Something Borrowed

Vodka Yonic features a rotating cast of women and nonbinary writers from around the world sharing stories that are alternately humorous, sobering, intellectual, erotic, religious or painfully personal. You never know what you’ll find in this column, but we hope this potent mix of stories encourages conversation.

The concept of love was different in the ’80s — especially for my parents, who grew up a couple of alleys apart in Gujarat, India. They shared the same circle of friends, but there was no courtship, no romantic chemistry between them. My four grandparents met in my mom’s living room, conferred over chai and samosas, exchanged pleasantries and bank statements and granted my parents permission to have a singular private conversation in the back garden. At the end of that afternoon, it was decided that they were to be engaged that weekend. Two months later, they were married. Ten months after that, I was born.

Stories like this are far less common now in India. Times have evolved, and both parties often have the autonomy to choose their life partner and plan their weddings. They also have the right to leave unhappy marriages, should they choose.

Whenever my parents told me the story about their meeting, I swore that I would pick my own spouse. After all, the concept of arranged marriage was so heavily ridiculed by Western culture that the thought of experiencing it myself was simply out of the question. I vividly remember a student from Nebraska in my freshman-year English class asking me if my parents would pick my husband because that’s what he saw in Monsoon Wedding. I was mortified. I dreamed of having a big, fat, Indian wedding with my chosen partner at a beautiful destination.  

Many childhood dreams don’t come true, but this one did. In March, my partner and I will get married in London. Wedding planning is stressful in general, but a four-day Indian affair in the midst of a never-ending global pandemic takes it to a different level. My mom also adds to this distress. 

When my parents got married, my mom had no decision-making power in the matter. In addition to her husband being chosen for her, she was given the wedding dresses and matching jewelry to wear and the address of the venues where she should show up. She had to simply smile for the photographs, eat when told to and thank the elders for their blessings. Since we immigrated to America, I have watched her evolve into an independent woman who has raised me to advocate for myself. She’s been my biggest confidant and supporter. Despite our closeness, wedding planning has caused novel strains in our relationship and has brought out the worst in each of us over trivial matters: She will recommend pink roses to flank my aisleway, I will opt for red; I will suggest wearing a navy lehenga during my reception, and she will select a black gown instead; I will opt for a chaat during cocktail hour, but she will choose a biryani.

I met these initial differences in opinion with stubborness, which resulted in many heated arguments. After all, this was my wedding and the moment I have waited so many years for. How could I let anyone else play a part in the decision-making? It took some self-reflection to understand that my mom saw in my wedding the dreams and aspirations she wasn’t able to realize when it came to her own nuptials. Every woman dreams of her special day, but my mom never had the opportunity to celebrate or experience the surrounding joy. Heck, she didn’t even get a voice in where they honeymooned!

I am the only daughter in our Indian family, and my parents have one chance to participate in the traditions and customs they have waited so long for. Our bickering and the fluctuation in our relationship showed me the importance of communication. We decided to abandon modes of communication more prone to passive-aggression, like email and text messaging, and opted to be candid about how we were feeling. We scheduled weekly phone calls to hash out vendor details and give each other the opportunity to vent any frustrations. I had to relearn the nature of our dynamic and realize that our relationship was shifting because we were both changing as people. I practiced empathy and realized that this is the moment all moms both look forward to and fear: their daughters growing up and, possibly, out of reach. 

There are 94 days left until our wedding. I have asked my mom to give a speech at the reception. This is the moment we both have been waiting for.