Yes, arranged marriages are still going strong in my culture. In my family, they came with a twist. There’s a 16-year age gap between me and my eldest sister, so I got a front-row seat to what was expected of us when we grew up.
From a young age, we were told not only to marry another Sikh but that they must be the same caste as ours—a farmer. There were absolute no-gos: Muslims were a no because of the stories about the atrocities during the partition. Black people? Also out of the question. Let’s be honest—even a darker-skinned Indian wouldn’t exactly be a favourable.
Whenever we attended any event, there were always whispers about wayward Indian girls caught up in “misadventures.” Stories were passed around to reset your moral compass: how someone’s aunt’s daughter’s brother’s friend had dared to date a Muslim man, married him, and end up prostituting on the streets. Her parents, humiliated, couldn’t show their faces, and her younger sister’s marriage prospects were ruined. Why? Because in our world, every single decision you make reflects on your entire family. What a daughter did was directly correlated with a families honour.
Then there were the other stories—the ones about daughters shunned so completely that no one was allowed to mention their names, as if they’d never existed.
I’ll never forget this one girl from the gurdwara. She had a younger brother, and our families were friendly. She was quiet, shy, and absolutely beautiful. She had big wide almond shaped eyes, fair as snow and so very lovely. She barely spoke to me and usually sat silently by her mum’s side.
One day, at an event, I noticed her family and asked her mum, “Oh, did your daughter come?” Her mum looked me dead in the eyes and said, “I have no daughter.”
I was confused. Umm, sorry, what? Yes, you do. I felt a sharp pinch on my arm—my mum glaring at me like I’d offered to expose my breasts. I shut up, completely clueless about what I’d done wrong.
Turns out, the girl had been secretly dating a Muslim boy for months, fallen pregnant, and decided to keep the baby. That choice cost her everything. She was disowned on the spot. I was in awe.
Fast-forward twenty years: I heard she’d since married that Muslim man, who turned out to be wealthy. She became confident, had two more kids, and lived happily ever after. You can bet your life that story didn’t make it into the desi propaganda machine.
Boys found potential matches watching wedding videos, i say boys more like their family. Families and matchmaking aunties hunted for prey through those tapes. Soon after attending a wedding/event phone calls started:
“Hello, I know a boy who likes the look of your daughter—they should meet.”
How old is she? what is her degree? can she cook? Is she homely?
Another method was the gurdwara sign-up. You’d give all your details and a photo, and some auntie algorithm would match you. Cue endless follow-up calls.
When my older sisters hit the “right” age, the phone never stopped ringing. Answering the phone became a game of Russian roulette. If the voice on the other end had a thick Indian accent, you knew what was coming. My punjabi on a good day my understanding was Key Stage 1, reading and writing non-existent!
Taking messages for my dad was traumatising. They’d give numbers in Punjabi, and I only knew 1–10 by counting on my fingers. I had to start counting each time unless it was 1, 2, 5, or 8.
One time, I picked up the phone, and this woman with the strongest Indian accent starts talking at 50 mph. I had no idea what she was saying, so I just kept saying, “Hunji” (yes). Later, she called my mum, who told her, “That daughter is 14. She’s not the one we’re trying to arrange a match for—but I do have two others!”
The “right” age for marriage was 22–25. Anything older, and you’d be scraping the barrel—divorcees or boys from India. My sister was juggling multiple prospects. I distinctly remember sneaking one out the back door while stalling another at the front.
At one “viewing,” the suitor’s mother left almost immediately, saying my sister was too short for her son. My sister was taller than this woman, but okay. That’s when I realised that if you’re a mother of only daughters, you become the slave in this twisted play. You must be agreeable, likeable, and keep your opinions to yourself. But if you birthed a penis? Oh, then you could do and say whatever the fuck you wanted.
Years later, I asked my mum, “Do you wish you’d had a son?” Without hesitation, she said, “Yes. It’s easier to be a bitch than having to be nice all the time.” She often adds that if she comes back in another life, she’ll make sure she’s born a man. She said they can do anything, they are truly free.
As for me? I don’t want to come back as a man. I want to come back as Paris Hilton’s dog.
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