Growing up as an Indian girl, Yash Raj Chopra’s movies were my indulgence. The sweeping romance, the dramatic rain-soaked arguments, the fields of mustard flowers—oh, the fields! Bollywood didn’t just teach us how to love; it also taught us how to have utterly unrealistic expectations. I mean, who wouldn't want Shah Rukh Khan (SRK) holding out his arms, telling us we’re the only woman in the world? Sign me up!
But then life barged in and said, “Erm, no love. You get Dave from accounting who eats his crisps too loudly and snorts when he laughs.”
Like many other women, I bought into the Bollywood fantasy, hook, line, and sinker. My parents doubled down, reinforcing the "good Indian girl" manual: be polite, hold onto your virginity (as if it’s the holy grail), cook perfect rotis, and basically transform into an obedient extra from Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham. The 70s, 80s, and 90s were full of such nonsense, and if you think it’s outdated, just ask the aunty next door. Spoiler alert: it’s still alive and kicking.
Enter DDLJ: Hormones, Peer Pressure, and a Good Cry
It all changed during one pivotal moment in my life. It was just before uni finals, and one of my close mates convinced me to watch Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge (DDLJ). You know, the movie that redefined romance in Bollywood.
I was stressed, hormonal, and desperately in need of an escape. So there we were, giggling like teenagers, as Shah Rukh played the cheeky, loveable rogue. There was tragedy, strict parents, comedy, and melodramatic violin solos. It was perfection.
But on the way home, something unexpected happened. I pulled the car over, burst into tears, and cried my eyes out. Why? Because I hadn’t met the one. Yes, it was dramatic. Yes, I was being ridiculous. But come on, I was a single, mature uni student surrounded by married friends, pregnant friends, and those annoying couples who can’t keep their hands off each other. Meanwhile, I was nursing my hormonal breakdown and yelling at the universe, “Why me?!”
Broken Engagements and Bollywood Backlash
To make matters worse, my own love life had been a bit of a trainwreck. A couple of years earlier, I’d had a broken engagement. Healing from that wasn’t easy. It left scars. Oh, and let’s not forget the part where I was told I was “too high maintenance.” Yep, apparently being trendy, modern, and culturally rooted was just too much for a traditional Sikh family. How dare I have a personality, right?
A message from the potential groom, not his parents, they loved me! It was like a scene straight out of a Bollywood movie, only without the reconciliation song. Instead, I was left staring at my wardrobe, wondering which salwar kameez screamed “marriage material.” Spoiler: none of them did.
So, I gave up trying to be the "good girl" and decided to just live my life. And by live, I don’t mean hopping into random beds (thanks for the assumption, society), but going out, dancing, dining at fabulous restaurants, and saying yes to life.
Bollywood vs Reality: The Eternal Struggle
Even now, I find myself teetering between Bollywood fantasies and harsh realities. Those love ballads? They still hit me hard. The dance numbers? You’ll find me grooving like no one’s watching. And the lyrics? They have this magical ability to unlock emotions you didn’t even know you had.
But here’s the thing. Bollywood doesn’t prepare you for reality. It doesn’t warn you about nosy mother-in-laws who channel their inner Saas Bhi Kabhi Bahu Thi villain (Mother-in-law was a Daughter-In-Law at one point). They want you to be the perfect daughter-in-law—respectful, subservient, decked out in ethnic wear, cooking like a Michelin-star chef, and popping out babies like a conveyor belt.
Respect, they say. But respect is earned, not demanded. And let’s be honest, when they’re constantly criticising you for not being Sanskari** enough, it’s hard to muster up any respect at all.
**Sanskari – this one word means - traditional, well-cultured, virtuous, family-oriented, raised with good values and good girl material, by society’s standards)
Bridging Cultures: Holding Onto Identity
And then there’s the other layer of chaos—balancing the cultural tightrope. On the one hand, you’ve got British, Canadian, or American ways of life. On the other, you’ve got the Indian way, with all its traditions, languages, and expectations. The result? Constant identity whiplash.
“How do you not know the Gayatri Mantra***?” someone will ask, incredulous. Never mind that you’ve spent years trying to juggle modern life with cultural expectations, trying to keep some semblance of both alive.
***Gayatri Mantra – A sacred Hindu chant invoking wisdom and spiritual guidance
I’m culturally engrained, don’t get me wrong. I’ve always believed that kids should know and speak their mother tongue. Whether it’s Hindi or Punjabi, they should know the basics—how to greet relatives, what to do at a wedding when you’re on the bride’s or groom’s side, even a few good bhangra moves. It’s part of who we are.
But it’s getting harder and harder to pass these things down. Parents and grandparents speak to kids in English now, and the next generation grows further away from their roots. I’ve never forced religion on my boys, but I would love for them to visit the Gurudwara every now and then. Their excuse? “They don’t serve meat.” I mean, really? That’s your argument?
A Woman’s Lot: The Burden of Expectations
And while we’re on the topic of impossible expectations, let’s talk about the roles we’re expected to play as women. Both husband and wife work full-time jobs, but guess who’s still expected to come home, cook, clean, and look after the kids? That’s right, the wife. 
Meanwhile, hubby dearest plonks himself on the sofa, waiting for his roti and daal to magically appear on the dining table.
There’s no romance, no “queen” treatment—just an endless cycle of chores. And to top it all off, we’re supposed to look fabulous while doing it. Bollywood can keep its perfect heroines; we’re over here drowning in real life.
Arranged Marriages: A Missed Opportunity?
Here’s the kicker—I was actually open to an arranged marriage. Shocking, right? But hear me out. Arranged marriages can save a lot of hassle. Your parents and the community do all the legwork—finding good families, vetting the backgrounds, and setting you up with men who are (supposedly) ready for commitment. None of that awkward “So, where is this going?” conversation. Plus, there’s a certain charm in the idea of being introduced to someone with the potential to build a life together, minus the endless swiping and dating disasters.
Unfortunately, my experience with arranged marriage prospects was less DDLJ and more Comedy of Errors. Most of the men I met were utterly clueless or painfully intimidated by the fact that I was a strong, independent woman. Why? Because I could hold an argument, engage in a proper debate, and—heaven forbid—have opinions of my own. Apparently, the perfect bride in their eyes was someone who nodded quietly in agreement and asked no questions beyond, “How much sugar in your chai?”
Being born and partially raised in Nairobi, I grew up surrounded by families from Kenya, Uganda, and Tanzania—the heart of East Africa. These communities were vibrant, full of humour, and deeply rooted in culture, yet progressive in their mindset. I always imagined I’d meet someone from this East African cultural group who embodied that same balance of modernity and tradition. But the crop I was meeting? They felt straight out of the 70’s show “Mind Your Language” or the 90’s “Goodness Gracious Me” which first aired in 1998 — delinquents who either had the maturity of a tea cozy or the charm of a soggy samosa.
But oh, the reality. Instead of meeting cultured, modern men, I was introduced to a parade of morons who couldn’t put two slices of bread together to make a sandwich, let alone hold a meaningful conversation. One memorable chap spent the entire date bragging about his car, as if horsepower was the key to a happy marriage. Another tried to mansplain Sikh history to me, despite getting half his facts wrong. And yet another asked if I could cook because he “loves a good roti.” My thoughts - Google a recipe or ask your mum!
It wasn’t just the men, though. The whole process felt like a job interview, but instead of discussing your resume, it was about your culinary skills, your ability to “adjust,” and whether or not you’d be willing to move in with his parents. Romantic, right? There was little focus on compatibility or shared dreams—just ticking off a checklist of outdated expectations.
In hindsight, the problem wasn’t the concept of arranged marriage itself. It’s a system that can work beautifully when approached with mutual respect and a genuine desire for partnership. But when it’s reduced to a conveyor belt of superficial criteria and old-school gender roles, it’s no wonder it feels like a missed opportunity.
So here I am, still rolling my eyes at the memory of these encounters, but also grateful. Because every ridiculous prospect, every “Do you know how to make parathas?” moment, helped me realise what I truly wanted—and, more importantly, what I didn’t.
Finding Balance: Writing Our Own Script
So where does all this leave us? Stuck somewhere between cultures, still waiting for romance, and navigating a society that can’t decide what it wants from us.
But here’s what I’ve learned: it’s okay to be a little bit Bollywood and a little bit real life. It’s okay to wear bright, exquisite Indian clothes one day and rock jeans and trainers the next. It’s okay to dance between cultures, finding your own rhythm.
At the end of the day, life isn’t a Bollywood film. It’s messier, harder, and far less glamorous. But it’s also real. And that’s what makes it beautiful.
So, to all the women out there caught between the reel and the real: stop waiting for Shah Rukh to show up with his arms outstretched. Be your own hero. Write your own script. And if you need to cry, dance, or rant along the way? Do it with flair.
