When it comes to rishtas, ‘Aunty knows best’

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“You know we’re only looking in the US,” one sister said casually over tea. “Ammi keeps saying we should have Alina settled here, but I don’t want that.” The other nodded in agreement. “Then you should call Mrs. Zarmeen. Everyone says she’s the best for overseas rishtas. She knows all the families that are settled abroad”

This is a conversation desi households know all too well. Families trade the names of rishta aunties the way they once compared tutors or tailors, each known for a different reach: local, the Middle East, or North America. What began as quiet family arrangements has grown into a full-fledged business model, complete with fixed fees, waiting lists, and forms to fill. Matchmakers brand themselves as professionals, maintaining databases of prospective brides and grooms and selling their reach as a service. It is no longer a side favour between relatives, rather an entrepreneurial career in its own right built on steady demand.

“My fee is more for the girl’s family than the boy’s,” said one Karachi-based rishta aunty. “Rs 50,000 for a local boy, Rs 100,000 for a boy in the Middle East, and Rs 150,000 for North America and Europe.”

For families with daughters, the priority is marrying at the right age to the right partner, with looks and family background often outweighing education or career. “There are some questions we are asked by every single family looking for a girl, ‘Is she dark-skinned or fair? She is not chubby, is she? What does her father do?’ said a Lahore based matchmaker.

With inflation rising and job prospects shrinking in Pakistan, a match with the right profession is seen almost like insurance for the future. “Even in their future partners are only looking for the typical doctors, businessmen, lawyers or engineers,” said Rahema, a Canada-based matchmaker who conducts her work through phone and text. “Families believe that no matter the struggles abroad, it is better than life in Pakistan.” For many parents of daughters, safety and opportunity weigh heavily in the decision. Rahema prefers to call such arrangements ‘passports marriages,’ “If the boy is a foreign national, visa issues are resolved,” she said.

The younger generation, however, has different priorities altogether. For many, other factors take precedence over a foreign address. “For me it’s about compatibility, genuine respect, and having shared goals,” said Laiba, a 25-year-old from Karachi. She laughed at the idea of choosing a life partner on the basis of geography alone. “I won’t marry someone solely based on the colour of their passport.”

But even when visas are not part of the equation, the search for stability remains central. Matchmakers often point to the rise in divorce as proof that compatibility matters more than ever. Divorced men are typically encouraged to remarry, often to younger women, with the expectation of starting fresh and having more children. Families of divorced women, meanwhile, return to the same aunties, depending on their networks to shield them from gossip and manage the process discreetly. “Everyone knows we have information on young women because they are the ones who mostly come for marriage. With more mismatched unions ending in separation, aunties have repositioned themselves as the safer alternative to friends, social circles, or apps. “People think if the first marriage did not work, they should try a different approach.”

Despite talk of changing attitudes, families continue to circle back to the same networks. Rishta aunties, after all, promise something an app cannot, discretion, cultural fluency, and the reassurance of experience. “Our line of work operates on the basis of trust and relationships,” said one matchmaker. The questions may evolve and the fees may rise, but across the country, the business of matchmaking carries on much the same way it always has.