Father of the Bride...

Daughter in early twenties, post graduated, successfully employed and independent. Logically, what comes next? Marriage of course.

It has been my experience, that most families with daughters that fit the above description exhibit similar behavior patterns during this time in their daughter's life. Make the marriage happen!!

Parents, usually retired by now, take to this task with unmatched zest! The determination, the fervor and the seriousness of the quest to find a groom is almost funny! From the daughter's point of view of course.

I do understand that they only want the best for their child. In doing so, are being dutiful parents, working to see their little baby happily settled in the conventionally socially approved sense of being settled. Husband, child, security, home and the works! It sure sounds great! And now that I am married I can vouch it feels great too, but the journey to getting here has been super hilarious!

The star comedy attraction being the over enthusiastic dad, and the sick of his enthusiasm mum.

I was fresh out of B School and into my first job, when my dad reminded me gravely that he was 62 and wanted me to get 'settled' soon, so he could be done with the last of his parental responsibilities and concentrate on his golf. My turning 23 had somehow accelerated his aging process and he insisted that he would be too old too soon and wanted to see me 'happily married' at the earliest. Preferably by tomorrow.

He wasn't exactly saying it in as many words, but he called me every day to discuss the sons of his friends, friends of friends, acquaintances, even strangers, asked me when I could take off from work, and what city I wanted to settle down in. He even made up sob stories on grandchildren dreams he was having (sic!)

He was awfully understanding, in that, I could marry any man, preferably Hindu, Tamilian, Iyer, Palakkad at that, and at least about three years older. That left me hell of a choice didn't it?

He was quick to add, that I had extremely broad minded parents (true), so he would be okay if I wanted to marry someone I met at work or play, who was not any of the above, but in that case had to be a Maharashtrian, Malayali, or a Mangalorian. If the boy was in the Indian Army, none of the specifications applied. Also he did not think highly of any of my then current or previous boy friends, so they were all out of the question.

Fortunately, we were on the same page about most of the 'requirements' and after months of emotional blackmail and long STD bills, my father and I agreed to cooperate with each other and jump headlong into the "arranged marriage" routine.

The ground rules were laid.

No chaay tray business. I would not meet the parents before I met the boy. I would not meet the boy before seeing a picture. I would meet the boy at a neutral venue, of my choice, sans friends, relatives, neighbors and/or pets. I had the veto power in any situation, and the final decision would be mine. To alliances I did not want to go ahead with and didn't have the heart to tell them so, I would convey that my parents had found a mismatch in the horoscopes and that they forbid me to proceed.

My dad agreed to it all. He really wanted me married off!

My father was overjoyed to be officially permitted to pursue his most favorite recent hobby. Groom hunting! All talks with friends, friends of friends, acquaintances, and those strangers were reopened. He sought unknown territory as well. As an immediate actionable, the paper wala was ordered to deliver Hindu and Deccan Herald along with the usual TOI. Those papers had more South Indian matrimonial ads you see. The sports section was abandoned and it was classifieds all the way.

Crosswords and Sudoku were no longer his post lunch nap reading material. He had eyes only for the matrimonial column. He studied it with more concentration than I think he did India's map during the wars as a serving officer.

Suddenly he felt the need to learn a thing or two at that dreadful thing called the computer. He never thought this day would come again in his life, after the year 2000, when he first chatted on Yahoo IM with the wife posted in Moscow, and somehow made it through that painful brush with technology.

Four years down the lane, he was yet again staring into the eyes of his computer-phobia.

Reading glasses perched an inch below eye level, nose crinkled and head tilted backwards, he would sit for hours together trying to figure out the online mysteries of the Internet! My mum the more sane member of this project, was his tutor, and focused as he was in his mission, he soon mastered the art of emailing, mass mailing, mailing with CC and BCC, attaching photographs, downloading, maintaining folders and preparing verbose word documents on his daughter's achievements :)

In the first few weeks, my father struggled to stay afloat in the deluge of emails and phone calls.

The challenge was not just the number of people, but also the nature of the numbers.

The tricky bit with South Indian nomenclature is, most gentlemen are named after gods and there is very little creativity with those few names too. There were the same names spelt differently as in SubramaniaNs, SubramaniaMs, KrishnamOOrthys, KrishnamUrthys. Then there were same names with different initials, as in, S. Vishwanathan, R. Vishwanthan and T. Vishwanthan. Then there were composite names with two parts, using the same names, as in Srinivasan Narayanan, Narayanan Srinivasan, Sundaraman Subramanian, Subramanian Sundaram. By the end of week two, my father had no clue whose son he was discussing with whom.

The calls poured in and my father braved them all, albeit with several foot in mouth moments. He must have come across as very disinterested in getting his daughter married, considering he remembered no details whatsoever from previous conversations and never dared to mention the boy's name lest he was talking to the wrong father. The problem was grave but the retired Army colonel was not a quitter. Necessity was the mother of invention, and my father invented the "Asha Wedding Diary".

Smarter and less sorry now, my dad had gotten efficient and scientific about the process. By the end of the month he had devised best practices, a methodology that called for a Level 4 CMMI certification at least. The newspapers were stacked date wise next to the computer for quick reference, the ads of interest were circled in red, the crucial details were then copied into the fat brown diary (perpetually next to the phone), under a specific category, eg: "First stage". Oh yes, the conversations with various "parties" were tracked and catalogued as per the progress they made and the stage they reached. So the diary had sections for different stages. The prospective grooms were sifted and the alliance funnel narrowed as it moved across stages.

He took great pride in maintaining all this documentation, and went through it earnestly like a Munshi checking his ledger balance.

There was an online repository as well, a folder called "Asha Wedding", that contained horrorscopes, supporting documents, such as family history, groom's 'bio data' and photographs for visual relief or lack of it.

After all parameters were considered, the case was forwarded to me. I would be intimated over the phone to check the latest lot of matrimonial emails in my inbox. These calls would be replete with hard selling. My father would glorify each alliance to no end, as if it was his personal mission to get the boy married off and not me! My head would fill with images of a suave marketing manager selling his latest FMCG product idea to the CEO across the board room.

I wasn't buying till I had seen and met for myself.

Post meeting the boy, my father would wait to hear from me. I could imagine his anticipation. Itching to know all the juicy details and to know if all his efforts had finally paid off in finding 'the one'! He was always worried I ragged the boys I met, and warned me several times to behave. I feel a bit guilty now that I had so much fun with friends and family discussing the episodes of meeting the matrimonial alliances.

If the case wasn't going anywhere, my father would go on and on about what a choosy and difficult daughter I was. He would sulk and sulk like a little boy, the accelerated aging story would be repeated and he would promise to never bother looking for a groom for me again, since I had anyway decided to not marry any of those he forwarded.

As expected, within a week there would be a fresh set of emails with photographs :) and of course this carried on till eventually three years later I got married.

But I have to hand it to my parents for making it all so pleasant and fun filled for me. I know a lot of girls my age who suffer through the "meeting the boy" ritual and have it rather difficult with the arranged marriage system. Luckily, for me it was one big comedy show! Thank you parents for being so understanding and thank you Pa for being so entertaining.

"Asha Wedding Diary" still sits snug in my father's study, hidden under a bundle of my spare wedding invitations. What a feeling it must be for a parent to see it and to experience a moment of "before and after".

I am sure he looks back at it now reliving a multitude of emotions.

The anxiety of getting his daughter married in time, the disappointment at having to go through several alliances and not finding a suitable match, the tension of waiting for her to like someone, the uncertainty of never seeing her settled, the hope filled stress that she meets someone who deserves her, the responsibility of conducting a mega event like a wedding, the sense of accomplishment at yet again providing for your child, and most of all, after all that it took, the contentment and relief that the little baby is settled happily like they always wanted!




Meeting the alliances is a continuation of this story.