"The man I was supposed to marry was someone I had known since childhood - five years older, from a wealthy Sikh family, my sister's classmate, living on the 14th floor of our high-rise building in Mumbai. He was my first crush. When I was 12, with oily braids and Coke-bottle glasses, I thought he was handsome and charming. I spent hours imagining what it would be like if he chose me."
"From my window on the second floor, I could see his car pull into the garage at 3 a.m., night after night, with a different girl in the passenger seat. While his parents were away at their hill station retreat, he was encouraged to "get his experience." I, meanwhile, was expected to safeguard my virginity and reputation. The double standard was a cage I began to feel closing in around me."
"My parents supported me going to the U.S. because my husband-to-be was headed to Harvard Business School. They thought it would give us a chance to "get to know each other." Their plan was clear: I would study, he would take responsibility for me, and within a few months, he would propose and I would return home to India to be married to him. Two years. That was the deal. It was stamped in black ink on my visa."
I boarded a plane at 19 with one suitcase and a marriage contract waiting at home. My extended family believed I was going to the United States for school, but I was running from the life of a "good daughter" they had scripted for me. The man arranged for me was a childhood acquaintance and former crush who led a secretive life while I was expected to protect my reputation. My parents saw U.S. study as a pause because he would attend Harvard, setting a two-year timeline for marriage. I visited him in Cambridge, where he proposed with rings and trappings of wealth.
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