Syed M. Masood on Love: An Exclusive Guest Post from the Author of The Bad Muslim Discount

The first time my wife and I met, we didn’t speak.
It was a rishta meeting — a confab between two arranged marriage prospects — set up by our parents. They were there, by the way, in her family’s living room, along with those siblings of ours who happened to be in town. This was not a date, but it — and other chaperoned “conferences” like it — were the closest thing we’d get to one before we married each other.
Someone handed me a teacup on a saucer. It rattled as my hands trembled. I did not know for certain that I’d marry this person, whom I was not speaking with, of course. I make no claims to clairvoyance. But I felt it was possible. I’d been in several such rishta meetings before. This was the first time I was shaken.
After a while, to encourage me to speak, she came and sat next to me. I really ought to have said something then. But she seemed skittish and nervous, and I wasn’t sure what I could say so that she wouldn’t feel that way anymore. I’d been in several such rishta meetings before. This was the first time I was silent.
My story, I will confess, is not typical. Most people probably do talk to their prospective matches at the first meeting. The great myth about arranged marriages — the question that is asked with a shocked gasp over and over again by people, not from cultures where they are common is “How can you marry a stranger?” However, modern arranged marriages usually aren’t like that.
Some people still conceive of arranged marriages the way my great-grandmother experienced hers — when she and her groom saw each other for the first time after they were married. Those days, in my experience, are thankfully in the past.
My spouse and I wrote each other so many emails, and of such length, that there is probably a novel-length unpublished manuscript still sitting in our in-boxes. There were other occasions when we met (under supervision) and actually mustered the courage to speak. We got to know each other before we tied the knot.
The closest equivalent to arranged marriages, I think, are internet dating sites. Their systems have algorithms. Our system has aunties. The premise, however, is the same. Someone who knows you, or whom you have given your information to, finds you a match based on criteria that you feel are important. You meet, though in most arranged marriage cases in the desi Muslim community I am part of, not alone. Then either a relationship develops, or you move on.
I’ll be quick to point out that, to the best of my knowledge, there is nothing inherently “Muslim” or “Islamic” about arranged marriages. There are plenty of Muslims who never go through the rishta process, even among desis. There is no typical Muslim love story because, frankly, there are few experiences nearly two billion people spread out all over the world share. There is a conversation to be had about the perils of one individual claiming to represent — or being expected to represent — vast parts of the human population. But my topic today is love, and so I’ll note that I make no such claim, and we’ll just move on.
I am not writing in defense of arranged marriages, nor do I mean to romanticize them. I had one, obviously, and thankfully have found myself fortunate. They can fail, just like other kinds of relationships and marriages do. They are, however, one way a portion of humanity experiences love — the way I have experienced love — and I wanted to share that with you.
Ultimately, there are no guarantees when it comes to matters of the heart, no matter what any rishta aunty, dating website, or even your heart itself tells you. Being in love, as Anvar Faris points out in my novel, The Bad Muslim Discount, is a journey of discovery. You never know everything about your partner at the beginning. You learn more as time passes. How things will end is not always obvious in the way they start. Love is, I suppose, like a book that way.