The Arranged Marriage: My Kalpa

By Mark S. Silver

This is the story of a young woman in India who agrees to marry through an arranged engagement. After an idealized childhood she relocates to the United States to begin a new life with her husband. Yet, she soon discovers that he is a dangerous alcoholic who causes her to suffer unspeakable abuses and a deep sense of psychological and physical harm. Ultimately, she finds the courage to begin a new life in the United States.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Feb 11, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483445465

Book preview

THE

ARRANGED

MARRIAGE

My Kalpa

MARK S. SILVER

Copyright © 2016 Mark S. Silver.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, microfilming, recording, or otherwise without written permission from the author.

Published by Mark S. Silver 257 West 117th St, Suite 6C NY, NY 10026
United States of America

For further information contact Mark Silver at: [e-mail]

ISBN: 978-1-4834-4545-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-4546-5 (e)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 2/8/2016

CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

To the hundreds of clients who opened up about their lives and their very most personal traumas.

CHAPTER 1

A long time ago, long before my family first toiled on the land, the gods made decisions that would affect me in terrible ways. These gods are unseen and silent, yet their judgments cause oceans to overflow and valleys to become dry shod. Humans cannot understand what the gods are thinking and guessing the intention of deities on any matter or their cosmic plans are so impossible that the gods smile with a contemptuous grim when philosophers gather in the public square to discern the how and why of our world. We do not even know the where because the universe is so vast and the when is also only a rough estimate. My father would tell me that even the gods have forgotten the answers to some of these questions. When I asked my father how such knowledge could be lost he replied that he believed that at some point the gods became complacent in their omniscience so the gods no longer felt the need to ask these basic questions, and when the right questions are no longer asked even gods may find that their knowledge withers and when this occurs there may be negative cosmic results. But surely scientists must ask these questions, I countered to my father. My father replied that the scientists do indeed ask these questions of each other but of not the gods so the answers they come up with are arrogant and at times their results are skewed because of their misplaced faith in math alone.

But what we do know is the what. We know what we are because we can examine our bodies and the more we do the more it appears that our origins were quite bloody and messy. On a farm it is inevitable to see animals born in a bloody mess and we must assist the animal because birth is not a natural event like breathing or cricket. Yet, knowing what we are made of could in time provide answers to the other questions, or perhaps we will have to remain satisfied with the answer to a single question and from that infer everything else that we need to know. When I shared my thoughts with my father he laughed and said that some people are even ignorant of what they are and what they are capable, yet I would not understand what he meant until many years later.

My father and I were once leafing through my geography book for a school project and he asked me if there was one place that I would most like to visit. I answered that I wanted to see the moment the world was created. My father laughed because he meant where would I like to visit on our planet today if I would travel anywhere, but I refused to change my answer because I was angered and embarrassed by my father’s laughter. My father changed his humorous tone to a more serious one and asked me why I would travel to the point of creation and I explained that if I could see the world at the moment of creation I would know who created it and I may even discover why it was created and if I gained this knowledge then I would be more informed about where our world exists and where I am going in my own life. My father smiled and told me that the gods are less interested in where we are going and more interested in where we come from because the latter foretells the former. How can this be true, I asked my father? He replied that on the day you take your geography test you will sit with your classmates wearing the same uniforms and looking quite the same in most ways, but I know that you will do well because you have studied for many hours and other students will do poorly because they have not. I know this because of where you have come from and this allows me to understand where you are going.

In my culture we accept our fate because it balances social and political awkwardness and inequity, but the problem is that it is not really possible to know what our fate is and who exactly has determined it. Is it better to simply acquiesce and allow fate to take its course or to behave in a way that serves our interests because perhaps this is our real fate. My father believes his fate is quite simple, and yet profound. In the morning he arises even before the sun is in the sky and he works on the farm until just before dark or until he collapses in exhaustion. My father is a happy man, he loves to make jokes, and he believes that fate is no more knowable than the true level of corruption in our politicians. A perfect day for my father entails a full day of farm work and meals with his family. In this regard, I consider my father the most fortunate man in the world. My mother, however, believes that we make our own fate by creating plans and acting on them. My mother has devoted many months to searching for an arranged marriage for her only daughter—me—Pritiben. She has scoured the proposal section of many newspapers, she has consulted with several expensive astrologers, and she has made dozens of inquiries from various extended family members who have served as foot soldiers in the war to find a good suitor to get me married off.

My mother wants me to marry an American Indian so that I can begin a new life with greater opportunities in the United States. It is the dream of every Indian to abandon India perhaps because it is believed the fates cannot cross the Atlantic Ocean, especially without a proper visa. When I ask my mother why so many Indians wish to invade the United States she says that it is because they love the values that America stands for. I then ask my mother if this is why the British invaded India and she admonishes me and says that the British did not come here because they love India but because they hate Britain. I thought you understood this. I thought everyone understood this. My mother laughs to herself.

I have a different understanding of fate. It is that the gods can be jealous, angry, rash and even unforgiving. I believe that the gods are not our friends because if they loved us they would permit just the correct amount of rain for the crops, ensure that the insects remain away from the fields, and provide cloud covering for my father in the heat of the day.

Americans would probably describe our faith as what goes around comes around, and I do believe everyone has to go around once before they come back around like the pictures of merry-go-rounds that I have seen in British children’s stories. For me the most important part of fate is simply not doing anything that would make the gods angry so that a boring life is a life well lived. My father is a boring man, a happy man, and a righteous man. The gods have been good to him because he offends no one and he does not deviate the plow from the route of the sowing lane, and my father always has a coin for the beggar in the marketplace. Some people ignore the beggar, some people must search their pocket for change they wish to just discard, and other men—like my father—place a coin aside before visiting the market to ensure the beggar is not embarrassed more than necessary in his quest for charity.

Or perhaps those who succeed through difficult trials win the biggest prizes like Ulysses who returns home by a circuitous route and against all of the fates enjoys contentment with Penelope in their castle. Or perhaps the real lesson is that Ulysses should never have left home at all because when he finally does return his family no longer recognizes him. Rather than recount his heroic adventures proving his travels by describing creatures and lands that he could not possibly know about unless he has visited, Ulysses is forced to recall that their marital bed is made from an olive tree still rooted in the ground and this alone convinces Penelope because although she does not recognize her husband’s face she recognizes his memory of their shared love. And so I have decided that I would outwit fate, placate the gods, and not tempt poor fortune and even avoid meeting a one-eyed giant by a plan so simple that I would enjoy both a boring and happy life without any special effort. I will remain in our village with my family and never leave home.

You are leaving home! My mother is emphatic in her statement and she is quite self-assured in this and in all other matters that concern her and those matters that do not concern her. I am never emphatic in my statements and my thoughts are always qualified by self-doubt. My mother loves me and I am the focus of most of her concerns and this is a burden for us both. She feels that it is her duty to find me a husband and she must do so before her death. Duties—familial, religious, work, and cultural—define our lives and our obligations inform our morality. We are what we do and so if an anthropologist wished to understand our community he need only observe our daily lives ad rites. We have no secrets. My mother asserts that her greatest fear is that she dies before I marry, but what she really desires is at least one grandchild from me before her death and preferably a grandson. A granddaughter would be precious, but a grandson would be a godsend. A granddaughter would be a blessing, but a grandson a blessing from the gods. A granddaughter would help maintain our customs, but a grandson would help maintain our existence. Girls are sweet, but boys are necessary.

My mother is a calculating woman who leaves nothing to chance, as she believes that she must adopt an active role nudging the universe this way or that way until it bends to her will perhaps fearful of her ire. My mother is pretty, but she is not a beautiful woman. My mother says that I am beautiful and I believe that my classmates are also beautiful. But somehow—and I do not know how this can be—these beautiful young girls lose their beauty over time and after their children are born their appearance is so different that they do not resemble the pictures of their youth. When I asked my father about this he said that it is simply the natural process of aging, but maybe it is something else. Maybe it is that young girls must remain pretty in preparation for marriage and after marriage—and as the years pass—this becomes increasingly less important. I developed this theory because my father is handsome and there are many handsome older men in our community. These men were handsome when they were younger and they are handsome now.

To be fair, my mother is quite correct to search for my husband because I would never have become engaged without the help of my mother or elders. We reside in a small village comprised primarily of farmers who work tirelessly in backbreaking labor from sunup until sundown to provide for the needs of their family members. They fear poor rains, pesky insects, inclement weather, crop failures, and not having enough sons to provide the manual labor necessary to maintain the farm. There are no bars, no dance clubs, social halls, and no venue to meet young men of any age—outside of our Hindu Temple. And even if such meeting places did exist my parents would never permit socialization in such tawdry venues because of their parochial values. So I am thankful, patient, and hopeful that my mother will find a husband for me who will be kind, intelligent, and adhere to the same moral and religious values that I cherish. It seems to me that the greater my mother’s pleasure in searching for a proper suitor the greater contentment I will enjoy in my marriage. Secretly I am also excited at the possibility of leaving our village and relocate to the United States to begin a new life where endless opportunities exist for anyone who is willing to work hard or marry rich. Where we live hard work brings enough money to pay for our basic necessities but no one becomes rich and financial struggle is a constant companion.

My father will provide a substantial dowry based on the value of our land, and also jewelry and cash, to the family that agrees on the marriage. I say the family because the dowry is not truly for the groom, but for his parents and the parents decide what will be done with the dowry. I do not feel that my father is selling me and I do not feel that my mother is trying to get rid of me. My mother often reminds me of the women in our village who never married and who must therefore remain dependent on their brothers for physical and monetary support. These women are pitied and scorned, and it is understood that there must have been some defect that prohibited them from marriage. A single woman does not really make sense in our culture because women are caretakers and child bearers, and so without marriage neither role can be fulfilled. And because so few women complete college degrees or have professional careers in our village, those who remain unmarried in the village have nothing to do so their minds and bodies become less important over time.

I just feel that I have no voice in the arranged marriage, yet I must look pretty and sound sensible because I am a 21-year-old grown woman. I am prepared to help my mother in whatever way she needs and I will not impede this process. But my brother, Dhairya, who is neither pretty nor sensible, will undoubtedly enjoy an enviable arranged marriage because he is the son of a successful farmer and he will inherit all of our father’s land and property. And yet it seems to me in some ways my brother has a much more difficult task than I do. He is assigned the role to care for the farmland, he must care for my parents when they are elderly, and if my parents should die before I am married my brother must support me as well. On the other hand, I do not have to do anything so burdensome to be a good daughter or good family member or good community member, but I must simply help my mother to maintain the home and our traditions as a caretaker, which all females do.

Westerners view our caste system as endlessly complex, but our caste system is really quite simple. It is comprised of men, women, and boys and girls. The upper caste is comprised of men and boys and the lower caste is comprised of women and girls. It is not complex at all.

When will I leave home? My brother pretends that he does not overhear the conversation about the arranged marriage that I have with my mother, and he continues to snack on dried apricots popping them into his mouth one after the other like candies.

Chew those apricots or a tree will grow inside your stomach and roots will sprout from your feet. My brother is confused by my mother’s sage advice. Often my brother struggles to understand our mother’s wisdom, but in our home our mother’s wisdom is sacrosanct and if she says that roots can grow out of your feet then roots can grow out of your feet. The sprockets in my brother’s head are turning in unison and he has processed what my mother tells him so he places the jar of dried apricots down and snacks on nuts instead.

My feet are safe now. Nuts don’t have seeds. My mother and I roll our eyes, but we love Dhairya and we would do anything for him as he would do anything for us. Sometimes I think my brother is jealous because it is doubtful he will ever leave our village. He was born here and he will die here, and he will eat apricots until he is orange in the face because he has done this since he was a little boy. In some ways, I am jealous of him because although he is unaware of life outside of our home and our village he also knows his role in the family, on the farm, in the village, and even in the universe so he is fully content and unambitious. This is because my brother believes that the universe does not extend past the end of our village and that everywhere he has traveled outside of our village holds no real meaning for him. In a sense, he is like my father who feels complete in this way and I suppose my mother also feels