Houston–based Aparna, for example, euphemistically states her preference for a “North Indian”-which might sound innocent enough to the average listener, but to me sounded like just another way of saying light-skinned. They demand that prospective brides be “slim,” “fair,” and “tall,” a ruthless standard for female beauty that’s also racialized-and while the demands are most exacting in India, they are not exclusive to the subcontinent. Other preferences, though, are little more than discrimination. Some are understandably cultural, perhaps: A preference for a certain language or religion, or for astrological compatibility, which remains significant for many Hindus. The parents task Sima with following multiple stringent expectations. Yet the show merely explains that for many Indian men, bright, bubbly, beautiful Nadia is not a suitable match. Many consider them low-caste, or not “really” Indian there is a suspicion of their heritage being mixed, carrying with it the stigma of being tainted. This is code for a number of conditions: Nadia’s family, originally Indian, immigrated to Guyana in the 1800s, along with a vast influx of indentured Indian labor shipped around the world after the British outlawed slavery. The most explicit it gets is with the story of event planner Nadia Jagessar, who tells the camera she’s struggled to find a match in the past because she’s Guyanese Indian. Perhaps that narrow focus expresses more about the stratification of Indian culture than it does about the producers’ biases-but Indian Matchmaking touches lightly on the culture that creates these biases. (That’s also my background, so Indian Matchmaking is playing tennis in my backyard.) A few families show off a level of wealth that borders on obscene: At one point, Preeti pulls out a king’s ransom of precious jewelry, emeralds and diamonds and gold, and proudly brags that the display is just “20%” of what her future daughter-in-law will inherit on her wedding day.Īltogether, it’s a little alarming that Indian Matchmaking features not a single Muslim match, just one or two individuals with heritage from South India, and only one whom we could call low-caste, though the show takes pains to not present it so bluntly.ĭirector Smriti Mundhra told Jezebel that she pitched the show around Sima, who works with an exclusive set of clients. The Indians and immigrants represented aren’t really a cross section of the country’s vast diversity: The show focuses almost entirely on upper-caste, well-to-do, North Indian Hindu families. Netflix’s unscripted show is called Indian Matchmaking, but it takes place both in India and America, with matchmaker Sima, based in Mumbai, flying back and forth as well as handling clients via FaceTime. Let’s start by clearing up some terminology. In this context, romance is not a private matter your love life is everyone’s business. Though these families use a matchmaker, the matching process is one the entire community and culture is invested in. But for me, at least, the show’s value is as a vibrant validation of how brutal the gauntlet of Indian matchmaking can be-a practice that begins with your parents’ friends and relatives gossiping about you as a teenager and only intensifies as you get older. Indian Matchmaking smartly reclaims and updates the arranged marriage myth for the 21st century, demystifying the process and revealing how much romance and heartache is baked into the process even when older adults are meddling every step of the way. But as becomes especially clear when Sima works in India, that choice is frequently and rather roughly pressured by an anvil of social expectations and family duty. As Sima and the show itself frequently remind us, arranged marriage is not quite the form of social control it used to be everyone here emphasizes that they have the right to choose or refuse the matches presented to them. But her apparent unsuitability for the dating world makes her a perfect subject for Indian Matchmaking, which follows Mumbai–based matchmaker Sima Taparia as she tries to get every single and reasonably well-to-do Indian in her path married to a heterosexual partner of her, and their parents’, choosing. In reality, Aparna’s probably not as insufferable as she seems. In her finest moment, presented with a suitor with a sense of humor, she sighs: “You know how I hate comedy.” Early on, she tells the camera she hasn’t regretted a decision she’s made since the age of three. In Indian Matchmaking, that villain is 34-year-old Aparna Shewakramani, a prospective bride who’s critical of every man she meets and vocal about disliking things like the beach, relaxing, and podcasts. Every reality show has at least one villain.
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