The Marriage Trap II

Fate and recent good fortune permitted me to take a trip this summer to London, a city I haven't been to since 1995. The city hadn't changed much - the same red buses, the same Asian newsagents, the same frenzy over life, love, and lager - but I had.

When I last visited the United Kingdom, I was getting over a difficult breakup, and had about as much interest in the opposite sex as in a dead mackeral. Four years on, my heart had healed and I was ready to vibe again. Though I can tell you right away that my "vibing" produced no results, I am able to present you with my scientific observations on the art of finding a marriage partner in Great Britain.

You've all heard about my theories on how hard it is to find a suitable mate in Pakistan. I thought that marriage in the United Kingdom would be a completely different ball game. I harbored the impression that everyone in Britain was intelligent, well-educated, fairly well-versed in both Asian and Western culture, and spoke with those amazing accents. With the important criteria out of the way, how hard could it be to find Mr. or Ms. Right? All he or she had to do was open his mouth, quote Shakespeare followed by Shah Abdul Latif, and it was off to the marriage registry. Simple!

Well, my theory that all Asian men in Britain are gallant knights was quickly proven wrong. I was walking with some friends up and down Gloucester Place, trying to find a cafe open past eleven pm on a weeknight. A group of Asian lads whom I can only describe as a posse stood outside the 24-hour minimart, drinking coffee and trading insults with a homeless drunk man. As soon as they spotted us, they started calling out to us, "Ladies! Good evening! Err....where are you from? Memhsahibs, please!"

When we didn't answer, they started belting out that pop hit of the millennium, "Resham ki galli mey, resham key galli mey..." My friends and I walked away as fast as we could. Except for the British accents, this was as bad as being harrassed on Tariq Road. Worse, in fact, because we couldn't even appeal to any Pathan shopkeepers to beat them up. The lone policeman standing there rolled his eyes, as if to say "You can take the man out of the subcontinent, but you can't take the subcontinent out of the man."

Still, I considered this a freak incident, and it didn't rob me of my idealistic notion that British desis made charming mates. My cousin Ayesha, who was born and bred in London, snorted sarcastically and wasted no time in telling me that I would be lucky if I could find one to give me the time of day. "All we do is work all day and go home. We never get the time or the chance to meet anyone. And we all live so far apart from each other that it's a miracle if we actually keep in touch with the people we meet."

The truth is a combination of both time constraints and population scarcity. There simply aren't enough Asians in Britain for everyone to be paired up quickly and easily. Most families find themselves in the UK on their own, miles away from the nearest Asian family (Brick Lane, Bradford and other Asian enclaves being exceptions to the rule).

Robbed of the intimate network of family and friends that we in Pakistan take for granted, desperate mothers fall back on either importing a cousin from "back home" (which most second-generation Asians won't agree to), joining matrimonial services run by well-meaning aunties (which no second-generation Asian would admit being a part of), or, in worst-case scenarios, drugging and kidnapping their own children (mostly daughters, as even the most optimistic Asian parents would have a hard time drugging and kidnapping their 6'0, 180lb+ sons) and sending them into matrimonial prison in the countries of their origin.

Parents resort to these desperate measures because they are terrified that their sons and daughters might grow up to marry whites, blacks, or worse still, Hindus (substitute Muslims if you are Hindu). Though marrying a Hindu may seem like the ultimate sin to a Pakistani, the truth is that over in the United Kingdom, where you are considered a minority, you tend to feel an immediate kinship with anyone who's got brown skin. Free to befriend Hindus, Sikhs, and Asians of other religions besides their own, many Muslim men and women end up falling in love with them. And don't forget that the allure of forbidden fruit can often seem extremely attractive to a young Asian, already under a good deal of pressure to walk the twin tightropes of family and society.

Of the many Asians that I met, however, most were conservative and wanted to marry someone of their own religion and racial origin. But being gifted with the ingenuity that second-generationers develop in having to deal with a complex life in a complex world, they would rather do it their own way . Hence the birth of the "social club", where young Asians meet under the guise of making new friends and contacts (but everyone knows exactly what they are there for; only the clinically dead need it spelled out for them).

Thanks to my cousin, who is an extremely social and friendly person, I was able to attend two events held by two different social clubs. The first was a "Young Punjabis Salsa Party", held in a dark, smoky club off the Tottenham Court Road. Ayesha and I were accompanied by two of her friends, both called Hari, one a Sikh and the other a Hindu (we distinguished them by their turban and beard or lack thereof).

When we entered the club, we were interrogated by a congenial Punjabi guy who asked us to fill out several forms in triplicate and indicate whose guests we were. I was assured that this was standard procedure for everyone attending, and not just our special privilege because we'd made the mistake of announcing very loudly that we were actually Sindhi and could we still get in? Sikh Hari gallantly paid for both our tickets, and we swept into the club's cavernous interior.

The first thing we noticed was that we had broken some sort of dress code: the girls were all in black, while Ayesha and I had worn colorful clothes (hell, it was a salsa party!). The second thing we noticed is that while the guys were all our ages or thereabouts, the girls all seemed to be in their late teens or twenties. They preened themselves at the bar, running nervous hands through their hair and glancing back at the guys, who were all seated on high stools along the walls, eyeing the girls equally nervously. It reminded me of the "lounge parties" I attended in high school, where everyone hid behind their cokes (beer in this case) and kicked their friends when they saw someone they found attractive.

This analogy proved itself right when one of the Hari's said, "Yeah, yeah, that one. The one with the long hair. No, not her, the one behind her. Yeah, yeah."

I looked at Ayesha for a translation while the other Hari said, "You want me to go talk to her?"

"No, no! Don't talk to her. Just go walk by her and see if she's with anyone."

The mating dance, I found out, went like this: Hari Number One made several forays around the girl, trying to scope her out. If he returned with positive news, Hari Number Two (the one initially interested in the girl) would make his way out to her and walk in her immediate vicinity, hoping eye contact would be initiated. "What are you going to say to her?" asked Ayesha.

"Are you going to ask her for her number?" I said.

"No, no!" sputtered Hari Number Two. "But maybe if her friend talks to me, I might try to see if we know anyone in common."

Ayesha and I decided to go to the dance floor and have some fun while the two Hari's worked their magic. We had a good time dancing to the salsa band, but unfortunately the band had to leave without performing their second set because the DJ put some bhangra on the turntable; the revellers rioted and didn't let the band come back on at all. We fled the pounding beats and the beery smell of the dancefloor back to the two Hari's.

"Well? Do you know her friend?"

"Yes. The good news is, she's single. The bad news is, her friend isn't actually her friend. They just met tonight."

We made sympathetic sounds all the way on the drive home. Hari Number Two looked increasingly dejected as he pointed to his turban. "It's this, you see. Most girls don't like it. But what can I do? It's so complicated for us Sikhs. Do you know, if a girl has the same last name as me, I can't marry her, because we're considered sisters?"

"Can you marry your cousin?" I asked.

"Nope," said Hari glumly. "They're out too."

"How lucky!" I exclaimed. Both Hari and Ayesha gave me strange looks, and Ayesha sort of nodded and raised an eyebrow, as if to say "don't mind her, she's from Pakistan".

Most of the Punjabis at this party were Hindu and Sikh Punjabis, so Ayesha and I decided to try our luck at a second event. This one was called "Young Muslims Jazz in Battersea Park Evening" or something to that effect. Ayesha and I joked that our sleeveless blouses (it was a hot summer evening) would make the more conservative sisters brand us as sluts and force us to cover up with improvised chadors. "But no, look, it's really not like that," Ayesha assured me. "These are the cool Muslims. They wouldn't be listening to jazz if they weren't."

I conceded she had a point, and we walked from the King's Road to Battersea Park with Ahmed, another friend of hers who made no bones about the fact that he was looking for a Muslim wife. I liked his attitude; his conversation was littered with "mahshallah" and "inshallah" but he joked with us about the fact that our status as "losers" had driven us to the desperate straits of the social clubs. "I bet you won't see a single married person at this thing, and if you do, no one will be talking to him."

We reached the cafe at the park, and saw a long table of well-dressed Asians chatting to each other in the soft light of the London evening. I felt so intimidated that I ran towards the cafeteria, hoping to comfort myself with some food, while Ayesha muttered "Oh God, oh bloody hell, now what do we do?"

The people in themselves weren't at all frightening - they looked incredibly normal - but seeing them gathered en masse like that was very intimidating indeed - walking into that crowd would be as good as announcing, "I want to get married! Please, someone take pity on me!" For all my self-confidence, it was a bit much. The Young Punjabi party had just been for fun; we'd gone for a laugh and some good music. This party, filled with potential Muslim mates, was serious business.

We'd met up with another friend, Salim, and our increased numbers finally made us feel brave enough to join the main group. And it really wasn't that bad. We were made to feel very welcome, and soon Ayesha was running around meeting everybody, while I sat at the bench and accepted the good-natured teasing that I always get about my Yankee accent from desis in Britain. "We'll have to get you some elocution lessons if you decide to stay here," said one of them, making me laugh out loud. At that joke his friend nudged him imperceptibly with his elbow, as if to say, "Quit while you're ahead" but I didn't mind.

For my part, I made the mistake of telling another guy that I'd been to Scotland but liked Edinburgh better than Glasgow. He opened his mouth and said in perfect Scottish brogue, "But why? Glasgow's ma home tawn!" and then didn't speak to me for the rest of the evening.

There were equal numbers of men and women there, but after initial small talk to their fellow gender, everyone ended up talking to members of the opposite sex. And true to Ahmed's prediction, there was a married guy there, but no one bothered to talk to him. He left early, no doubt to go home and complain to his wife ("Those stupid people! All they care about is getting married!").

We talked about everything under the sun except why we were here. It didn't need to be said; you caught a glimpse of it in someone's eyes, an unguarded sigh, a rueful laugh. I was aware that I was being "checked out" by the men (who immediately lost interest when I told them that I lived in Pakistan - their lives were difficult enough). But their looks were not lewd or disrespectful. Rather, they were curious, friendly, and questioning - "Would you? Do you? Might you?"

As the sun sank lower and the saxophone sent its plaintive notes out into the sky, I was aware of a certain sadness that set in, which grew as the air darkened. Our group got up to dance to the music (and some sneaked off to the bar for a secret pint), and a feeling of wistful camaraderie overtook us all. It was as if we were all acknowledging that we were in this together, this great search for the unattainable Beloved - a fitting Sufi theme for our Muslim gathering.

While no great romances may have bloomed from the evening, at least it worked to assuage our yearning just a little bit; it gave us all the knowledge that there's no shame in admitting you are lonely and want someone to come home to at night. We can deny it, poke fun at ourselves for it, sublimate it, justify it, but in the end, it drives us as much as the need for food or drink or shelter or safety does. It makes us put on our best studiedly casual clothes, sign ourselves up for countless social clubs and endure the heavy looks of each other, filled with hope and wondering. It's what makes us human, after all.