I was discussing arranged marriages with Switen, a man born and raised in the romantic backwaters of Alleppey, India. Switen’s own marriage was arranged — he and his wife were virtual strangers, meeting barely two months before they were wed. They have since had two children and seven blissful years together.
His explanation for how it works was simple, but revelatory.
“In India, love comes after the marriage,” he said.
I grew up being a love cynic. I had a very bad perspective on men for a very long time, which created a string of unhealthy relationships. If you would have asked me then for my view of marriage, I would have said that the whole institute was a demeaning way to keep women from being independent, and it prevents them from moving toward self-actualization.
I knew that love existed, but I thought it was a fleeting emotion. It was the fluttery feeling that lasted only until the man got drunk, picked a fight and slept with the Theresa, the bartender at the pool hall. Love inevitably leads to despair. As my wise guru Tina Turner once said, “Who needs a heart when a heart can be broken?”
It took a long time for those wounds to heal. I dated some bad men who disappointed me. I also dated some good guys who were disappointed by me. At that point, I joked that I would marry twice — first for money, then for love — but I never thought either would happen. I figured I was destined to grow old as a crazy cat lady, except for the fact that I hated cats.
Then I met Jason.
We went to sushi bars, skydiving dropzones and X-rated puppet shows. We kissed. We moved in together. We got a cat. I started to love cats. We moved across the country. We pushed through a lot of ache and trauma and hurt. We got new jobs. We got a dog. He started to love dogs.
One year ago, we got married.
I can say now that I never knew love until Jason put a ring on my finger. I thought I loved him before, but it’s nothing compared with the sweeping tides of feeling since we exchanged vows.
It’s as if every atom in my being has been charged. I’m happy to wake up and breathe his air, and it settles me just to know this man exists in my world. It’s the kind of love that claws at me, makes every day ripple, makes me hungry to return home. As I travel, I hear his voice in every bell, his eyes appear in every gold-flecked sunset, and when I see the moon I know he hung it there.
Still, this is no fairy tale. There were some tough years. We’ve waded through muck and we have stooped low with burden. There were misunderstandings and mishaps. I wasn’t always a good partner, and a lesser person might have given up on me.
Ultimately, I learned that relationships are work, and I wasn’t putting in my overtime.
This makes me think that there’s something to the idea of arranged marriages. Maybe in the short term it’s more romantic to have only the initial attraction, and maybe that can be sustained. But for the long haul, for the things that really matter, it’s a conscious choice to be in love and stay in love.
Of course, I don’t think anyone should be forced into a union they don’t want to be in. But if both partners are willing to meet halfway and put in the time, effort and energy, it’s possible to be happy for the rest of your lives.
So that’s my wish today as I celebrate my first wedding anniversary — even though I’m in India and Jason is in California. Let’s decide to be in love and stay that way, baby. We can do this thing.
