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- Part 2 -
The story so far The Match Game The television flickered with the faces of blonds and brunets, their hair flat-ironed, their evening dresses stretched over pushup bras. "Who will go home broken-hearted?" the voiceover said. Vibha Dhawan was watching The Bachelor on a 13-inch Magnavox in her dorm room, feeling anything but elegant. Her room was a wreck, clothes strewn everywhere. She studied and ate at the same cramped desk, her textbooks piled on the floor. On TV, the bachelor, a Harvard graduate with a fondness for snow skiing and Italian food, stood before his harem of beautiful women. Arranged marriage, American style. A tray of long-stemmed red roses awaited the bachelor's whims. "The first rose goes to. . . ." He paused hard before giving up a name. Lipstick smiles froze in anticipation until one rose was left. "The final rose goes to . . ." The camera flashed to those without flowers. The discarded. The disappointed. Love was never easy, not even on television.
Promila Dhawan telephoned friends and relatives in India who might know a suitable young man. Once Vibha's mother had a name, she called the man's parents, or, sometimes, an aunt, and listened to how they spoke. Were they educated? Overly boastful? Did they seem interested in Vibha? She phoned neighbors and friends in India who might know the family. "How do they treat people?" Promila asked. "What kind of business do they have? How are their children growing up?" Vibha was at the University of South Florida, trying to stay calm. She had picked up her cap and gown for winter graduation. She had agreed in principle to her parents' wishes. "The arranged marriage is all about duty," she explained to her girlfriends. But at the same time, she told her mother, "There is no way a boy from India would understand me." What did an Indian man know of American ways? Would he let her be a feminist? Have a career? Her mother was adamant. She wanted a Punjabi boy from India. Indian boys in America were too Westernized, hardly spoke Hindi, knew little about Indian culture and Hinduism. "What will you teach your children?" she asked Vibha. In late December 2000, just after Vibha's graduation, Promila boarded a plane for India. She had five interviews lined up. Vibha stayed at home in Deltona with her father. After flying 8,700 miles to Bombay, her mother traveled 1,500 bone-rattling miles by train to Delhi, then Jaipur and her hometown of Amritsar in Punjab. Back home, Vibha baked brownies from a box for her dad. In India, Promila sipped hot chai tea in living rooms and quizzed prospects: What do you do for a living? What do your parents do? What are your plans? Every few days, Vibha got a phone call from her mother. Bachelor No. 1 was off the list, Promila reported. He kept making excuses and didn't want to spend time with Promila. Another call: Bachelor No. 2 had a girlfriend. "You can't drink milk with a fly in it," her mother told her. Bachelor No. 3, who had told Promila he was 6 feet 6, turned out to be 5 feet 9. "He was lying, one after the other," she said. No. 4 was looking for an easy passage to the United States: a green card. Vibha was not about to be used as a one-way ticket to America. Then came the doctor with the mustache, the one whose photograph Vibha had seen. Promila asked about his plans. He would stay in the United States for five or six years, the young doctor said, but then he would return to India. "My daughter doesn't want to leave the States," Promila told Bachelor No. 5. "She is an American." Ten days after leaving, Promila flew back to Florida. Vibha was waiting at Orlando International Airport. Her mother was finished with India. The entire nation of 1-billion had been stricken from her list. She told Vibha, "None of those boys were good enough!" Vibha felt relief. But other countries dotted the map. And her mother still had steam.
Maybe an Indian from the United States really was better-suited for her daughter, Promila decided. She had tried tradition. It was time for modern magic: the Internet. Promila assembled a report known in Indian matrimonial circles as a bio data. On a computer, Promila typed: VIBHA DHAWAN Promila listed sports -- softball, volleyball and bowling, among them -- but, deliberately, did not list Vibha's weight. In Promila's mind, her plus-sized daughter needed to slim down. With the resume came a cover letter. Vibha was born on September 24, 1977, at 10:30 p.m. in Madras, India, to Dr. Devindra Dhawan and Mrs. Promila K. Dhawan. She is an only child that comes from a big family located in Punjab, Delhi, Mumbai, Surat, London, Canada, California, New York and Illinois. Her relatives' professions range from doctors, scientists, lawyers, engineers, to the P.A. of the prime minister of India. Even though she has lived in the United States most of her life she hasn't forgotten her traditional values and religious practices. Vibha graduated from the University of South Florida on December of 2000 with a B.A. in Sociology and Communication Sciences/Disorders. She is currently working and studying toward her M.A. degree in Political Science and Communications. Her future goals are to live a successful life with her family and to become a politician or news broadcaster. One could say that she is a sincere, social and open-minded person with a warm heart. She is looking for an independent individual with similar futuristic goals for a prosperous life. Sincerely, Vibha flipped through albums looking for a photo to accompany the bio. She chose one of herself smiling from a cream-colored sofa. She was wearing an earth-toned salwar kameez, tunic and draw-string pants, with a Bindi dot between her eyebrows. Vibha, instructed by her mom, posted the bio data package on punjabimatrimony.com, whose home page offers "eternal bonds" and "everlasting relationships." Responses poured into Promila's Yahoo account. "The computer is magic," Promila marveled. Vibha, now in graduate school, checked the account from USF's computer lab between classes. She poked fun at the guys' names, creating unflattering rhymes. If a guy couldn't spell, if he wasn't careful in the way he wrote, she didn't take him seriously. "We would like to have the latest photograph of dear Anita," stated the note from Beavercreek, Ohio. "Who's Anita?" Vibha said to her mother, and they both burst out laughing. Promila evaluated the responses. She noted height; she wanted a tall man for Vibha. She noted age. Six years older was out. She did not make an issue of caste, which could be confining given the smaller pool of single Indian men in the United States. If the e-mail stated, "I am looking for a girl who knows how to cook and clean" -- and some did -- Promila zapped it into the trash. She knew Vibha was not domestic. Promila responded to likely prospects by e-mail, asking for the young man's horoscope -- date, time and place of birth -- so that she might compare it with Vibha's. Ancient Hindus used astrology to launch battles and unite kingdoms. Promila believed the stars held the messages of God. Despite the deluge of responses, the first Web posting netted only one prospect: Anil, 24, a chiropractor from California. He telephoned once. Vibha discovered she didn't know exactly what to say to a man. At least not this man. "What's up?" she tried. Anil filled the dead air, raving about California's sunny weather.The two did not click.
Her mother was impatient. It was June 2001. Six months had passed since the trip to India. Promila decided to take Vibha to see a Hindu priest -- a pandit -- near Orlando. Pandits advised on the physical -- marriage, death and birth -- and the metaphysical, the will of God. Maybe he could tell them something. In a community center used as a temple, Vibha sat cross-legged on the bare floor, next to the pandit. He seemed young and bony to her. A piece of cloth the golden color of turmeric draped his chest. In front of him was a chart of the stars and the moons. "When is she going to get married?" Vibha's father asked eagerly. The pandit looked at his chart. "The guy will come into her life after September," he said. "He will be someone she already knows." Vibha searched her mind. Who could that be? Faces popped up. She pushed them aside. "The boy will live in the United States," the pandit said. Her mother seemed pleased. "He will be into computers, well-off," continued the priest. "You will have nothing to worry about." He turned to Vibha. "You're going to get married 18 months from your birthday coming up." Vibha did the calculation in her head. She would turn 24 in September. Eighteen months from that would be March 2003. That was awfully close, she thought. She sat silently. While her parents obsessed over when, Vibha worried about who.
"I'm not that desperate!" Vibha fumed. She was at home in Deltona one weekend in January 2002 when she noticed a pile of envelopes in the living room. Responses to the bio data usually came by e-mail. What was going on? Promila confessed. She had placed an ad for Vibha in India Abroad, a weekly newspaper offered at U.S. markets frequented by Indians. Vibha had been revealed to the world as a Punjabi girl, 24, with a wheatish complexion, well-educated and from a good family, who was seeking a Punjabi boy. "Embarrassing!" Vibha said. She had agreed to the India trip, the bio data, the Web posting. But a classified ad? What was she, a car? Promila was not only fielding the responses, she was scanning the other ads in India Abroad's matrimonial columns. One day the words "tall" and "attorney" caught her eye. Without telling Vibha, Promila answered the ad. A few days later, an e-mail arrived from California. Thank you for your response to the ad I had placed in India Abroad for my son, Sandeep. I am attaching Sandeep's photo and bio data to this e-mail. If you could kindly respond with a photograph and bio data of your daughter, it would be much appreciated. Sandeep was north Indian, 29, 5 feet 10 and 195 pounds. He had been in the United States since he was a baby and was a lawyer in Los Angeles. Vibha was on the verge of scolding her mother for again snatching the reins when she examined Sandeep's photo and bio data. He was tall and smiling, with thick hair. She liked that he listed both Indian and American hobbies. She gave her mother the go-ahead, and Promila sent off Vibha's bio data. Within days, Vibha got an e-mail. Hi Vibha, This is Sandeep. I got your e-mail address from my parents who got it from your parents. Where in Florida do you currently live? Besides going to school, are you also working, or are you a full time student? I live at home with my parents, and we live in a suburb of Los Angeles called Porter Ranch. I have a younger brother and a younger sister. Your parents also gave my parents your cell phone number. Would you mind if I called you? Take care Vibha was impressed. He was casual and nice. Plus, no spelling mistakes. Hey Sandeep, How are you? I go to school full time and I work full time on campus. I have no problem with you calling my cell phone. What type of attorney are you? Personal injury? Corporate? What do you do for fun? Do you travel? Have you been to Florida? Take care, That weekend in February 2002, Vibha hooked her cell phone to her purse and toted it everywhere. She was having lunch with a girlfriend at Perkins Restaurant & Bakery on Fowler Avenue when a strange number flashed on her caller ID. She kept getting calls meant for a real estate office. Expecting yet another, she answered rudely: "What?" "Hi, is this Vibha?" a deep voice said. "This is Sandeep." Vibha sat up. "Oh, hi." The moment wasn't private. "I'm having lunch with my friend," Vibha said. "Can I call you back?" Forty-five minutes later, she did, catching him in line for a ride at Disneyland. "So how have you been?" he asked casually, as if Vibha was a lifelong friend. "Fine," she said. "How was your week?" "Fine," she said. Pauses filled the air and Vibha could tell the timing was not right. "Can I call you tomorrow?" he asked. The next day, Vibha waited for his call at an indoor racquetball court at USF. She rarely played racquetball, but thought it would make good background noise. Perhaps Sandeep would think she was athletic and slim. For 10 minutes, they talked about the weather, before moving to geography "Is Tampa east or west of Orlando?" he asked. He told her he had traveled to Hawaii and Las Vegas. He liked to gamble. Oh, Vibha said. Sandeep named some fast-food restaurants he liked. "I stopped eating beef in 1996," Vibha said. "I eat seafood." "I can't stand seafood," Sandeep said. "Oh, that's another thing we have in common," she said, and they both chuckled.
The next call, Vibha initiated. Should she tell him the truth? That her bio data photo was dated. That she had gained 30 pounds. "I'm not, like, a size 5," she said. He didn't get the hint and went on gabbing about movies and dating. "Do you think we should meet?" he said. It was only their second conversation. Maybe he did get the hint. The Indian celebration of spring, called Holi, passed. Vibha's midterm exams passed. The conversations with Sandeep continued, lasting an hour, then two. She asked him the husband questions she had been rehearsing in her mind. "If a girl cooks, will you do the dishes?" "Yes," he said. "When you were 14 and your baby sister was born, did you change her diapers?" "Your questions are weird." She remained silent until he gave in. "Yes, I changed her diapers." "Did you help your mom? Did you cook for her?" "Are you one of those girls who believe in 50-50 all the way?" "No, I believe in 51-49," Vibha said. "You for the 49." They laughed. He asked her, "Do you get lonely, being an only child?" "All the time," she said. "I always feel lonely." She liked the question. It showed sensitivity. Promila was cautious about Sandeep. She noticed his ad was still running in India Abroad. But Sandeep's mother sent Promila a list of the family's summer travel plans. They wanted to meet Vibha. Vibha told her mother to stall, hoping to buy some time to lose weight. "Eat more broccoli," Promila nagged. "Lay off the bread."
The musical chime on her cell phone went off while Vibha was in her dorm. Sandeep wanted to fix a date to meet -- urgently. It was May 2002. Almost four months had passed since their first e-mail. She asked him to pick two numbers. Twice, he chose seven. "Okay, I'll meet you on July 7," Vibha said. "I'll come with my mom and dad." "Will they let us be alone?" Sandeep asked.
She had already gone to bed when he called one night not long afterward. Somehow the conversation turned to sex. Sandeep asked Vibha how she felt about sleeping with her fiance if she got engaged. She was stunned. Her upbringing taught her such subjects were private. "If I get to a point where I feel comfortable, then I will have this conversation with you," she answered, "but you shouldn't expect it." For weeks, Sandeep didn't call. Vibha sent him an e-mail birthday card in June, when he turned 30. His response was brief and completely ignored their last phone conversation. For the first time, Vibha felt she couldn't talk to Sandeep. She didn't answer his e-mail. He didn't call. July 7, 2002, came and went, and Vibha was still like a girl on The Bachelor, waiting for her red rose.
Vibha's mom threw more bio data packages her way, including two men from Houston, both named Manish. Manish One and Manish Two, Vibha dubbed them. Her bio data was now posted on another popular site, shaadi.com. Promila updated the photo: Vibha in the sleeveless, powder-blue dress she wore to her high school prom. In Russia, a young Punjabi named Ashu noticed. He e-mailed her on Feb. 25, 2003. I am ambitious, caring, friendly, possess good sense of humor, family values, professionally sound, dedicated hard worker. I have lust for life, don't let people be sad around me and don't want to hurt them with wrong deeds and action. Vibha, under Promila's tutelage, had become more demanding. Dear Ashu, Your description of yourself sounds vague, could you tell me some of your flaws?
March 2003 arrived. Vibha was still single. The pandit had been off in his prediction.
The search was in its third year. It reached all the way to New Zealand. A friend of Promila's knew a Punjabi woman whose nephew was studying there. "Very tall and handsome," the woman said. His name was Rahul. Rahul e-mailed Vibha. His first note was short and sweet, which Vibha liked. He ended it with "Be good!" They set a date to meet -- on the Internet -- where they would trade instant messages. Online, Vibha waited for an hour. It was as if she had been stood up at a bar. Finally, a message popped on the screen: Sorry. I had something to do. She didn't ask. He didn't volunteer.
Vibha moved out of the USF dorms and into the nearby Excellence Apartments. Anand Warude, a fellow graduate student, lived at Excellence with five roommates who took turns cooking, and Vibha often went to his apartment for dinner. While Fear Factor played on the TV and the friends squirmed at the outlandish stunts, they joked, talked about their day, their professors, USF politics, India. Vibha particularly enjoyed the stories about India that one of Anand's roommates, Shantanu Shevade, told. Like Anand, Shantanu had grown up in Bombay, and, like Anand, he had come to Tampa to study engineering at USF. Shantanu entertained Vibha and his roommates with tales of the stricter climate at Indian colleges. You couldn't bring food into classrooms, he said, or even a soft drink. Yawning in class was out, too. Shantanu was nice, Vibha thought. She had thought he was a bit scruffy when they first met, in need of a shave, but she noticed right away that his eyes were hazel -- shimmering like pennies -- not pitch black like most Indian eyes. Then, in an instant one evening, he became just another male disappointment. It had been a long day at school and work. After dinner, Vibha dozed off for a few minutes on Anand's couch. When she opened her eyes, her friends were huddled around the computer, looking at something that made a loud, gasping noise. "What is that?" Vibha asked. "That's you snoring!" one of them announced. The villain was Shantanu. He had recorded Vibha while she slept, much to the amusement of the others. She left the apartment embarrassed and with Shantanu crossed off her list.
The online relationship with Rahul had improved after the awkward start. Toward the end of summer last year, Rahul's aunt in Pittsburgh phoned Promila. The aunt wanted to meet Vibha. With Rahul in New Zealand and his parents in India, the aunt had become the point of contact, typical of Indian matchmaking. Promila was pleased. She liked Rahul's family. Vibha felt some excitement, too. After three years, she was finally going to meet prospective parents. Vibha wore a fancy Punjabi outfit for the meeting in Pittsburgh, which was held in an Indian restaurant that Rahul's family owned. The aunt greeted Vibha warmly. "How's school?" she asked. She raved about Rahul, his good looks, his hobbies. "He might be coming to America soon for a visit," she said. "Maybe you two can meet." As Vibha and her mother boarded the plane for the flight back to Tampa, Promila took up Rahul's cause. "You should talk to Rahul more," Promila told Vibha. In her mind, Vibha was running through the gallery of faces the long search had produced. The candidates from India were out, or were they? She knew her mother still kept in touch with Bachelor No. 5, the doctor. Promila liked his family. The Manishes from Houston also came from good families. Manish One was always complimenting Vibha, but was he sincere? Manish Two was worldly and liked to describe at great length the places he had visited, but his monologues sometimes turned Vibha off. Ashu the Russian wore his heart on his sleeve and was convinced that he and Vibha were destined for each other. Rahul was kind and liked to cook, but he didn't always share Vibha's sense of humor. Yet, as Vibha fastened her seat belt, her mind was far from muddled. She didn't let on to her mother, but the picture was becoming clearer. One man was starting to stand out.
About this story For three years, St. Petersburg Times reporter Babita Persaud followed Vibha Dhawan as she and her parents confronted the issue of arranged marriage and how it is evolving for Indians in America. The private nature of some events meant they had to be reconstructed later from interviews. For example, the phone conversations with Sandeep, the suitor from California, were recounted to Persaud by Vibha soon after they occurred. E-mails and biographic data from suitors were provided by the Dhawan family to illustrate the intricacies of arranged marriage.
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