The Arrangement of Love

There was a Sound of Music song that went, “I am sixteen, going on seventeen.......” and to cut the song short, the rest was about how excited the teenage daughter of the strict Captain Bontrap was to fall in love, or atleast be expected to fall in love.

I am twenty two, going on twenty three............... and only the latter option is valid for me. I am expected to be in love. So when I am talking interestedly with a person of the opposite gender, I am pretty used to some of my friends come delightfully to the conclusion that there is something brewing. And the next time they see both of us together, and for reasons far from romance; they behave like the paparazzi. When I am in a large group of incorrigibly talkative Bengali relatives in Kolkata who have just demolished a mountain of rice (and with it at least three varieties of fish), the word ‘marriage’ has to inevitably be mentioned when I am around. And if they see me irritated, that means that it must be discussed at length in my earshot.

In both the cases, I embarrassedly try to find an exit route out. I have never experienced love. Oh yes I have-it was in that latest Sharukh movie. Let me see, it took him about half an hour to serenade the lady off her feet, and another fifteen minutes to get married. Within the next two and a half hours, it went on about the various problems that can arise after or before you say ‘I do’. When you finally leave the cinema theatre you feel as if somebody has stuffed into your mouth love packaged in a Paracetamol capsule. Of course though I haven’t experienced love, I have seen love. I am sitting in the tube train having nothing to do, a gentleman and lady sitting opposite me, everything is going on fine; when suddenly the two decide to fiercely lunge for each other’s lips. In a tube train, there are not many places to really divert your attention to, and so you need to be uncomfortably aware of two lips and two pairs of hands who have suddenly geared into momentum and refusing to stop.

Which brings me to a very important question, that I suppose most of those who like me haven’t fallen in love must be wondering-Do you require love to marry? How on earth do arranged marriages survive? How is it that you manage to live your entire life with a person whom you don’t love, actually don’t even know very well?

Now I am going to talk about something else. Don’t worry, at the end you will realise why.

My parents decided to gift me a watch for my birthday. But again, there was no element of surprise- since watches are a sensitive affair-its beauty very often lies in the eyes of its wearer, and so you better don't end up buying a watch without consulting the person concerned. And so for the past one week, we went shopping- in malls, in catalogues, on the web. Ultimately we zeroed down on a watch, which was elegant. I have a fetish for archaic looking watches- having an old-fashioned golden case, and with a chronograph that points to the date, month, and year all shown in delightfully small dials inside. A few notches below in the shelf, was a watch of my parent’s choice, of the same company, but looking jazzy, full of steel, with a racy streak to it. There was nothing remotely old-fashioned about it. I couldn’t exactly phantom which watch would look better on my wrist.

For some reason, I finally ended up buying the jazzy watch, though to be honest; I was not really fond of it.

So the watch remained displayed now no longer on the glittering show case of the shop, but on the lesser effulgent settings of my side-table. At first I was angry with myself to allow myself to be influenced by my parents’ choice, and so I refused to look at the watch. As if the watch and I had an ego clash the moment we met. Later, I took off the packing cover and had a good look at it. Minus the confusion of glowing lights, rival watches, and talkative salespersons; this watch didn’t look all that bad now. Yes it was a bit too racy, but come to think of it, it had a rugged but impeccable charm about it.

I replaced back the cover, and again left it. With the strap too long to fit my wrist, I couldn’t wear it immediately. But then by virtue of the fact that I knew that I would be spending at least a decade, if not two with this watch; I decided to look at it again. “The red dial inside does look cool”, I told myself. “The watch looks okay. I mean this is better than a poodle-like golden watch”, I said to myself.

Days went by and I realised that I was becoming more and more attached to the watch that lay serenely on the packing case. I had to look at it whenever I went to my room; and at times I went to my room to just look at the watch. Then came a Saturday, when I had the opportunity to go to a local shop and have the strap cut to fit my wrist. And once I wore that watch on my wrist- she looked absolutely stunning!

Now I can’t imagine life without that watch. I adore it. It looks great. I wouldn’t swap it for any other drool looking old-fashioned watch in the world. I am glad I took it. On my wrist we look like a team.

Which set me thinking that perhaps that’s how arranged marriages work. After all there are so many things that we didn’t arrange. We didn’t arrange our parents. We did not have a menu sheet where we ticked on what we want from them, and what we don’t want them to be. But with all their imperfections, we love them. We did not arrange for the house we would be born in; whether it would be a slum or apartment or palace. But the moot point remains that we call that place our home-and we are attached to it.

Arranged marriages I guess, work on the same universal logic. Where you learn to share your life with the other. Where you accept the other’s existence as a part of your own. Where you tell yourself firmly that, now that the other is there; there can be no another.

And then you have the marriages that are truly made and exist in heaven.

Isn’t it?

My watch winks back in approval!