Written by Aaina Saini
Illustrated by Sylvain Chan
As an Indian, I am privileged to love.
In India and among Indian communities abroad, romantic relationships face complications that surpass the commonly cited challenges of modern dating at the LSE, such as non-commitment or transient relationships. Love is frequently entangled with notions of family honour, communal reputation, and prescribed social roles, often in tension with individual autonomy. The enduring concern of “log kya kahenge” (“what will people say”) continues to exert significant influence on how young Indians interact with and perceive relationships, romance and sex.
Having loved in Delhi, the capital of a country where love is never an individual decision but a collective endeavour, inviting the judgment of all and the acceptance of none —- I have witnessed everything from “sharam nahi aati” (“do you have no shame?”) on sweltering days in the Delhi Metro from ‘religious’ Indian uncles to “tum dono ki shaadi hojayegi” (“you two will get married”), offered by an elderly woman to appease us and coax a few coins from us so she could survive.
Beyond social stigmas and societal disdain, the state, too, insists on being an unwelcome third in most relationships in India. Whether it be the political crusade against ‘love jihad’ that frames Muslim men as ‘entrapping’ the ever seemingly vulnerable Hindu woman with the intent of conversion, or the outlawing of live-in relationships in Uttarakhand, to the police blackmailing couples with threats of revealing their relationships to their parents after being spotted hugging in public for money —- it is quite a daunting task to deal with this all, and then still find a real connection.
With Valentine’s right around the corner, the added dilemma of being literally beaten with sticks by Hindu right-wing groups, such as Bajrang Dal in the name of preserving their ‘culture’, only makes it harder for Indians to express themselves freely.
For the working class in India, financial constraints often present a situation wherein an absolute dichotomy is drawn between love and career, a view I have come to realise is quite uncommon in the UK. The supposed idea that relationships can be distracting, makes this game not only one of finding privacy and connection but also one of survival. In an increasingly competitive labour market with limited opportunities, sons are expected to be providers while many women pursue financial autonomy to avoid patriarchal, arranged marriages;, with such challenges, some simply cannot afford the cost of love.
However, as a country with the world’s largest population,s yet staunchly refusing love to its youth, one must wonder if the question is one of love or control? Love is opposed but arranged marriages are favoured, even forced upon unwilling individuals. Connection and expression in public is seen as distasteful and ‘western- influenced’, yet rape is rampant and victims plenty. Sex education is frowned upon as teaching the youth inappropriate things, and yet India is home to a large number of children.
This contradiction between what is publicly condemned and privately enforced, reveals a deeper anxiety around autonomy. Love, when chosen freely, threatens established hierarchies of caste, religion, gender, and family authority in ways that arranged structures do not. By regulating intimacy, the state and society retain control over lineage, inheritance, and social order, ensuring that desire remains disciplined, predictable, and, above all, governable.
Meanwhile, Bollywood continues to sell India some of its most enduring love stories. Films like Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge, with its iconic “ja Simran jee le apni zindagi” (“go Simran, live your life”), offer a vision of love that is ultimately sanctioned, where paternal permission is granted and romance triumphs against all odds. These narratives are cherished by Indians and the diaspora alike, precisely because they suggest that love, if sincere and patient enough, will eventually be honoured. Yet wrapped in stylisation and rose-tinted nostalgia, they obscure a harsher reality – that for millions, love does not win. There is no cinematic climax, only quiet heartbreak and lives reshaped and destroyed by what could not be claimed.
From constant Kama Sutra jokes and the writers of the ‘Sex Manual’ to being looked upon as an arranged marriage prevalent society —- the view of the West on Indians and relationships has also shifted dramatically as increasing familiarity with Indian friends has revealed the reality of child marriages, marrying within the same caste, and love being nothing short of a taboo.
Now, having lived for 2 years in London and having befriended my fair share of the Indian diaspora, these patterns are hardly limited to the country’s national boundaries. A couple who I truly believed were destined for each other and had lived together at university for the past two years, parted ways —- not because they stopped loving each other but because they belonged to different castes. They simply could not claim this love in front of their orthodox parents. Or, choosing to settle abroad —- not because they wish to, but because being anything but heterosexual in India is nothing short of life-threatening.
Even student societies, such as the LSESU India Society, feeds into these structures wherein the concept of arranged relationships has found its way in seemingly harmless ways into student circles with events such as ‘Take me out’, where the Netflix-famous matchmaking aunty Sima Taparia works her magic on LSE students. Similar events also take place in other London universities like KCL, UCL and Imperial. In a sense, this too is a privilege: to treat a deeply entrenched social practice as light-hearted entertainment, to be matched without any real expectation or pressure of marriage.
For some Indians in the UK, distance offers a rare opening to love more freely —- away from the immediate surveillance of family, community and state. Yet, even this freedom is uneven. It is largely available to those with the financial means to study abroad, to families who can afford both distance and discretion. In this way, the opportunity to love is not merely shaped by geography, but by class. Loving, not only in India but even as an Indian, increasingly reveals itself as a privilege rather than a right. Having been in a long-distance relationship for most of my time at university, I find my situation to hardly be a challenge as I stand aware that similar if not greater challenges would continue to exist even if we lived closer. To some extent, I find comfort and security in getting to know my partner extensively (even if it is over the phone) —- an opportunity not afforded to everyone.
Perhaps the question, then, is not whether Indians know how to love, but who is allowed to. In a society that celebrates reproduction while resisting desire, that exports intimacy through film yet suppresses it at home, love becomes something to be hidden, postponed, or reframed as duty. Until love is permitted to exist without justification, apology, or consequence, it will continue to be treated not as an expression of freedom, but as an act of defiance.
