here was a time when marriage negotiations came with lists that frequently included a refrigerator, a bedroom set, crockery and gold. Sometimes a car, if the groom’s family felt particularly ambitious. The lists were often unspoken, but everyone knew they existed. They carried the weight of family honour, social expectation and, more often than not, crippling financial pressure.

Today, many urban Pakistanis proudly insist they do not believe in jahez (dowry). Furniture trucks are no longer paraded through neighbourhoods with the same enthusiasm and openly demanding dowry has become socially embarrassing in many circles. We like to think we have outgrown the practice. But I am not convinced we have, because the transaction has not entirely disappeared.

Marriage gifts have been around in South Asia for centuries in various forms. Among them was stree dhan, property meant for a woman’s financial security. Over time, changing inheritance practices, consumerism, status competition and deeply patriarchal social structures transformed many of these customs into what we now recognise as dowry: an obligation imposed on the bride’s family rather than a safeguard for the bride herself.

So today, while the furniture may be gone, the expectations have become far more expensive, or better investments, if I’m speaking from the groom’s side. The modern bride is expected to arrive with flawless skin, polished English, an impressive degree, preferably from an institution that carries social prestige, a respectable career, emotional maturity, domestic skills and the ability to fit effortlessly into every room she enters. She should contribute financially without neglecting the home; be ambitious without appearing intimidating; independent without seeming rebellious; and fashionable without being “too modern.” She must somehow embody every contradiction our society has failed to resolve.

Notice how often conversations about marriage sound less like discussions about compatibility and more like product specifications.

“She’s from LUMS.”
“She works at a multinational.”
“She has maintained.”
“She’s fair.”

Each sentence sounds harmless in isolation. Together, they form a checklist.

Education, of course, is invaluable. So is financial independence. So is taking care of one’s health. The problem begins when these qualities stop being appreciated for what they are and become prerequisites for social acceptance in the marriage market. A university degree becomes a status symbol rather than evidence of curiosity. A career becomes proof of earning potential before it becomes a source of personal fulfillment. Even self-care increasingly resembles an investment in market value.

This shift did not happen in isolation. Economic uncertainty has made two-income households increasingly attractive. Inflation has changed what families consider practical. At the same time, social media has normalised impossible standards of beauty, success and lifestyle. Every scroll presents another carefully curated benchmark against which young people measure themselves and, increasingly, one another. Basically, marriage has become another arena for branding.

Families are not merely looking for a daughter-in-law. They are looking for someone whose education signals class, whose accent reflects privilege, whose appearance communicates discipline and whose profession promises financial security. In many ways, we have replaced the old dowry with social capital.

Women are not the only ones sustaining this culture. Mothers compare prospective daughters-in-law. Fathers quietly ask about salaries. Rishta aunties advertise degrees and skin tone with equal enthusiasm. Young men internalise unrealistic expectations; young women spend years trying to become everything society demands before they are considered ‘ready’ for marriage.

Ironically, many of these expectations require enormous financial investment. Elite schools and universities, professional wardrobes, cosmetic dermatology, orthodontics, fitness memberships, language training and endless grooming routines are not inexpensive. Families that will proudly reject a demand for furniture often spend years paying for a different kind of preparation, one that is rarely recognised as its modern equivalent.

None of this is an argument against education, career or ambition. Quite the opposite. Women should study because education expands lives, not because it improves marriage prospects. They should build careers because financial independence is empowering, not because a second salary sweetens a proposal. They should care for themselves because health and confidence matter, not because society has turned beauty into another form of currency.

Perhaps that is the question we should be asking. Have we really recognised “jahez ki la’nat,” or have we simply relocated it?

We no longer ask what the bride will bring into the marriage. We ask what she has become before she is considered worthy of one.

The old jahez filled a truck; the new one walks in on her own, heavily objectified.

Kiva Malick is an academician and a writer who focuses on education, philosophy, music and culture