Valentine’s Day — or, as the city now insists on stretching it, Valentine’s Week — arrives with two predictable things each year: overpriced roses and unsolicited opinions on how, when, and whom to get married.
The roses, of course, are simple transactions; the opinions, however, are long-term commitments.
This February, as Shahbagh’s flower stalls overflow and Dhanmondi’s overbooked restaurants brace for their annual crush, we thought we’d stir the pot a little. Although Dhaka has no shortage of things to gossip about, here’s one we’re putting on the Valentine’s scoreboard: Is arranged marriage for losers? Is love marriage the only badge of honour? (Dear arranged-married readers, please do not lash out; pour yourself a cup of tea and keep reading. We promise, no one’s grading you… yet.)
In Bangladesh, personal choices rarely stay private, and marriage choices least of all. Everything quickly becomes a public referendum — debated over tea, dissected in cafes, and circulated with the certainty of a WhatsApp meme. So, we asked a few Dhakaites to cast their votes, share their confessions, and spill the anxieties and ambitions that come with picking a life partner — in love, or by arrangement.
For many young people, love marriage has a clear edge in prestige. “Arranged marriage feels like submitting an assignment your parents did for you,” says 25-year-old Nabila. “It’s efficient, yes, but you didn’t earn it yourself.”
“I want a love marriage,” she adds, grinning. “I refuse to marry a stranger. I can’t even share fries with strangers — how am I supposed to share a life?”
The subtext is obvious: in Dhaka’s Valentine-saturated social circles, love marriage signals independence, initiative, and emotional courage. Arranged marriage, by contrast, sometimes carries a whisper of compromise — even failure — at least according to the city’s younger crowd.
For a generation raised on Bollywood confessions and family WhatsApp groups, the line between the two has become deliciously blurry. One promises cinematic romance; the other promises logistical efficiency. But both, with admirable consistency, deliver drama.
“Love marriage sounds amazing,” says Rafat, 26, “until you realise you still have to convince two entire families. Then it becomes a horrific group project. And group projects with this many people are never smooth.”
Even so, arranged marriage has quietly reinvented itself. Parents initiate introductions, but children now curate the process. “I’m not against arranged marriage,” says Araf, a software engineer. “I just want the ‘arranged’ part to feel like a recommendation, not an assignment. Let me meet her, talk, see if we vibe. Think of it as… curated love.”
The analogy isn’t accidental. In Dhaka, modern arranged marriages borrow heavily from the language of dating apps: compatibility, chemistry, shared interests. Parents may start the process, but the children hold the veto. “My mother sends me biodatas like she’s forwarding memes,” jokes Sadia, 27. “Every Sunday there’s a new candidate.”
Yet, as Valentine’s Day reminds the city, the fantasy of falling in love organically remains powerful. Restaurants overflow with couples busy proving — to themselves as much as to the world — that love is a decision they made, not one made for them.
“I want the story,” says Tanvir, dating his partner for three years. “When my children ask how we met, I don’t want to say, ‘our parents exchanged PDFs.’”
Love marriages, however, carry their own anxieties. Without the family vetting system, the burden of choosing wisely falls entirely on the individual. “With love marriage, if it fails, everyone silently says, ‘Well, you chose this,’” observes Farhana, a recent graduate. “With arranged marriage, at least you can blame the system a little,” she adds, only half-joking.
In truth, both models converge on the same practical reality: marriage in Bangladesh is rarely just about two people. It is a merger of households, expectations, and daily negotiations. Whether love-led or arranged, survival demands compromise, humour, and patience.
“I’m open to either,” shrugs Imran, 29. “If I fall in love, great. If my parents introduce me to someone amazing, also great. At the end of the day, I just want partnership. The method is secondary; the person is primary.”
The city’s Valentine’s hype often forgets this quiet truth. Roses wilt, Instagram posts vanish into the algorithm, but marriage — any marriage — requires constant effort.
A married couple, Farah and Mahmud, who met through an arranged introduction that slowly grew into affection, offer a reality check.
“People think the big question is love or arranged,” Farah smiles. “But after marriage, the real question is: who’s washing the dishes?”
Mahmud adds, “Love is important, of course. But marriage is mostly small daily decisions to be kind. Whether you met through a dramatic love story, or a formal sitting-room meeting, you still have to wake up and choose each other.”
So, is arranged marriage really for losers? The question seems less about success or failure than about perception. Love marriages carry bragging rights; arranged marriages carry strategic advantages. Both, ultimately, are just ways of finding someone to share life with — and that, in itself, is no small achievement.
Perhaps that is Valentine’s Day’s quiet reminder: beyond the roses, beyond the opinions and WhatsApp forwards, the city is not judging the method. It’s witnessing hope, in all its messy, beautifully human forms.
