“Simi, I love your bangles!” Jassi says, stopping by our table. She’s super nice but belongs to a trio of girls who keep mostly to themselves. “I love your mehendi, too! I can do basic designs, but yours are unique.”
I grin, flattered. “Thank you!”
“You’re starting a trend, Simi,” Noah says as Jassi hurries to her usual table.
“I’m just being me,” I say. “Like we talked about.”
“Which reminds me—” he begins, but I cut him off.
“Don’t start!”
“Give matching a chance,” he persists. “Think it through.”
He’s not going to let this go. When it comes to making a mark on our school—on the world—I’ve got my art. Noah wants more. It’s not as if he’s starving for popularity, but he does want people at Mayfield to like him, and I get that. Everyone wants to be noticed. And I think he wants a boyfriend. If he thinks a matching app is the way to go, then what’s the harm in playing with the idea? What’s the harm in us doing something together? “Everyone deserves a love story” is what Nanima always told me.
“Okay,” I say. “If you make a list of pros and cons, I’ll consider it.”
He grins. “Done.”
chapter six
Mom leaves me a note to come to her office after school. I gulp down the tea she left on the counter and grab a bag of salty, spicy namkeen—lip-smacking chickpea chips—to snack on as I make my way to the far side of the house.
Mom and Masi’s business, Shagun Matchmaking, has its own wing. There’s a separate entrance with its own parking spaces. Inside, there are two offices (one for Mom and one for Masi); a powder room; a little kitchenette complete with a mini-fridge, kettle, and sink; and a sitting area with lots of comfy couches and chairs. A matrimonial consultation sometimes involves the entire family, and you have to make everyone feel at home. There’s also a large screen mounted on the wall that Mom and Masi can hook up to a laptop for video consultations. These days, there are nearly as many online consultations as in-person ones.
“Mom, I’m here,” I say.
“Shhh!” Mom puts a finger to her lips and waves her phone in the air. She’s wrapped in her wool shawl despite the warm September sun spilling into the room. She’s definitely talking to someone on the auntie/beta network. These are not just your regular aunties-next-door, plugged into their network of family and friends, but also next-generation betas—mostly girls (and a few dudes) who have had good outcomes with Shagun and don’t mind passing along info about eligible singles in their professional circles.
“Beta, how were we to know that he was interested in someone else?” she says into the phone.
Lately the beta leads have been outperforming the auntie leads, according to Mom. But that means there’s a whole nother layer of nosy aunties-in-training to deal with when something goes wrong. “Even his parents didn’t know. And parents these days are so out of touch with their kids. That poor girl! Yes, please see if anyone you know through the Young Jains Association might be a good potential match for her, okay? East Coast, West Coast, doesn’t matter—the couple has to click,” she says into the phone. “Thanks so much. Bye-bye!”
I flop down in a nearby chair. “You wanted me?”
“How was your first day of school?”
“Fine.”
“Just fine? All that hoopla and shopping for just ‘fine.’”
“It was busy. Still processing the details. And I have homework.”
“Homework on the first day! Did you eat the namkeen and chai I left in the kitchen?”
“Yes, I still am.” I hold up the bag of namkeen for her to see. “Can I go now?”
“Not so fast,” she says. “I want to talk to you about working with me and Masi. You could start by sitting in on interviews and helping us file, no? If you’re listening in on video consultations, you don’t even have to be seen. Just listen and learn. You might be surprised.…”
“Do I get paid?”
“Paid?” Mom’s outraged. “You’re helping your family.”
“I’m being forced to do something I don’t want to do,” I point out.
Mom starts fussing in Punjabi.
“How about we offer you a stipend? A little money in addition to your allowance,” Masi says, popping in from the file room. I didn’t even realize she was here—or listening.
“Meera!” Mom says to her with a frown.
A stipend? The endless aisles of supplies at our local art store flash through my head.
“No, she’s right,” Masi says. “It’s not like when we started back in Delhi. This is America. Time is money.”
“Filing is hard work,” I add with a smile. “And listening to consultations is boring.” I wait for Mom’s counterargument, but she doesn’t say anything. “Wait, really?” I look to Mom for confirmation.
She shakes her head at first, then shrugs. “Theek hai, fine.”
Wow. Not bad for my first salary negotiation. As far as listening and absorbing what they do—I’ve been doing that all my life, so getting paid for it is a bonus. And filing can’t be worse than stocking retail shelves or working a cash register. Plus Nanima will be really psyched if I help out, and she’s my most favorite person in the world. I can’t wait for her and Nanoo to visit in October.
Masi winks at me; then the phone rings and she picks it up in her office.
“You’ll be responsible for all of the filing.” Mom waves a hand at the stack of folders on her desk. “I’ll email you our consultation schedule,” she adds. “Let’s start with a couple of in-person meetings. You have to dress professionally, and you can get us some tea—but without spilling everywhere.” Mom walks over to a glass cabinet filled with wedding invitations—souvenirs of their successes—and pulls out a book. “But before that, here’s your first assignment.”
The Shagun Matchmaking Guide. The thick red book is filled with three generations of matchmaking tips from all the vichole in our family. The cover is hand stitched and lined in red cloth, sort of like an old photo album.
“I’m out of copies of the guidelines.” Mom unwinds the book’s string and opens it carefully. “I want you to copy this for me. Write it out and make it nice. You have the best handwriting in the family.”
The book falls open to a well-worn page. The matchmaking guidelines are written in English, in Mom’s handwriting, but it’s a translation of the list on the adjacent page. That one is in Hindi, in Nanima’s handwriting. It seems the script changes several times, from Punjabi to Hindi and now to English.
“Mom, can you read all these scripts?” Besides English, I can read only a few sentences of Spanish.
“Yes, but my Punjabi and Hindi are rusty after twenty years here,” Mom says. “That’s why Meera Masi and I have made notes, with Nanima’s help. See here?” She points at penciled-in translations beneath the older notes.
The Shagun Matchmaking Guide, it says in large letters. Top tips for an auspicious match.
“Those are the bread-and-butter basics to ensure compatibility, but the real magic is in connecting people that have chemistry,” she says. She closes the book and hands it to me. “You don’t have to work on transcribing right away—homework first. Now come, let’s get dinner ready.”
I follow her and Masi into the kitchen. Noah’s on his way over to study, but I have a few minutes to help out. I open the fridge and grab a whole cauliflower. Then I gather potatoes, onions, and garlic.
“Chop-chop,” Masi says, taking the ingredients from me. “Do your homework at the table so you can taste my parathas before dinner. I just kneaded the atta.”
“Parathas are my favorite.”
“I know,” she replies with a wink.
The doorbell rings.
“Noah’s here,” I say, and hurry to the foyer to let him in.
“Did you think more about my idea?” he asks before I can even get the door open.
“A little, and shhh.” I pull him into the kitchen.
“Hi, Auntie! Hi, Masi!” he says.
“Hi, Noah dear,” Mom says, then turns back to peeling and slicing potatoes.
We settle down at the table to work. I have math, English, and art homework. Way to start sophomore year.
Mom and Masi sound busy, too. “Did you pull the files for the Chaudhary boy?” Masi says, frowning over her onions as Mom shakes her head. “His consultation is at nine tomorrow.”
“I thought you did that yesterday,” Mom says. “That auntiji’s expectations are ridiculous. She wants a doctor who cooks and cleans.”
“Did you read the file? The boy needs the opposite! This is going to be a mess.” Masi sighs as she rolls out dough for the parathas. “Maybe it’s time to expand the computerization, choti. It might be worth trying to have people fill out the profiles themselves on the computer so we don’t have to handwrite everything. Then we can note the responses that are different in the consultation.”
“But the machines make everything so impersonal,” Mom says. “It’s hard to get good answers when people are inputting yes/no on a computer screen. And it’s not our tradition.”
Noah nudges me and makes a face.
“None of this is really traditional, is it? We’re not in India anymore,” Masi says as she flips over a paratha, slathering it with ghee. The buttery scent of the frying dough makes my mouth water.
“What made your mother become a matchmaker, Auntie?” Noah asks.
I kick him under the table. He just had to ask them more about matchmaking. He’s obsessed.
“Ow,” he mutters, and glares at me.
“Partition,” Masi says, setting one of the hot parathas down in front of Noah and me to share. We rip it apart and shovel it down. “That’s what made our grandmother finally get into the family business.”
“Partition?” Noah asks through a mouthful of paratha. “What’s that?”
“The division of undivided India into India and Pakistan in 1947. After the borders were drawn by the British—they really made a mess of things—families became refugees overnight.” Little frown lines appear on Masi’s face, and her eyes water. “And those were the lucky ones! So many people died in the riots. Millions!”
“The community networks collapsed,” Mom explains. “Networks people depended on to arrange matches, to continue family lines, to find happiness. People didn’t know who to trust to set up marriages for young people anymore.”
“But in the refugee camps in New Delhi, people remembered that we were vichole,” Masi adds. “People came to Nanima’s mother for help. People trusted her. No one with bad habits, or a history of mistreating their daughters-in-law, ever came through her. Only good families and decent boys. It was like community service.”
“What about Nanima? By then everything must have settled down, right? Why did she continue the business?” I ask, but the minute the words are out, I regret showing interest.
“There were a lot of demands on the girl’s side then.” Masi gives a shudder. “People wanted a dowry and gold and cars and uff!”
“What’s a dowry?” Noah asks.
“Gifts and money the girl’s family gives to the boy’s family to accept their daughter,” Masi says. “It’s ridiculous and it’s illegal.”
“Don’t get her started on how Nanima threatened greedy clients with the Dowry Prohibition Act of 1961.” I roll my eyes, though I’m secretly proud of Nanima. “If you ask me, they should pay the girl’s family.”
“No, that just makes people marry their girls off to the groom with the biggest price,” Mom says. “Money should stay out of marriage; that’s what I say. In any case, Nanima made sure there was never money involved in the matches she made.” Mom’s pride in Nanima warms her voice. “No greedy families ever found brides for their sons through her. She thought of it as her calling, once she got over her doubts.”
I never knew Nanima had doubts about being a vicholi. I wonder what Noah thinks of it all. Here, things are totally different. You meet, fall in love, fall out of love, fall in love again, maybe get married. In India, everyone is involved—from grandmothers to neighborhood aunties to your dad’s business partner’s third cousin. And the stakes are high because divorce is usually not an option, though that’s changing now.
“Nanima and her mother helped rebuild the community, in a way,” Mom says. “Even today people thank Nanima for bringing their families together. That’s the legacy of Shagun Matchmaking.”
“All right, enough with the history lesson,” I grumble, then feel a pang of regret at the hurt on Mom’s face. I soften my tone. “Noah and I have to finish our homework.”
“This is more interesting than French, honestly,” Noah says. “Do you think things are changing in India now?”
Mom smiles at him. “Things are changing everywhere. People will always be looking for a good match, but now what they want is more complicated. Some people want to take their time to commit, not like before, when it was chat mangni, pat vyah.”
“Like a really short engagement?” Noah guesses.
Mom nods. “Now sometimes we get a wedding card a year or two after we introduce a couple. As long as everyone is happy. We’re just trying our best… but what happens after us, Simi…” Mom’s voice trails off. “That’s the question.”
“Mom! I already said I’d help you.”
Noah beams with pride. “Simi’s going to make a great matchmaker.”
I flash him the look of death. Not now! I mouth at him.
Sorry, he mouths back with an apologetic head tilt.
I’m so going to kill him later.
Common sense can help judge the suitability of a match. Ask yourself: Do they agree on what’s right, what’s important, and… what’s funny?
—THE SHAGUN MATCHMAKING GUIDE
chapter seven
Up in my room, Noah and I print out our finished homework assignments. Then he hits me with his many reasons why we should become Mayfield High matchmakers: We have talent we can use for the greater good, matchmaking at school could help me decide if I want to be a matchmaker for real, fixing Navdeep’s Shagun app will slash Mom and Masi’s workload. And, most importantly, Noah says: “We want to matter.”
“Okay,” I say. “What about the cons?”
“Well, we might make some bad matches. We might get haters. And also, there’s a chance we could get into trouble. But the risk is totally worth it—I bet we’ll become popular, Simi.”
I consider, still wavering, because popularity? Eh. Haters? No thanks. “What if we go for it, but wait a bit before taking credit?” I say. “Just in case it’s a disaster.”
Noah rolls his eyes. “Wait? No! We should bask in the glory.”
“Baby steps,” I say. “Or I’m not doing it. In fact, I think we should sleep on it.”
He’s disappointed, but he lets it go with a grumbled “Fine.”
Maybe he’s right, though. Maybe we do need to do something big, something that’ll leave a stamp on Mayfield, like matchmaking.
But if I had my way, my art would be enough.
The following day at lunch, I can’t help but notice Suraj. He’s at the table where the robotics team sits. The usual suspects are there—Marcus, Rebecca, Navdeep, and a few others.
Suraj grins when he catches me staring.
Again.
He’s wearing an untucked plaid shirt over jeans with hipster glasses, giving off a preppy vibe. He waves. I turn away quickly.
“Hang on,” Noah says after swallowing a fry. “I saw that. Do you suddenly know him?”
Noah’s been sneaking looks at Connor, who’s sitting a few tables down from ours.
“Not even a little bit,” I say, focusing on my food.
“He looks like he knows you,” Noah says.
“Nope.”
“He keeps glancing over here.”
“I’ve never even talked to him,” I say, squirming. He’s quizzing me like an old auntie trying to make a match at the gurdwara.
/> “Maybe he’s into you. I swear, he’s looked over here, like, a dozen times.”
“Maybe he knows I’m Navdeep’s sister.” I shrug, because that could be a reasonable explanation, too. “Don’t stare, or he’ll think you’re into him!”
“He’s not my type,” Noah says, his shoulders bunching up around his ears. He peeks down the row to where Connor’s sitting and mumbles, “You should know better.”
Oh, boy—Noah’s definitely got a crush!
I give him a break until a few minutes later, when Connor grabs his backpack and leaves the lunchroom. Noah’s shoulders relax a little, and I take my chance.
“You could talk to him, you know. You guys have class together—that’s an easy opener. Ditch me for a lunch period and sit with him. Or ask him to join us.”
“I have.” Noah waves a hand, gesturing to the cafeteria at large. “But, you know, everyone sticks to their cliques around here. Soccer players in that corner, cheerleaders over there, robotics in the front, band geeks, mathletes, cross-country runners, theater nerds. I don’t even know where Connor would fit in, but it doesn’t really matter.”
“Nanima said something like that once,” I remember. I hear her voice, soft and lilting, in my head: Perfect matches may pass each other by without ever noticing, like ships in the night. It is the matchmaker’s place to create the moment when they truly see each other.
“Wonder who we’re missing out on,” Noah says. There’s something vulnerable in his voice that I haven’t heard before. “Kind of depressing, when you think about it.”
“Hey, you okay?” I ask, taking his hand.
He shrugs. “Have you thought about the matchmaking app? Like, seriously? Because I really think we should do it. Worst case, we’ll get a certain reputation or whatever. Still better than being invisible.”
“I like who I am,” I say. Except maybe my clumsiness, but that’s a charming flaw, right? “Or at least I’m trying to.”
“So do I,” Noah says. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t want more. And I seriously think we’d be doing this school a service. Think about it. Most of the people we know are single. But there has to be someone out there for everyone.” His wistfulness makes me wonder if he’s talking about himself. And Connor. “People are scared to branch out. We can help them take the first step.”
A Match Made in Mehendi Page 5