by Sonya Lalli
“Bright and vivid, and fresh and funny—I was utterly charmed by this insight into Raina’s struggle to be the perfect Indian daughter. A delightful debut.”
—Veronica Henry, bestselling author of How to Find Love in a Bookshop
“A riotous odyssey into the pressures of cross-cultural modern dating that will chime with every twentysomething singleton.”
—ELLE (UK)
“A funny and moving exploration of modern love. Sonya Lalli’s observations on being single while Indian and female certainly resonated with me, and reminded me of the challenges of balancing family pressures with my desire for independence in my twenties. I enjoyed meeting all the men on Nani’s list, even the disastrous dates, because they reflected the hit-or-miss reality of the modern arranged-marriage experience.”
—Balli Kaur Jaswal, bestselling author of Erotic Stories for Punjabi Widows (Reese’s Book Club Pick)
“An absolute treat—I loved it. My senses were buzzing with delight as I read it.”
—Milly Johnson, bestselling author of The Queen of Wishful Thinking
“A delightfully different story of friendship, family, and getting over heartbreak. It’s fresh, funny, and fabulously written—it had me hooked from the get-go.”
—Anna Bell, bestselling author of The Bucket List to Mend a Broken Heart
“Heartwarming and funny.”
—Woman’s Own
BERKLEY
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
1745 Broadway, New York, NY 10019
Copyright © 2017 by Sonya Lalli
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
Previously published in the UK as The Arrangement.
BERKLEY and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Lalli, Sonya, author.
Title: The matchmaker’s list / Sonya Lalli.
Other titles: Arrangement
Description: First edition. | New York: Berkley, 2019. | Originally
published: London: Orion, 2017, under the title: The arrangement.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018009615| ISBN 9780451490940 (trade pbk.) | ISBN 9780451490957 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Arranged marriage—Fiction. | Women, East Indian—Canada—Fiction. | GSAFD: Love stories
Classification: LCC PR6112.A483 A77 2019 | DDC 823/.92—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018009615
Orion Books trade paperback edition / August 2017
Berkley trade paperback edition / February 2019
Cover art and design by Vikki Chu
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
CONTENTS
Praise for Sonya Lalli
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Boys for My Raina
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Date #1
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Date #2
May 20, 2014
Date #3
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Date #4
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
May 20, 2016
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Date #5
Chapter Eleven
May 20, 2015
Chapter Twelve
May 20, 2007
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
May 20, 2005
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
May 20, 1996
Chapter Twenty-four
May 20, 1990
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Date #6
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
May 20, 2019
Raina’s To-Do List
Readers Guide
About the Author
For my grandparents
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First and foremost, I want to thank my parents, Anita Chakravarti and Parm Lalli. You have been my rocks from day one, and I couldn’t have asked for more loving and supportive people to call Mom and Dad. Thank you for showing me what it means to live with an open heart and open mind, and for encouraging me to chase after my dreams. Any achievement to my name is not mine, but ours. None of this would have been possible without you.
I am overwhelmed with gratitude for my grandparents, Maya and Aninda Chakravarti and Surjit and Bikkar Lalli, whose sacrifice and bravery brought our families to Canada. Thank you for instilling in us the values of our culture, while supporting us when we chose our own path. Thank you Nani, for your grace, love, and selflessness; Dadima, for your generosity and laughter; Papaji, for teaching us strength and kindness; and my gentle and loving Dadu, who is with me in spirit every single day.
Thank you to my brother Jay Lalli, for challenging me to be my best self; my sister Anju Sohal, for teaching me about the real world; our baby sister Georgia Lalli, for your unconditional love; my new sister Heather Lalli, for bringing so much joy into our family; my lovely Buaji, Meena Lalli, for your patience and everything you do for our family; and my uncle Baljit Lalli, for your kindhearted and free spirit.
A huge thanks to my brilliant agents Federica Leonardis and Martha Webb for your insight, perseverance, and for believing in this book as much as I did. Thank you to my fantastic editor, Kerry Donovan, and her colleagues at Berkley for your enthusiasm and support, and also to Katie Seaman and Orion Books for publishing the UK edition of this book.
Many thanks to Kathleen Grissom for a telephone conversation that changed my life and taught me that a woman from Saskatchewan can be a writer; to my City, University of London creative writing tutors, gurus, and friends Clare Allan, Julie Wheelwright, Lesley Downer, Bea Pantoja, Stephanie Reddaway, and Lin Soekoe; and to my mentors in both life and the law, Terry Zakreski, Ken Norman, and Dwight Newman.
I am very grateful to Saskatoon’s wonderful Indian community, who have been my second family, and to my earliest readers and dear friends, Annie MacDonald, Beshmi Kularatne, Sasha Kisin, Sofie Riise, Crystal Robertson, Qi Jiang
, Anusha Jegadeesh, Kanika Sharma, Nick Vassos, Liz Miazga, Fafa Ahiahonu, Stephanie Hernandez, Mike Fowler—and of course Raina Upadhyay, my heroine’s namesake.
Finally, I want to thank my husband, Simon Collinson, for putting up with me through all the highs and lows of this process. You have brought balance into my life and have believed in me through every twist and turn. Thank you for sharing this experience with me.
BOYS FOR MY RAINA
Sachin—Reetu’s son in Scarborough, some kind of doctor—birthday lunch??
Jagmohan—Pinky’s nephew in Jodhpur (visiting Canada this summer?)—but may be looking for immigration
Jayesh—Sharon’s cousin, science professor at university . . . divorced!!!
Rohit—Sarla’s nephew, lawyer in Boston
Arjun—Sonia’s son, pediatrician, probably will want to have babies soon!
Vishal—Bengali boy, also likes business things— but may be too short
Rahul—Sarla’s physiotherapist, says he very good-looking boy ☺
ONE
Nani opened the front door as I was still crossing the lawn. Her nose twitching, she looked me up and down as I forced myself up the steps.
“Is that what you’re wearing?”
I shrugged and glanced down at my weekend jeans, my favorite checked shirt. It’s what I always wore home during one of my weekly visits, but I supposed today wasn’t an ordinary day.
I was twenty-nine today, and walking into an ambush.
“I was hoping you would dress up, nah? We have guest.”
A guest. A guest implied a cup of chai and a tray of sweets quickly defrosted from the Deepfreeze. A guest was small talk, compliments, gossip.
A guest was not an unannounced blind date chaperoned by your grandmother.
“What kind of guest?” I asked evenly, deciding not to tell her that my best friend, Shay, had already warned me about the blind date. Nani didn’t answer the question, clucking her tongue as I bent over and brushed a kiss on the top of her head. She smelled the way she always smelled, like cocoa butter and roasted cumin. A touch of garlic. She stepped back and continued her evaluation, her tiny fingers pinching at the fleshy part of her chin as I kicked off my shoes.
“Find something more suitable.” She flicked her hand up the staircase, and I bounded up the stairs to the second floor, knowing full well there was nothing nicer in my old room. Too-large T-shirts from summer camps and music festivals where my favorite band that year had headlined. Jogging pants, the type with black or white snaps running up the leg. My old trumpet.
It was odd how little of me I kept here. But of all the places I’d lived since moving out—a dumpy apartment with Shay; a shared flat in London; and now, a new condo with my name on the mortgage—it was this house that I’d always considered home. I heard Nani calling, her voice staccato and sweet, and I ran a brush through my hair and then made my way back downstairs.
She looked up at me expectantly. “Nothing?”
“All my clothes are downtown.”
She arched her brows. “Anything in guest room?”
Again, I shook my head. Mom’s old room. Starch white walls and a beige linen duvet, not a trace of her left in the closet. Nani sighed as I reached the bottom step, evaluating my outfit one last time. And then she shrugged, squeezed my hand, and said, “Still my pretty girl. Even in that.”
Anywhere Nani lived would always be home.
I tucked in my shirt and followed her through the kitchen, ducking my head beneath the crossbeam as we took the eight steps down to the lower level. To the “entertaining room,” as Nani called it: orange corduroy couches wrapped stiffly in plastic; the walls packed with street art bought for a few hundred lire on my grandparents’ one trip abroad; Lord Ganesh presiding on the mantel, a choir of porcelain Siamese cats chiming in unison. And our guest stood at the room’s rapturous center, awkwardly in place, his dark brown skin the same shade as the varnish on the wood paneling.
“Raina,” said Nani, clutching my wrist. “Meet Sachin.” She dragged me closer until the top of his forehead was square to my mouth, and I tried to ignore the dull sensation in my belly. He looked vaguely familiar. Perhaps someone I’d known as a child, or seen in the stack of pictures Nani had started leaving on the kitchen table. He was quite short, albeit symmetrical—handsome even. He smiled and brought his palms together at his chest, bowing slightly to both of us.
“Hello, Raina,” he said, like my name was a word he’d invented.
“Hi.”
“Sachin drove far to come for your birthday lunch.”
“It’s your birthday?” His face stiffened. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“No intrusion, dear.” She pinched his cheek. “My Raina and I are so happy you joined. Nah, Raina?”
I nodded.
“Raina is such a good girl. Always coming home from her busy job to take care of her nani.” She gasped and turned to me. “Sachin is a busy man, too. Raina, did you know he is doctor?”
“No, I didn’t.” I turned to him. “My best friend is a doc—”
“I’m a cardiologist, actually.” He glanced away. “To be more precise.”
I clamped down on my lower lip. Precise, or just plain arrogant?
“Subspecialized at Columbia,” he said.
“Mhm.” I tried not to roll my eyes. “Is that right?”
He nodded, fingering his wristwatch. “Diverse city. Beautiful campus. One of the top programs in the country—world, even. Some might say.”
“I think I’ve heard of Columbia.” I folded my arms across my chest. “Is that in Cleveland?”
“Actually, New York—”
“And you’re the kind of doctor that cleans teeth, right?”
Nani jabbed me on the arm, and I tried not to laugh.
“No, no. It’s—”
“Cardio-logist. Oh! You’re a sports doctor.”
He shifted from side to side. “Actually, cardiac electrophysiology is a—”
Nani clucked her tongue, waving him off. “Don’t listen to her. She’s a silly one, my Raina.” She wrapped her arms around my waist as if she were a coconspirator in the charade.
“Oh,” said Sachin.
Evidently, they didn’t teach sarcasm at Columbia.
“Dear,” Nani said, turning to Sachin. “Would you like chai before lunch?”
“Chai sounds lovely, Auntie.”
She waddled up the stairs, leaving me alone with him, and I sat down on one of the couches, the plastic screeching beneath me as I settled onto the cushion. Sachin joined me a moment later, his legs spread so wide he was nearly touching me. To my dismay, he actually smelled pretty good: the way rich men tended to smell, like Dev used to smell. An understated potency that still dominated the entire room.
“Your nani is very sweet,” he said after a moment.
“She’s the best.”
“What’s her name again?”
“Belinda.”
“Oh.”
I looked straight ahead, deadpan, trying not to look at him out of the corner of my eye.
“Is that . . . Bengali?”
“No,” I sighed. “Her name is Suvali.”
“But, you just said—”
“It was a joke.”
“A joke, right”—he let out a stiff laugh—“good one.”
Growing up, everyone just referred to family friends as “auntie” or “uncle,” but I still felt mildly offended on Nani’s behalf that he didn’t even know her name. I reclined slightly on the couch, and stared straight ahead. Lord Ganesh—eyes, trunk, and all—stared right back.
Upstairs, I could hear Nani bustling around in the kitchen. She would be setting out her favorite teacups on the silver tray Nana had bought her as a wedding present, placing teaspoons equally spaced along the paper napki
ns—garish, a bold red and gold—that she’d once bought in bulk at a discount store going out of business. Fifty packages for a five-dollar bill.
“Raina, hey, listen,” Sachin said after a while.
“Yes?”
He played with his rounded fingernails, picking beneath them. “I really hate to ruin your birthday, but—”
“You have to go?” I asked, a little too eagerly.
“No.” He flashed me a smile, two rows of square white teeth. “Don’t worry. I’ll stay for lunch. But I would hate to mislead you on my intentions.” He looked up at me quickly, and then back at the floor. “I’m not interested.”
“That’s fi—”
“You seem like a really nice girl, Raina. Really nice. And I don’t mean to hurt you.” He sighed again. “I’m just not in that place, you know? I’m not ready for the kind of commitment that our families—that you—seem to be after.”
I bit my tongue. The only thing I was after was for him to leave.
“I know, I know.” He stood up and paced in front me, his hands partially shoved into his pockets. “I’m a doctor, I get it. The biology of it all just isn’t fair. It’s harder for women. More pressure after they—uh—reach a certain age?”
I let out a deep, writhing sigh. “It’s so hard.”
“And your nani finding you a single doctor is—” He paused and looked me dead in the eye. “Well, it’s the dream, isn’t it?”
A dream? More like a nightmare.
“But really, Raina, you seem like a nice girl.” He knelt down in front of me and petted my knee. “Really nice. And I’m sure you will find someone—soon.”
I resisted the urge to tell him what I really thought of him, and studied him as he crouched at my feet. Sachin was the definition of the man Shay and I had spent so many years avoiding: the Westernized Indian. The one who used to be captain of the chess club or math team, and although brutalized for it in high school, now threw out the stereotypes about his culture as an anecdote to make the C-cups and hair extensions laugh as he chivalrously paid for their drinks. He was the archetype who watched sports and drank beer, had the uncanny ability to mock his father’s accent, yet would still want his wife to learn how to make curry the way his mother did. He was the hybrid of east and west; the immigrant mentality distilled and harnessed, his arrogance the forgivable by-product of ambition.