realise that we have an audience, as the grey-haired couple next to us is making no secret of their eavesdropping. They’re looking right at us, waiting for us to go on.
Julia lowers her tone. “And I’d love for you to date too. Let’s be honest, you had your share of admirers in school, so if you got yourself out there – wherever ‘there’ is in Muslim culture, I doubt you’d be single for long. And even if you end up meeting someone through your family, I hope that you get to have the fairy-tale. You know, the date nights, the holidays... all those things.”
Julia returns to her penne pasta, leaving me to ponder her point.
Her concerns aren’t completely unfounded but her views are outdated. Growing up, it seemed that the wives of my cousins were of the brown Stepford variety. Whenever we’d visit, they’d be clad in a saree, serving samosas and being very polite and ladylike. Kind of the opposite of what I am. However, it’s only in recent years that I realised that what we see on a very occasional visit is just a show. They’re putting their best faces forward, making an effort for the guests. These seemingly desperate housewives were still having date nights, holidays and their very own fairy-tale. And how do I know all this? Facebook, of course, the giver away of all secrets.
Mum, who often reminds me that arranged marriages don’t mean the end of a girl’s life, confirmed my findings. “In fact, getting married can be the beginning of a lovely new phase, a
s you can travel and see the world with your husband and do things you no able do as single woman.”
Times have moved on even further still. Girls nowadays ditch the saree-wearing formalities. They continue with their careers after marriage, earn their own money and are in charge of their own lives. They’re not trapped in a lifeless, loveless marriage, as Julia believes.
Where Julia is right, however, is that with arranged marriages, we don’t get too long to get to know somebody, so there’s less time to know if they’re the one. So what can seem like a fairy-tale at the beginning could well be just a dream. And does that concern me? Of course it does. Like any girl, whether she’s Bengali, English or Mongolian, I want the fairy-tale. And just like any other girl, I worry that I might not get it. I worry that I won’t find the one. That I’ll have to settle. But I don’t think this is just a Bengali issue, or even a brown one. I think this is something that keeps all single girls up at night.
The bill arrives and I know this is the last time I’ll see Julia for a couple of months. I’m hoping that next time we meet, I’ll have some positive news to share. Mainly because I’d love to meet someone and partly to show Julia that us brownies aren’t as backward as she thinks.
“You know what, I hope we both get the fairy-tale. And for my part, I will do everything I can to find ‘the one’. You’ll be glad to know I won’t be just relying on my parents.”
Julia’s pity face turns into a beaming smile. “And I can help you too on that front. I’m always meeting new people in Canary Wharf. So if I come across any nice Bengali boys, I’ll let you know.”
I’m highly doubtful that Julia will be a source of marriage-appropriate boys but I smile appreciatively.
1st April, Biodata
In order to have a queue of eligible men outside my door, mum tells me I need to get my biodata sorted. A biodata is like a marital CV. When you’re looking for a job, you put together a CV, which highlights your occupation, education and hobbies. When you’re looking for a spouse, you also put together a CV, which highlights your occupation, education and hobbies. You then add in your height and build and enclose a nice photo to boot.
I think a biodata is a lot more straightforward than a professional CV, as I don’t need to list my key achievements or write a bullshit personal statement. Though I do need to write crap about myself to seem appealing enough to go past the first round and into the marriage interview, or rishtaa meeting.
I don’t really know where to start. So, as I do with most things, I consult Google. A quick search of ‘what to include in a biodata’ throws up a list of threads, forums, guides and examples of how to market myself with my marital CV. Amazing.
The basics are:
Name (obviously)
Age (don’t include D.O.B. though, as they’ll know I’m nearly 26 and we can’t have that)
Hometown (not the full address. Want to keep stalkers at bay)
Occupation
Education (my degree isn’t just useful for getting me a job)
Height (this is very, very important)
Parents’ names (for the crucial research into the family)
Name of the village in Bangladesh my parents come from (again, for research purposes)
Parents’ town address in Bangladesh (must include this to prove that we are middle-class and have a house in the town, not just a mud hut in the village)
Siblings (to know how many Eid presents we must buy)
I throw all this info together in a word document and present it to mum, who’s sat in our dining room, reading the Bengali newspaper she gets on a monthly subscription. It’s handy that she’s already wearing her glasses. She shifts her attention from the paper, clears her throat and sits up straight on the brown leather-backed wooden chair. She is taking this terribly seriously. While she reads, she makes lots of mum noises like ‘hmm... ah... hmm’, before telling me my biodata isn’t marketable enough.
She doesn’t actually give me any constructive pointers but just shrugs her shoulders, saying in a mix of Bengali and broken English: “Ammi zanni na, it just doesn’t seem interesting enough. I doh-no. Don’t girls normally add a bit more detail? Maybe put in a line about what you’re like as a person.”
What I’m like as a person? Could she be any more vague? Plus, if I was to detail my true persona – very talkative, ambitious and lacking in girly grace, I’d probably have most prospective Bengali boys running for the hills.
Bemused and confused, I check out other examples. People sometimes include their build. I’m a size eight, with slightly wider hips. But I am loathed to describe myself as ‘slim but pear-shaped’. If someone wants to know my build, they can deduce it from my photo, or see for themselves in person. They’ve got eyes.
This whole biodata compilation isn’t as easy as I thought. I’m at a bit of a loss as to how to pimp my CV. It’s also very annoying to learn that I do need to write a bullshit personal statement of sorts after all.
Adding to the pressure is mum, who is watching over me as I check out other biodatas online. She’s taken to providing an unhelpful running commentary and getting totally distracted when she sees some photo examples of pretty girls clad in decadent Asian outfits. “Ooh, she looks ni-iiice, I bet she’ll get snapped up quickly.”
“Mum, that photo’s from 1998, I’m sure she’s married with kids now.”
“Aww that’s a shame. What about her? I wonder if she’s still single? Does she look Ban-gali to you?” Mum points to a thumbnail of a girl in a green saree, posing with her arms around a tree trunk, like a Bollywood heroine.
“What the... why? You don’t have any sons?”
“No, thank you for reminding. But I might know someone who knows a nice boy.”
I think it’s in every Bengali mum’s genes to play matchmaker with someone, or anyone, so they can boast about their cupid credentials. However, with a very single daughter in her charge, mum really should remember her priorities.
As she doesn’t have the displeasure of working at a computer 37.5 hours of the week, mum seems to find this whole ordeal fascinating and, dare I say, enjoyable. I, on the other hand, do not. And it’s my biodata. So despite mum’s eagerness to get it sorted - whilst getting sidetracked along the way – I ruin her fun by deciding to sleep on it. I have precious little patience for doing CVs at the best of times and this particular resume carries even more weight, as it’s in preparation for the biggest job of my life.
With fresh eyes, I add a few bits to boost my biodata the next day. Without an audience, I can think more clearly. It helps that I’m editing in the almost privacy of my shared bedroom, rather than downstairs with mum being a backseat CV builder. I have to make do with little sis sat on her single bed, though luckily she’s too busy playing with her phone to care what I’m doing. She is never not on her bed, nor off her phone. I swear that grey crushed velvet blanket has her shaped etched into it. Anyway, I add in that I’m family orientated (always a winner), though I’d assume this should be a given. I’d like to see a biodata where someone states that they hate their family and despise other people’s kids.
Mum approves this second draft but warns me that my biodata must be tweaked depending on the prospective guy. I am nothing if not adaptable. Mum shares the biodata with dad but this is more out of obligation than anything else. She doesn’t really want an opinion and she doesn’t get one.
Dad spends less than 10 seconds looking at the fruits of my extensive Googling, barely reading the contents, before saying to mum: “Yes, yes, yes, it all looks fine to me. If you’re happy with it, so am I.”
After much editing, sub-editing and proofreading, both parents sign off my biodata. So next up is the bigger challenge, getting that all-important photo.
5th April, Pictures in the park
Well, that was bloody embarrassing.
When it comes to choosing an appropriate photo to send with the marital CV, most girls have a plethora of pictures to choose from. The fail-safe is usually a
photo taken at someone else’s wedding, where they crop themselves out of a group shot as they don’t want to enclose a snap with the competition. A wedding is a great setting for a biodata photo because you’re already decked out in your finery, your hair is coiffed and you’ve applied your makeup like an artist. You’re ripe for the picking.
As mum and I scroll through the photo archives of previous weddings, it’s another painful reminder that I am not most girls. We stare in silence at the snaps of me from the past two years. I know it, she knows it, but neither of us wants to say it out loud.
When I go to a wedding, something is always amiss. More often than not, my hair has let me down. I have naturally straight hair, which many girls would die for. Yet I try to curl it, with little success as the ringlets fall out within an hour. Or, I have practiced my bun/back combing/waves the night before and it worked a treat. However, such is the cruelness of life that on the all-important day itself, my hair would go pear-shaped. I’d suffer from a bout of unexpected greasiness, limpness, or anything else that would sabotage my hopes of a good hair day.
If you think that’s bad, my hair is no competition for my makeup in the nasty stakes. My downfall is this: I have makeup thoughts above my station. I want to do a smoky-eye, or a highlight and contour. But the image I see on the YouTube tutorial I religiously follow, doesn’t quite translate onto my face. I end up a smudgy, shiny mess. And these bastard photos have immortalised my aesthetic crimes.
“What about this one?” Mum points to a photo of me in a burnt orange saree. The saree looks good but there’s a big foundation faux pas - my face looks suspiciously whiter than my neck.
“Hmm... maybe this one’s better, I’m smiling at least,” I say, clutching at straws.