Babita Persaud, St. Petersburg (Fla.) Times
Posted 3/29/2005 12:00:00 AM
A Husband for Vibha
The match game
The boy next door
A Husband for Vibha
Dec. 19, 2004
By Babita Persaud
St. Petersburg (Fla.) Times
Arranged marriage has been a cultural tradition for generations of Indians,including the family of USF student Vibha Dhawan. But what happens when a modernwoman agrees to an ancient ritual?
Vibha Dhawan fidgeted in the back seat of the family car, her body wrappedin a beaded Indian tunic. Up front, her father drove. Her mother sat besidehim, complaining about a book someone had borrowed.
Vibha tuned them out. Her mind was filled with images, photo after photo ofthe eligible bachelors her parents had shown her - the kind of young men theythought their daughter should marry, if only she would let them arrange it.
"When is Vibha getting married?" her mother chimed almost daily.
In the white Monte Carlo, they were headed down Interstate 4 toward Orlando,30 miles from their Deltona home. Vibha looked out the window and watched thetraffic flowing past: families bound for Disney World, truckers barreling towardTampa, teenagers looking for something to do on a Saturday.
Vibha's parents were taking her to see a Hindu priest. He would use astrologyto predict when she might get married.
She never guessed that she would be the kind of woman to even consider anarranged marriage. In her mid 20s, strong-minded, a feminist, she hoped oneday to sit at the head of a boardroom table.
Born in India, Vibha came to the United States with her parents at age 2.She grew up in Florida, an American girl who was Indian too.
Now she was at the University of South Florida, savvy enough to organize acharity basketball game, poised enough to stand before her peers with a microphoneand talk about the importance of community involvement.
Vibha looked at her mother and father in the front seat. The couple, who treateddriving as a collaborative venture, were debating a lane change. Thirty yearsago, they were like her, alone, until their families put them together. Wasan arranged marriage to be her destiny too?
Vibha adjusted the long shawl draped over her shoulders and stared out thewindow.
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Her world was a swirl of sociology term papers, Dr. Kaplan's Racism in Americaclass, midnight movies at University Mall, dinners with friends at SawatdeeThai's all-you-can-eat buffet.
This was the fall of 2000. Vibha was just months from completing her bachelor'sdegree and would soon enter graduate school. She worked for USF parking services,dispatching jumps to cars with dead batteries, while juggling midterms andjuvenile delinquency projects. Bulletin boards advertised keg parties. Buteven 110 miles from her Volusia County home, Vibha could hear her mother'shigh-pitched voice.
"College doesn't mean party. College doesn't mean fun."
"Parents didn't send you to college to go find a boy and sleep with him."
"Don't give boys a chance to cross the line."
Boys and dating had been off-limits to Vibha, the only child of Devindra andPromila Dhawan, who came from the Punjab region of India. In high school, whenher American girlfriends lengthened their lashes for evenings out, Vibha stayedhome.
Rules were firm in the Dhawan house. No parties. No racy movies. No HBO.
She had grown up in Daytona Beach, a few streets from U.S. 1, but caught onlyfleeting glimpses of spring break. Vibha worked at a Baskin-Robbins her senioryear, scooping ice cream for college students in swimsuits. When her familyvisited friends who owned motels near the beach, she saw the crowds gatheredfor MTV concerts.
Vibha's mother kept her away from all that. MTV wasn't high on Promila's list.It taught that there was nothing wrong with nudity, nothing wrong with drinking,nothing wrong with sex before marriage.
Vibha was permitted male friends, but no boyfriends. She went to her highschool prom with four other girls. She wore a powder-blue sleeveless dresswith matching high heels. Her mother told her to put on a jacket to cover herarms. Vibha didn't.
At the Adam's Mark hotel under a stars-and-moonlight theme, Vibha danced tofast songs in a group and sat out the slow songs.
After Vibha moved to Tampa and into a USF dormitory, her mother would calllate at night to make sure she was in her room.
Vibha did not always adhere to her parents' wishes. They wanted a medicalcareer for her. Her father was a pharmacist; her mother, a hospital lab technician.But in her sophomore year, Vibha made social sciences her major. She was interestedin people and society.
Vibha plunged into campus life. During India week, she passed out bumper stickersthat beckoned, "Kiss Me I'm Indian," but kissed no one. She startedthe Organization of Hindu Minds: OHM. The group drew mostly from the vegetarian,toe-ring set, many non-Indians. Vibha caravaned to Clearwater Beach with friends.She saw Jon Bon Jovi at the USF Sun Dome, her first concert. With her friendMonica Bassi, a fellow Punjabi, she went to the Hindi movies brought to campuseach week by the Students of India Association.
Growing up, Vibha had spent many a lazy Saturday afternoon with her motherwatching Indian movies rented from the local east-west grocery. The moviesalmost always had an arranged marriage.
A sari-clad mother would announce to her daughter, "Beta, I found a boyfor you." The young woman would throw herself on the bed weeping.
A long-haired beauty learned to love the stranger she married.
A hero secretly pined for the love he could never have and sang about hisheart breaking like glass.
The Hindi movies of Vibha's childhood were made in the 1960s. There was nokissing, no couples disappearing behind closed doors.
Marriage remained a leading theme in the Indian movies shown at USF. But nowthe female actors showed their navels and danced provocatively. Still, Vibhanoticed: no kissing.
She went to few college parties. On weekends, she drove her Hyundai Elantrahome to Deltona, near Daytona Beach.
It was during those visits that Vibha, who was about to graduate, noticedtalk of arranged marriage seeping into her life. Her father would see a youngman sitting cross-legged on the floor at the Hindu temple and nudge Vibha: "There'sour future son-in-law."
Her mother would slip the topic into conversation at the dinner table. "Whenyou graduate from college, we'll get you married," she would say.
Vibha let the comments evaporate.
Arranged marriage was born of the caste system. Around 1500 B.C., a tribeof Aryan herdsmen from central Asia crossed the lower slopes of the Himalayasinto northern India and settled alongside the darker-skinned natives.
A caste system evolved. In the top tier were the priests or Brahmans, mostlyAryans; in the bottom, laborers or Shudra, mostly natives. At first, marriagewas permitted among the top tiers, but in time a more rigid social structureemerged. The community you were born into became your marriage pool, your supportsystem during hardship, your identity in a nation of villages.
To keep the community intact, parents arranged the marriages of their children.It ensured harmony in houses shared by extended families. Parents ruled. Childrenobeyed.
The practice of arranged marriage survived thousands of years, virtually unaltered.Through the Gupta dynasty and the invasion of the Huns. Through the Turko-Afghanchieftains, the Moghul empire and centuries of Muslim rule. Through Europeantrade and the arrival of the British.
In the past century, Indians have fanned out around the globe seeking a betterlife. More than 1-million Indians now live in the United States. For customsto survive, the arranged marriage had to evolve.
"Bengali father invites alliance for his 33/5'9" handsome son," readsthe ad under the Wanted Brides column of the Indian newspaper Desi Match, basedin New York. "Father owns a jewelry showroom in Texas. Seeks only U.S.citizen, educated, beautiful girls below 30 years from respected family. Contactwith photo."
Hundreds of dating sites dot the Internet: marryindian.com, indiasoulmate.com,suitablematch.com. On Shaadi.com, a New York accountant posts her profile: "Funloving and happy, from a family who are an impressive blend of traditionaland modern ideologies."
Each year, Gujarati parents - originally from western India - gather theirchildren for the three-day Charotar Patidar Samaj, commonly called the PatelConvention. North Carolina hotelier Ravi C. Patel and his brothers startedthe convention in 1989. They had noticed that in suburban Charlotte, marriageablePatels weren't meeting other Patels, a proud family name.
Today, the convention attracts thousands from across America and has fiercecompetition from a half-dozen similar gatherings.
The conventions are typical of singles socials, with lots of mingling andice-breaking games.
"Name five things you would need if you were stranded on a desert island," saidthe host at the Patel Convention in Orlando two years ago.
At table 54, the discussion was lively:
"Unlimited booze."
"A genie and a magic lamp."
"Matches," suggested a young man.
"You going to start a fire?" teased a smiling young woman.
While the 20-somethings joked - If you were a dessert, what kind would yoube? - parents sat in an adjacent ballroom, arms folded.
One father was near tears as he spoke of culture lost: "My son doesn'teven know how to pronounce my hometown."
"They have not accepted as their culture the arranged marriage," saidanother father.
Parents discussed proms and dating, and talked about what to do if a daughter-in-law,a meat eater, used their vegetarian pots and pans to make chicken curry.
One mother worried aloud: What if the children didn't know how to cook Indianfood at all?
Back in Deltona, Vibha's parents worried, too. Was their daughter Indian orAmerican? Would she accept an arranged marriage?
At USF, Vibha thought she was doing fine on the relationship front withoutany help from home. She was dating young Indian men she met at school. Notall the guys were Punjabi or Hindu, as her parents had wished.
Vibha went to college networking conferences where young Indians discussedworld affairs and exchanged phone numbers. But she disliked the meat-marketatmosphere of those gatherings. The dates were always disappointing. The youngmen "wouldn't look at me seriously the way I was looking at them seriously," shesaid.
Vibha was in her senior year at USF the next time her parents brought up arrangedmarriage. The tone was more serious. Her mother showed her a photo of a youngman, a doctor who lived in Punjab. He was in his late 20s, a friend of Promila'sfamily in India.
Vibha looked at the photo and wrinkled her nose. The doctor had a mustache,which Vibha didn't like, and his hair was thick, what she liked to call "Indian-guy-hair-from-India."
"Don't go just on looks," her mother said. "Write to him."
Vibha stalled for weeks.
She knew exactly what she wanted in a husband. Someone who wouldn't hold herback from her goals. Someone secure. The sort of man who wouldn't mind if shekept her male friends. A man who wouldn't expect her to be home cooking everynight. An understanding guy.
"I wouldn't have to feel like I had to hide things from him," shesaid.
She wanted a modern man. Not someone from an ancient system.
An arranged marriage had been the fate of females in Vibha's family for generations.
Vibha's grandmother, Kamlavati Khanna, was wedded at 10, before puberty. Herparents gave her up as a young virgin to please the gods and to end years ofmisfortune.
Kamlavati was shrouded from head to toe in a red sari for her wedding. Noman saw her face, not even her betrothed, who was 10 years older. The childbride paraded around the sacred matrimonial flame behind him, the two connectedby a small cord tied to her sari.
After the ceremony, Kamlavati returned to her family's house. When her firstperiod came, at 14, she was sent to live with her husband and his family.
Kamlavati raised 10 children in Amritsar, an industrial city in Punjab state.The youngest of her four daughters was Promila.
Promila's sisters quickly married after high school. Promila didn't; she wantedto go to college. Her brothers objected, telling her it was no place for girls.Finally, one brother yielded and Promila became the first woman in her familyto attend college. She earned a bachelor's degree in psychology and a master'sin Sanskrit, the ancient language of India.
Promila was a caring daughter, caring for her mother after her father's death,cooking for her and keeping her company between college classes.
At 26, Promila was still unmarried. She wanted to be independent. She wantedher own job, "my own everything," she said, "because then youdon't have to bear the stupid behavior of a man."
One day in 1972, when Promila's mother was in the hospital diagnosed withliver cancer, a cousin came to visit. He saw how Promila cared for her mother.He saw her prettiness.
When Promila left, the cousin told Kamlavati about a man he knew. His namewas Devindra Dhawan and he had just come back from college in the United States.Do you want me to arrange a meeting, the cousin asked.
Kamlavati relayed the offer to her daughter. She wasn't interested.
One night soon after, while Promila was massaging her mother's head, Kamlavatigave her a talk she would never forget:
"I know you don't want to get married, and I wish I could fulfill thatwish for you, but now God has a new plan and I am dying. In two or three days,I will not be alive. I am not forcing you to get married, but I don't wantyou to live alone. Nor do I want you to live with your sisters or your brothers.They are going to use you like a servant. You are so giving. You are goingto lose your dignity and your self-respect, which I don't like. So better youget married and have your own life."
Days later, Kamlavati died.
Promila's sisters pushed her to meet Devindra. He had a doctorate in pharmacyfrom the University of Florida and was working as a drug inspector for theIndian customs department. His family's background was not Punjabi, but Devindragrew up in northern India and was familiar with Punjabi customs.
Promila agreed to meet Devindra. The meeting, at a friend's house, was brief,and Promila never once looked up at him. Devindra spoke first, expressing sympathyfor Kamlavati's death. Then, he became blunt.
"I have to tell you, I am a smoker," he said. "I am a chainsmoker. I drink and I go out, and I am not going to live in India. I am goingto move back to America."
Promila's head stayed down.
"After marriage, you can't say, "Why you are smoking? You didn'ttell me. Why you are drinking? You didn't tell me.' Well, I'm telling you now."
Promila could see Devindra's profile in a mirror on the wall. He had on atie, maroon jacket and blue shirt. She wore a sari, with two petticoats underneathto add volume to her bony body.
"Do you have any questions?" Devindra asked.
Promila shook her head.
"You are going to answer me? You want a few days?"
She didn't respond.
Her sisters came into the room. "I want to go now," Promila said.
Two weeks later, she still had no answer for Devindra.
Then, the doorbell rang. Promila opened the door to find herself face-to-facewith Devindra for the first time. He was a large man, visibly older. They werealone, which was inappropriate.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm passing through. I thought I wouldsee you. Have you decided on marriage?"
Promila was shivering. She asked him to come in and offered him a soda.
"Looks like you are under pressure," Devindra said. "I don'twant to force you. Whatever your heart says, you have to go with that."
"I will let you know," Promila said, expecting him to leave.
Instead, he asked her to go for a ride. He was on his way to a work luncheonand had a driver waiting. Promila telephoned her older sister for permission. "Becareful," her sister said.
The trip lasted four hours. Devindra was very polite. He didn't pepper herwith stupid questions. Promila enjoyed his company.
That night, she lit a candle by a small altar in her home and prayed. "Godshow me who is the one," she said, closing her eyes.
When she opened them, she saw an image of the Hindu god Shiva, the destroyer,and by his side, the goddess Parvati. They were exchanging garlands, a ritualin marriage.
Promila didn't have a picture of either god on her altar. She usually prayedto Mata, a North Indian god. Yet, there before her were Parvati and Shiva,a younger woman and an older man, just like she and Devindra. It had to bea sign.
The next morning, Promila told her sisters, "Go ahead with marriage.God has a plan."
When Vibha was born to Promila and Devindra in a Madras hospital on Sept.24, 1977, her hands were wide open, her arms stretched out. The doctor remarkedto Promila that the child would not stay in India. "She is reaching," thedoctor said. "She will take you far."
The night Vibha came home from the hospital, a letter from U.S. immigrationauthorities was waiting. Devindra's papers had come through. The family hada passage to America.
Promila looked at her college student daughter - hair long like a Hindi filmstar, nose pierced on the left, but so American on the inside. Promila knewVibha dated at USF, and that not all the men were Punjabi or Hindu. What ifVibha married a non-Indian? What would become of customs, of all that was importantto her parents?
Promila had always strived to make her daughter as Indian as possible. Shetoted Vibha to poojas, Hindu prayer services, held in the homes of local Indians.She enrolled Vibha in Hindi classes and cooked lavish Indian dinners.
She stressed Punjabi culture, which has roots that date back 3,000 years.Punjabi people sacrificed much for India, Promila told her child. During Partitionin 1947, it was this northern region that fell divided between a Muslim Pakistanand a Hindu India. Thousands of families were uprooted amid riots and bloodshed,Devindra's family among them.
Promila told Vibha stories about Lord Ganesha, the remover of obstacles, summonedbefore all ceremonies, including marriage. At bedtime, Devindra would playcassette tapes from the Hindi film singer Lata Mangeshkar.
But Vibha was not always receptive. She found Indian food too spicy. She wantedpizza, hot dogs and hamburgers, a taste she developed in the cafeteria of HollyHill Elementary School near Daytona Beach. She spoke limited Hindi, with anAmerican accent.
When Vibha turned 13, Devindra and Promila decided to send her to India fora year to learn more about her homeland's culture. Even before she walked intothe boarding school in Jaipur, 165 miles from New Delhi, classmates were gossipingabout "the American."
Vibha felt like a foreigner. She fell behind on school work, especially inher study of Hindi. In class one day, the students had to recite a prayer.Vibha said the prayer as best she could. The headmistress stopped at her desk.
"Vibha, say that again," she demanded.
Vibha's pronunciation was mangled. Her classmates burst out laughing.
But she returned to the United States with newfound interest in her heritage.She started to like being Indian, being Punjabi. When American friends askedher, "Why so many gods?" she knew the answer: Hindus believe in onegod, but a god who takes different forms. A figure like Ganesha was symbolic.
She grew to love Indian food, dal and pepper-laden curries. She bought moundsof eye-catching Indian clothes and dazzling jewelry. She wore metal banglesup to her elbows and rhinestone-studded bindi dots between her eyebrows.
With Vibha in her 20s, Promila felt she was standing at a crossroads. Shefelt a burden. Family traditions, thousands of years old, were threateningto dissolve in just one generation in America.
A Punjabi husband could help Vibha carry traditions to future generations.
Years ago, Promila herself had resisted arranged marriage. Now, she knew better.It was a necessity.
Promila had one agenda. Vibha's girlfriends at USF had another.
Monica Bassi, a Punjabi born in Toronto, was adamant. "I don't want youto have an arranged marriage!" she said. "You will meet someone atthe right time, whenever it happens. You can't force these things."
"You need to find someone that fits the lifestyle you want," saidSheetal Dharia, a member of the Organization of Hindu Minds.
Vibha had tried the American way of dating. She went to parties and met boysand realized that it was hard.
"I get attached very easily," Vibha said. "I don't know howto disconnect."
Would the Indian way - having her parents as a go-between - be better?
The arranged marriage had evolved, changed even from her parents' time. Herparents were dutiful, holding hands to help each other up the stairs or outof the car. Could it hurt to have their help in the search? To have a shepherd?A protector?
Vibha had great respect for her parents. Her father lived with a handicap,the shortness of his left leg. Her mother was strong, not at all submissive.Promila's motto: "Always put your hand in your own pocket; never put yourhand in someone else's pocket."
Vibha doesn't remember exactly how she arrived at her decision. Only thatshe did.
"Okay," she said somewhat out of the blue during a weekend tripback to Deltona. "I will give the boys you find a chance."
Vibha had one condition: She wanted veto power. Her parents, seated in a livingroom filled with framed family vacation photos, agreed.
Months passed before Vibha heard anything more about marriage. She becamecaught up in preparations for her December graduation. She knew her motherwas planning a trip to India and assumed it was to see family. Then Vibha noticeda stack of photos of herself and a list of her clubs and activities at USF.
Vibha realized: Her mother wasn't going to India just to visit. She was crossingthe globe to find her daughter a husband.
The match game
Dec. 22, 2004
By Babita Persaud
St. Petersburg (Fla.) Times
The television flickered with the faces of blonds and brunets, their hairflat-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 andItalian 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 upa 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.
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Promila Dhawan telephoned friends and relatives in India who might know asuitable 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. "Howdo they treat people?" Promila asked. "What kind of business do theyhave?How are their children growing up?"
Vibha was at the University of South Florida, trying to stay calm. She hadpicked up her cap and gown for winter graduation. She had agreed in principleto her parents' wishes.
"The arranged marriage is all about duty," she explained to hergirlfriends.
But at the same time, she told her mother, "There is no way a boy fromIndia 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 inAmerica were too Westernized, hardly spoke Hindi, knew little about Indianculture and Hinduism.
"What will you teach your children?" she asked Vibha.
In late December 2000, just after Vibha's graduation, Promila boarded a planefor India. She had five interviews lined up. Vibha stayed at home in Deltonawith her father.
After flying 8,700 miles to Bombay, her mother traveled 1,500 bone-rattlingmiles 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, Promilasipped hot chai tea in living rooms and quizzed prospects: What do you do fora living? What do your parents do? What are your plans?
Every few days, Vibha got a phone call from her mother. Bachelor No. 1 wasoff the list, Promila reported. He kept making excuses and didn't want to spendtime with Promila.
Another call: Bachelor No. 2 had a girlfriend. "You can't drink milkwith 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 feet9. "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 hadseen. Promila asked about his plans. He would stay in the United States forfive 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 BachelorNo. 5. "She is an American."
Ten days after leaving, Promila flew back to Florida. Vibha was waiting atOrlando International Airport. Her mother was finished with India. The entirenation of 1-billion had been stricken from her list. She told Vibha, "Noneof 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: theInternet. Promila assembled a report known in Indian matrimonial circles asa bio data. On a computer, Promila typed:
VIBHA DHAWAN
DOB: September 24, 1977
Height: 5'5"
Social: President of the Organization of Hindu Minds
Promila listed sports - softball, volleyball and bowling, among them - but,deliberately, did not list Vibha's weight. In Promila's mind, her plus-sizeddaughter 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 comesfrom 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 theUnited States most of her life she hasn't forgotten her traditional valuesand religious practices.
Vibha graduated from the University of South Florida on December of 2000 witha B.A. in Sociology and Communication Sciences/Disorders. She is currentlyworking 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 becomea politician or news broadcaster.
One could say that she is a sincere, social and open-minded person with awarm heart. She is looking for an independent individual with similar futuristicgoals for a prosperous life.
Sincerely,
Promila Dhawan
Vibha flipped through albums looking for a photo to accompany the bio. Shechose one of herself smiling from a cream-colored sofa. She was wearing anearth-toned salwar kameez, tunic and draw-string pants, with a Bindi dot betweenher 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," Promilamarveled.
Vibha, now in graduate school, checked the account from USF's computer labbetween 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'ttake him seriously.
"We would like to have the latest photograph of dear Anita," statedthe note from Beavercreek, Ohio.
"Who's Anita?" Vibha said to her mother, and they both burst outlaughing.
Promila evaluated the responses. She noted height; she wanted a tall man forVibha. She noted age. Six years older was out.
She did not make an issue of caste, which could be confining given the smallerpool of single Indian men in the United States.
If the e-mail stated, "I am looking for a girl who knows how to cookand clean" - and some did - Promila zapped it into the trash. She knewVibha was not domestic.
Promila responded to likely prospects by e-mail, asking for the young man'shoroscope - date, time and place of birth - so that she might compare it withVibha'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 toa 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 thetrip 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 barefloor, next to the pandit. He seemed young and bony to her. A piece of cloththe golden color of turmeric draped his chest. In front of him was a chartof 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 afterSeptember," he said. "He will be someone she already knows."
Vibha searched her mind. Who could that be? Faces popped up. She pushed themaside.
"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. "Youwill have nothing to worry about."
He turned to Vibha. "You're going to get married 18 months from yourbirthday coming up."
Vibha did the calculation in her head. She would turn 24 in September. Eighteenmonths from that would be March 2003.
That was awfully close, she thought. She sat silently. While her parents obsessedover 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 apile of envelopes in the living room. Responses to the bio data usually cameby e-mail. What was going on?
Promila confessed. She had placed an ad for Vibha in India Abroad, a weeklynewspaper offered at U.S. markets frequented by Indians. Vibha had been revealedto the world as a Punjabi girl, 24, with a wheatish complexion, well-educatedand from a good family, who was seeking a Punjabi boy.
"Embarrassing!" Vibha said. She had agreed to the India trip, thebio 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 adsin India Abroad's matrimonial columns. One day the words "tall" and "attorney" caughther eye.
Without telling Vibha, Promila answered the ad. A few days later, an e-mailarrived from California.
Thank you for your response to the ad I had placed in India Abroad for myson, Sandeep. I am attaching Sandeep's photo and bio data to this e-mail. Ifyou could kindly respond with a photograph and bio data of your daughter, itwould be much appreciated.
Sandeep was north Indian, 29, 5 feet 10 and 195 pounds. He had been in theUnited 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 reinswhen she examined Sandeep's photo and bio data. He was tall and smiling, withthick 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. Withindays, Vibha got an e-mail.
Hi Vibha,
This is Sandeep. I got your e-mail address from my parents who got it fromyour 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 calledPorter Ranch. I have a younger brother and a younger sister.
Your parents also gave my parents your cell phone number. Would you mind ifI called you?
Take care
Sandeep
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 haveno problem with you calling my cell phone.
What type of attorney are you? Personal injury? Corporate? What do you dofor fun? Do you travel? Have you been to Florida?
Take care,
Vibha
That weekend in February 2002, Vibha hooked her cell phone to her purse andtoted it everywhere. She was having lunch with a girlfriend at Perkins Restaurant & Bakeryon Fowler Avenue when a strange number flashed on her caller ID. She kept gettingcalls 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 havinglunch 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 lifelongfriend.
"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 atUSF. She rarely played racquetball, but thought it would make good backgroundnoise. 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 theyboth chuckled.
The next call, Vibha initiated.
Should she tell him the truth? That her bio data photo was dated. That shehad 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 examspassed. 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?"
"Yourquestions 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 inIndia Abroad. But Sandeep's mother sent Promila a list of the family's summertravel 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 withmy 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 aboutsleeping 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 thisconversation with you," she answered, "but you shouldn't expect it."
For weeks, Sandeep didn't call. Vibha sent him an e-mail birthday card inJune, when he turned 30. His response was brief and completely ignored theirlast phone conversation.
For the first time, Vibha felt she couldn't talk to Sandeep. She didn't answerhis 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 updatedthe photo: Vibha in the sleeveless, powder-blue dress she wore to her highschool 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 letpeople 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 yourflaws?
March 2003 arrived. Vibha was still single. The pandit had been off in hisprediction.
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. "Verytall 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 instantmessages. Online, Vibha waited for an hour. It was as if she had been stoodup at a bar. Finally, a message popped on the screen: Sorry. I had somethingto 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 roommateswho took turns cooking, and Vibha often went to his apartment for dinner. WhileFear 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, likeAnand, he had come to Tampa to study engineering at USF. Shantanu entertainedVibha 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. Yawningin class was out, too.
Shantanu was nice, Vibha thought. She had thought he was a bit scruffy whenthey first met, in need of a shave, but she noticed right away that his eyeswere 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 fora few minutes on Anand's couch. When she opened her eyes, her friends werehuddled around the computer, looking at something that made a loud, gaspingnoise.
"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 theamusement 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 thepoint 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 washeld 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 comingto 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, Promilatook 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 searchhad produced.
The candidates from India were out, or were they? She knew her mother stillkept in touch with Bachelor No. 5, the doctor. Promila liked his family.
The Manishes from Houston also came from good families. Manish One was alwayscomplimenting Vibha, but was he sincere? Manish Two was worldly and liked todescribe at great length the places he had visited, but his monologues sometimesturned Vibha off.
Ashu the Russian wore his heart on his sleeve and was convinced that he andVibha were destined for each other.
Rahul was kind and liked to cook, but he didn't always share Vibha's senseof humor.
Yet, as Vibha fastened her seat belt, her mind was far from muddled. She didn'tlet on to her mother, but the picture was becoming clearer. One man was startingto stand out.
The boy next door
Dec. 26, 2004
By Babita Persaud
St. Petersburg (Fla.) Times
Vibha's cell phone went off. It was Shantanu.
"You want to get something to eat?" he asked.
For weeks after Shantanu recorded her snoring, Vibha vowed not to talk tohim. Then, her girlfriend Athy Fitos persuaded her to give him a second chance.Actually, Athy confided, he likes you.
Vibha offered to drive, and slipped on nice jeans, a frilly red blouse andstrappy heels.
"You're all dressed up," Shantanu said when she knocked on his door.
"Oh, I just threw this on," Vibha said.
He was in shorts. It was June 21, 2003, a sunny day in Tampa. Shantanu wantedto dine outdoors.
Vibha knew a place in Hyde Park. In her Hyundai, they drove down Kennedy Boulevard.Vibha became lost. Where was the turn for Old Hyde Park Village?
On Howard Avenue, she spotted TC Choy's Asian Bistro. Not exactly alfresco,but Shantanu said okay.
A waiter dressed in black took their order for California rolls and fruitydrinks. A laughing Buddha statue stood in the corner while a sushi chef rolledrice onto seaweed at the bar. This would be a great date place, Vibha was thinking.
After dinner, she had an idea. "Want to see my favorite house?"
They drove to Tampa's grandest street, Bayshore Boulevard. Vibha slowed infront of the Mediterranean mansion of RV tycoon Don Wallace.
"It's my dream house," she said.
"Wow," said Shantanu, imagining the price tag.
He looked beyond the balustrade of Bayshore Boulevard to Hillsborough Bay.His hometown of Bombay is near the Arabian Sea.
"I want to go near the water," he said.
Vibha knew just the spot. They drove through downtown and across the bridgeto Harbour Island. She felt like a tour guide, introducing Shantanu to a Tampahe had never seen.
It was almost 9 p.m. when they sat down behind Jackson's Bistro, on the bricksteps along Seddon Channel. Shantanu was an arm's length from Vibha, two stepsabove her. For the longest time, they just sat there, looking at the skylineacross the channel and at each other.
"You're so good," he said, breaking the silence.
He was teasing her, just like he often did at Anand's.
"You don't know me that well," Vibha said.
She wanted to prove she wasn't goody-goody. "I dare you to kiss me," shejoked.
"Oh, I dare you to kiss me," Shantanu said.
Vibha wasn't sure if he was joking. Or was he challenging her? She was notone to back down.
"All right," she said. But she did not move.
Minutes went by. Should she do it?
She scooted closer to him and kissed him on the cheek.
"See," she said, smugly.
She was feeling playful.
"I dare you to kiss me, too," she said.
And he did.
She could hardly pronounce his name at first and had to think it through phonetically:Shan-TAN-oo. She asked what it meant, and he explained: One who heals.
Like a doctor, Vibha thought.
He had seeped into her life. She had met him the year before. He was a friendof Anand's and a graduate student. Vibha would go to Anand's for dinner andShantanu would be there, along with Anand's girlfriend and many other people.Then, when Vibha moved into Excellence Apartments, Shantanu was there withAnand to help.
He would tease her about being ABCD, American Born Confused Desi, a term forIndians confused about their identity after years in America. She joked hewas FOB: Fresh Off the Boat.
She began to notice little things about him. He never raised his voice. Hehelped with the dishes after meals and told her he did things 50-50. In hiseyes, men and women were on equal footing.
Perhaps if she had seen his bio data, she would have dismissed him for somesuperficial reason.
Perhaps, he might have dismissed her, too. At first sight, Shantanu thoughtVibha was plump, but soon he was noticing the shine of her hair and the delicacyof her nose. When his car broke down, it was Vibha who canceled her movie plansto pick him up.
Before coming to America, Shantanu Shevade had never left India. He livedin a suburb of Bombay, the country's financial capital, which was renamed Mumbaiin 1995 as politicians sought to break away from India's colonial heritage.His mother, Maitreyee Shevade, taught Sanskrit in a high school. His father,Sudhir Shevade, was a retired computer manager for the State Bank of India.
Shantanu chose mechanical engineering as his career. It fit with his fondnessfor airplanes and engines. He went to Mumbai University and got a job at asoftware company, but he was not happy. Why not try graduate study at USF,his childhood friend Anand suggested.
Two hours after arriving in Tampa in August 2002, Shantanu was wading in theswimming pool at Campus Walk apartments. Five hours later, he was at the Greenery,the campus hangout.
The next year, he moved into Excellence Apartments with Anand. His buildingwas just 100 yards from Vibha's.
Her mother had searched the Earth for a husband for Vibha.
Vibha found Shantanu next door.
The e-mails from Rahul, the student in New Zealand, ceased not too long afterthe trip to Pittsburgh. He and Vibha fell out over a joke Vibha made that hedid not get.
Ashu the Russian didn't have a college degree, Vibha discovered. Her mothergave her permission to stop responding to his e-mails. Calls from Manish Oneand Manish Two of Houston faded with "I'll call you later." Vibhadid not follow up. Neither did they.
The others faded. But not Shantanu. He and Vibha became inseparable in thesummer and fall of 2003. It was Vibha who brought up the subject of marriage.Shantanu didn't shy away from the suggestion.
Vibha's mom knew nothing.
Would Promila approve? Vibha realized Shantanu didn't meet several of thestandards her mother had set. He didn't have a steady job. He didn't even havea green card. He was younger than Vibha, by a year.
And there was another problem.
"Ma." Vibha was talking to her mother on the cell phone, on herway to pick up Shantanu. They were going to Ybor City.
"Remember that guy who helped me move into the apartment?" Vibhaasked.
"No."
"The one who assembled the bed?" Vibha said.
"No."
Vibha pushed ahead. "Well, I think he likes me," she said quickly. "Ithink he's the one."
Vibha filled in the silence. He's from Bombay, she said. He's a graduate studentat USF, getting his master's and eventually his doctorate.
What was her mother thinking, Vibha wondered. She didn't know. But she plowedon. There was one more thing she needed to say. She knew her mother wantedto keep Punjabi customs alive in America, to pass them on to future generations.
"Ma," she said, "he's not Punjabi."
Shantanu came from the western state of Maharashtra. At home, he spoke Marathi,a regional language. He ate different foods than Punjabis. He worshiped a differentgod, Lord Ganesha, rather than Mata, the North Indian god Promila worshiped.
There were different wedding customs, too. Maharashtra weddings take placein the day and the bride wears green bangles and a 9-yard sari. In Punjabiweddings, typically held at night, the bride traditionally wears red.
Promila wondered whether infatuation was clouding Vibha's judgment.
She summoned her younger sister, Poonam, who lives in Mumbai, to investigate.Poonam met Shantanu's parents and reported: The mother was friendly with Punjabis.She and her husband were highly educated.
Promila spoke to Shantanu's parents on the telephone. They were polite, shequickly discovered, but would they demand a dowry?
Some Indian families still followed the ancient custom, which was outlawedin 1961 in an effort to stop the suicides of young women seeking to spare theirparents the financial burden. Promila believed her daughter was gift enough.
The Shevades did not ask for one.
Promila spent weekends with Vibha and Shantanu. They went to poojas - prayerservices - at the Hindu temple near Orlando. They watched Indian movies onsatellite Zee TV in the living room.
Promila noticed at dinner that Shantanu fixed his own plate of food.
"If he was a Punjabi boy, maybe he would sit there and say, "Getme a glass of water,' " she said later.
But Promila was still cautious. And so, one evening after dinner, while Vibhawas in another room, she launched a cross-examination of Shantanu.
"My daughter, she wants a 50-50 relationship," she said, "butit might more be like 60-40. Is that okay with you?"
Shantanu said yes. He was willing to do more than his share.
"My daughter, she is not Marathi. She is not from India. Doesn't yourmother want a Marathi girl for you?"
He said his parents would accept his choice.
Promila asked about Shantanu's degrees. He was applying to the Ph.D. programin mechanical engineering at USF.
"What about a job?" Promila asked. She did not want them to dependon Vibha's paycheck alone.
Shantanu felt his education would land him a good job in the United States.
The questions went on and on. Finally, Promila asked: "Why do you wantmy daughter? She doesn't cook. She doesn't do housework. What do you see inher?"
Shantanu did not freeze.
"She has a good heart," he said.
And that was when Promila knew Shantanu was the husband for Vibha.
Vibha knew exactly the kind of wedding she wanted: a full five-day Punjabiwedding, with an opening ceremony, two days of bridal preparation, an all-nightwedding, a reception the next day. And she wanted it in India.
Promila was ecstatic. Her daughter was sticking to tradition. An auspiciouswedding date - deemed special by the gods - was set by the family pandit inMumbai. The priest weighed the moons and stars and determined the lucky numberfor Vibha and Shantanu: nine.
They would become engaged on Jan. 18, because one and eight added up to nine.
The wedding in India would be June 27.
Shantanu was a modern man from a modern India. His friends dated. He likedWestern music and he had seen Bryan Adams in concert in Bangalore.
He told Vibha he didn't want to wait for the wedding in India to live together.They should move in together, he said, after the civil ceremony they plannedat the Volusia County Courthouse Annex in Daytona Beach. A civil wedding wouldstreamline immigration for Shantanu; it was a step many Indians took.
Vibha's apartment lease was almost up. She wanted to live with Shantanu, butshe didn't want to upset her mother. You ask Promila, she told Shantanu.
He waited until he was alone with Promila one day in the den of the Dhawans'Deltona home. Shantanu started his preamble.
"Do you think a court marriage is a marriage?" he said. "Ithink it is."
Promila opened her mouth, as if to say something, but Shantanu kept on talking.
"I want to move in with Vibha, " he said.
Promila couldn't believe her ears. There was marriage in the eyes of the law.Then there was marriage in the eyes of God. To live together without Hindusanction conflicted with tradition.
But moving to the United States had taught Promila this: Adaptation was partof life. She had cut her hair when she first arrived. She had let her Americanfriends call her "Pam," and now she was allowing her daughter tomarry a non-Punjabi.
Promila listened to Shantanu. His plea wasn't coming from an American. Itwas coming from an Indian.
"Okay," she said.
Vibha was stunned at her mother's approval. But not Shantanu.
"She is very open-minded," he said.
On Jan. 18, 2004, Vibha and Shantanu exchanged rings in Deltona in front ofrelatives. Two days later, they were married in the hallway of the Volusiacourthouse. Only nine people attended, plus a small crowd of bystanders whowere at the courthouse to pay traffic tickets: a woman in an embroidered lighthousesweater, a man holding a motorcycle helmet, a woman with long acrylic fingernailswho admired Vibha's lavender sari.
From a red folder, the deputy clerk read words born of another culture's traditions: "Forbetter and worse, for richer and poorer, in sickness and health . . . I nowpronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."
But there was no kissing in front of relatives.
Rose petals fell upon the two.
"You happy now?" Vibha's father whispered to her.
"Yes."
On Valentine's Day 2004, Shantanu and Vibha moved into a two-bedroom apartmentoff Fletcher Avenue in Tampa. The newlyweds had a roommate, Promila's sisterPoonam, 63, who was visiting from Mumbai.
In the evenings, Vibha and Shantanu held hands and hugged in front of Poonam.When bedtime came, Shantanu headed north down a narrow hallway to a room witha twin bed and a huge Shelby Mustang poster.
Vibha headed south to a room with clothes everywhere. Poonam followed. Ina queen-sized bed, Vibha slept with her aunt.
Vibha stepped off the Delta flight with her father, exhausted from nearly24 hours of traveling. She knew immediately she was in India. Frail women wrappedin saris swept the floor of Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport in Mumbaiwith short straw brooms.
Vibha's formal wedding was 16 days away. Her mother and Shantanu were alreadyin Mumbai.
Would his family like her, the Indian girl from America? She had worked outfor weeks before the flight and was wearing cream pants and a black top.
"You look good," Shantanu said, greeting her.
Vibha searched the airport crowd for Shantanu's mother and spotted a womansmiling. Maitreyee Shevade looked exactly like her photo.
"Namaste, mammi-ji," Vibha said, "Hello, my dear mother."
She gave Maitreyee an American greeting, a hug.
Shantanu's family surrounded Vibha: his brother, cousins, aunts and nieces.Vibha glanced over at her own mother, who stood alone, and wondered if shefelt left out.
Outside the terminal, as Maitreyee was about to step into the car, Vibha gavethe Indian greeting. She knelt to touch Maitreyee's feet.
"Why don't you come over to our place?" Vibha asked her new family.
The U.S. dollar stretches far in India and Promila had been able to rent athree-bedroom apartment for the family's monthlong stay. She had also hireda car and a driver.
Vibha hardly knew what to say to her in-laws in the car. She showed them herengagement ring. She told them things about her mother and father that sheknew they already knew. She sat silently for the longest time.
At the apartment, Vibha put the fan on high and served her guests tea andwater. She made small talk and hugged them when they left.
Later, Vibha called Shantanu.
"What did they say about me? What did they think," she asked.
There was nothing about her weight or clothes, Shantanu said, none of thethings she had worried about. His relatives were impressed that Vibha stillhad enough energy after a long flight to serve them tea.
Vibha slept that night on a floor mattress. She awoke to noise, the clatteringof dishes and Hindi. Aunties and uncles hugged her. A 12-year-old cousin witha short bob and dangling earrings wouldn't let go of her hand.
At the Gandhi Market, three-wheeled scooters - autorickshaws - whizzed by,their horns buzzing like swarms of bees. Vibha climbed over boards and litter,maneuvered around chickens and dogs and a beggar with one leg. The smell ofdiesel fumes and dung burned her throat. Her clothes stuck to her skin in the100-degree heat.
One of Vibha's first stops was Friendship Sarees, to pick out her weddingattire. A sign hung above the door: No bargaining, fixed rate. Mats coveredthe floor, as if the store were a gymnastics studio. About a dozen salesmensat on cushioned benches. All were barefoot. None smiled as Vibha entered.
At the manager's instruction, vibrant fabrics were draped over the salesmen'sarms and across their chests, as if they were bullfighters. Vibha sat on thefloor. Color after color appeared in front of her: azure, then garnet, thensaffron lined with mossy green and champagne, then wine. Vibha ran her fingersover the beadwork, flecks of mirror and sequins.
"I like this one," she said. "I don't like this one."
Her final choice was not red, as is Punjabi tradition, but fashionable fuchsiaand plum.
In one shopping spree, Vibha and her family spent 100,000 rupees, about $2,200,the sum an Indian might earn in a year.
She was an American in India, hiding behind sunglasses. Her fancy Indian outfits- bought at the best stores in America - seemed out of place.
Vibha complained endlessly about the heat. She retreated for hours to theonly room in the apartment with air-conditioning.
Language shut her out. Shantanu's family spoke Marathi. Vibha would turn tohim for help: "Translation?" She barely understood the formal Hindithe TV news anchors spoke.
Even her name sounded different. In America, friends called her "Veebs." Witha heavy Indian accent her name came out "Veeb-HA."
She couldn't go out after 10 p.m. She wanted to go to a nightclub with Shantanu,but her relatives did not approve. Dating rules are strict in India, even forengaged couples. It was easy to forget that, back home, the two were alreadymarried.
From India had come the Kamasutra, but displays of public affection woulddraw glares.
She and Shantanu settled for outings to coffee shops, like many young Indians.No alcohol. No dark corners. Yet, still intimate.
Shantanu didn't take Vibha to his old hangouts, worried she might find themtoo dumpy. He didn't want her to make a face, as she did that day in the rickshaw.The monsoon rains had begun, and the sweltering air was giving Vibha a headache.Shantanu flagged down a rickshaw and Vibha hopped onto the seat, only to findit was wet and torn.
"Gosh," she said to Shantanu, "if you are going to stick mein a rickshaw, at least stick me in a nice rickshaw."
"A rickshaw is a rickshaw," Shantanu said.
In India, Vibha acted very American. Shantanu was right at home.
There was one place they could hold hands without fear.
Vibha had never been to the Taj Mahal, the symbol of everlasting love builtnear New Delhi in the 1600s by emperor Shah Jahan for his favorite queen.
On June 21, the one-year anniversary of their first kiss, Shantanu and Vibhamade the pilgrimage. They posed on a bench made famous by Princess Diana andfelt the coolness of the stone under their bare feet.
The sun was starting to set. With the marble dome blushing pink, Vibha andShantanu strolled along the reflecting pool of the Taj, hand-in-hand, as lovershad done for centuries.
A string of marigolds was tacked to the door of the Dhawans' apartment inMumbai. The wedding's five days of ceremonies were about to begin that day,Thursday, June 24, with a pooja - prayer service - to Lord Ganesha, the removerof obstacles.
If a wedding was to take place without hurdles, Lord Ganesha had to be consultedand appeased.
"Pray to God. Listen to God's stories," said the pandit in Hindi.
Vibha and Shantanu sat inches from the priest on the apartment's bare floor.Agni, the fire god, flared from a stone pot. He was the most destructive forceknown to ancient Hindus. To bring him on the couple's side meant nothing couldstand in their way.
Marigold petals and leaves were tossed into Agni's mouth. Twigs and branches,too.
Two hours later, the pandit stood - wearing the loose pajama pants, dhoti,popularized by Gandhi during his fasting days - and rang a small brass bell.Everyone sang the hymn that Vibha grew up hearing in Daytona Beach.
"Om Jaya Jagadeesha harey Swaami Jaya Jagadeesha harey" It began, "Salutationto Thee, O Lord of the universe . . . "
Their voices escaped through the open window, past the bird-filled neem treesand into the warm evening air.
The next day, the scent of menthol filled the apartment.
Vibha was having mehendi applied to her hands and feet by two female artists.They hovered over her, creating intricate tattoos that would last a week. Itis said that the goddess Parvati would crush the leaves of the henna plantand make such intricate designs on her body that her consort, Lord Shiva, couldnot look away.
Vibha sat for four hours while the mehendi artists squeezed the brown pastefrom cone-shaped tubes. Vibha's hands looked as if she were wearing lace gloves.Among the swirls, the artists drew a drum, a peacock, a groom with a turbanand a bride with a nose ring. Shantanu's name was written among the designs.
"He has to find it!" said the aunts gathered around Vibha.
"Then, he gets a gift," they giggled.
"What?" Vibha asked.
"A kiss!"
Wedding day dawned. Vibha bounced out of a hotel bed, still reeling from aparty there the night before. In two hours, her body would be purified formarriage.
Then she heard her mother's voice. Promila sounded alarmed.
"Vibha, " Promila said, "come in the car."
Vibha's father, Devindra, had collapsed at the apartment. An ambulance hadtaken him away.
At the hospital, in a room separated by curtains, Vibha saw her father lyingon white sheets.
"I had a mild stroke," he said softly.
Vibha could see he was weak. "When are you coming home?" she asked.
The doctors said they needed to run more tests. Vibha's wedding was at 7 thatnight. Would he not be there, she wondered.
Promila spoke. She told Devindra he had better give his blessing to Vibhanow.
Vibha knelt beside her father's bed and felt his hand on her head. Her sobsfilled the room.
When her aunties dabbed turmeric onto her forehead, she thought of her father.When they slipped the red wedding bangles onto her mehendi hands, she thoughtof him.
Her body purified after being rubbed with turmeric and her hands adorned,Vibha was ready for marriage in the eyes of God, prepared to walk in frontof Agni and pledge to be true to Shantanu. But she didn't want to get marriedwithout her father.
Maybe the hospital would allow him to come for an hour, Promila said. Shewould talk to some of Devindra's relatives who were doctors.
Her aunties and cousins didn't agree. Why risk it, they said. Let him stayin the hospital. Best to have him healthy and alive.
Vibha felt selfish and called Shantanu for advice.
"I want him there," Vibha said. "Is this bad?"
Shantanu, whose body was also being purified with turmeric, didn't side withthe aunties. Nor was he wishy-washy.
"I think your dad should be there," he said. "If you thinkhe can be there, I think you should fight for him to be there."
Vibha thought about Shantanu at that moment, the husband she had picked onher own.
"I knew I made the right choice," she said later.
Under a half-moon, the wedding of Shantanu and Vibha began with the beatingof steel drums and a procession. Shantanu, a turban on his head, rode a whitemare decorated in sequins. A veil of pearls covered his face. His relativesskipped and danced around him. Firecrackers popped.
The parade left the Dhawans' apartment and headed down a busy road to theDelicacy Restaurant. In a back room of the restaurant, Vibha was having a last-minutepress-on nail crisis. So many aunties and cousins were helping assemble herbeaded veil and shawl that she resembled a Hindu goddess with many hands.
When the procession reached the restaurant, Shantanu's cousins - in turbansand double-breasted suits - shouted "Jai Maharashtra!" which meant "Maharashtrawarrior!"
Rickshaw drivers tooted their horns. Passers-by cheered. Even in India, theIndian wedding fascinates.
"Treat Shantanu like a king!" the cousins shouted.
The restaurant's glass doors opened and Promila appeared in a sari the colorof Florida oranges, her arms wide open. She separated Shantanu's veil of beadsand allowed his face to show. She hugged him. He had been welcomed, symbolically,into her family.
On the red-carpeted stage, Shantanu took his spot on a gold and red velvetthrone.
Minutes later, Vibha emerged. Her fuchsia and plum lengha - floor-length skirtand blouse - glittered under the chandeliers. A medallion necklace, the ranihaar, shimmered from her bodice. Golden charms hung like wind chimes from bothwrists, to make music over the heads of those who would be next to marry.
When Vibha's grandmother, Kamlavati, married, her face was completely shrouded.On Promila's wedding day, a sari's edge obscured her eyes and nose. Vibha showedher entire face, with a row of bindi dots on her forehead for glamor.
Vibha and Shantanu exchanged long Indian jasmine and rose garlands.
"How are you feeling?" the groom's side shouted in Hindi.
"Great!" replied the bride's side. "We're getting married!"
And with that, everyone headed for the food line, where vegetarian curriessteamed in chafing dishes.
It was nearly 11:30 p.m. when the matrimonial ceremony began.
Shantanu took his seat by the pandit, beneath pillars and marigold vines,for the blessing. Vibha sat quietly in the audience, her eyes forever checkingthe restaurant door. Would her father make it?
Then, at three minutes before midnight, a feeling came over her. She feltas if her father had already entered the room. She glanced at the doors again.One started to open, then the other.
She ran toward the doors. If it was him, she wanted to be the first personhe saw.
Devindra had a bandage and an intravenous tube on his left arm. Abu, the family'sdriver, helped him through the doorway.
"Look Pa, what do you think?" said Vibha, crying and showing offher wedding sari.
He looked at her and smiled weakly. It was all Vibha needed. As a child, sheused to cling to her father by his fingers. Tonight, she held his hand firmlyuntil he was safely seated. She hugged her mother in appreciation.
Vibha joined Shantanu under the canopy of marigolds, in front of the pottedflame. The pandit dotted their foreheads with red powder, the tikka, a symbolicdot representing the mind's eye.
He knotted a red string - holy thread - twice around their wrists for goodluck, long life and happiness. He called out to Lord Brahma, the creator, sothat the couple would enjoy good health, and to Lord Vishnu, the preserver,so the couple might avoid calamities.
The wedding was running late. The restaurant staff started to clean up, stackingchairs, but the pandit kept chanting.
Vibha and Shantanu, clinging to a single pink sash, stood and circled thesacred fire. First Vibha led. Then Shantanu. Then both, side-by-side.
The wedding's finale was the ancient ritual of sindoor. Shantanu sprinkleda red powder onto the parting in Vibha's hair. She lifted her head to reveala marked forehead, the stamp of a new wife.
Weeks later, after a honeymoon at a resort outside Mumbai, Vibha and Shantanuwere back in Tampa. Shantanu returned to his classes at USF, working on hisdoctorate in mechanical engineering. Vibha started her new job as a speechpathologist's assistant at Foster Academy in Seminole Heights.
They were building a life together, piecing together a household: a ladybugwelcome mat, a vacuum cleaner, a 32-inch TV. On weekends, they drove to Deltonato see Promila and Devindra, who was recovering well. They honored the Indiancustom. Forty days after her wedding, Vibha slipped off the red bangles andwrapped them for safe-keeping, as is Punjabi custom.
One afternoon, Vibha popped open her Dell laptop to clean out her mother'slittle-used Yahoo account. Amid all the spam, Vibha found a response to oneof her postings on the matrimonial Web sites.
The e-mail was from a young man. He wrote that he was looking for a womanfrom a good family, and he included a link to his bio data Web page. If Vibhawas interested, she should contact his brother.
Vibha did not click on the link, but she did reply. Her note was not long.She thanked the young man for writing and then gave him her news.
I recently married in India.
There was something more she needed to say. She typed one last line beforehitting send:
Good luck in your search.
ABOUT THIS STORY
St. Petersburg Times reporter Babita Persaud followed Vibha Dhawan's searchfor a husband for three years. The private nature of some of the events recounted- for example, the night Vibha and Shantanu sat on the steps outside Jackson'sBistro - meant they had to be reconstructed later from interviews.
Persaud and photographer Stefanie Boyar went to India for Vibha's wedding.Explanations of Hinduism were provided by Sudarsan Padmanabhan, who teachesthe subject at the University of South Florida.
The Times wishes to express its thanks to Vibha and her parents for agreeingto be the subjects of such a personal story.
Stories copyright 2004 St. Petersburg Times. Reprinted with permission.