The Marriage Clock

by Zara Raheem

  And while it was true that my own belief in love had somewhat fluctuated over the years, there was still no way I could bring myself to abandon my long-held fantasies of a Bollywood love story and agree to an arranged marriage. Besides, I was perfectly content being single for the time being. Was there still a part of me that shared their hopes of my one day being married? Sure, but I needed to go through the process in a way that didn’t involve my parents or their ridiculous color-coded portfolio. Whether I would ever experience love or not, who knew? But the mere possibility of it was enough to convince me to reject my parents’ offer. And once I came to this conclusion, I knew that there was nothing they could say or do to make me change my mind.

  Never Say Never

  The weeks following my decision were trying ones, to say the least. My parents—particularly my mother—did not take my refusal well, and she made certain I felt the gravity of her disappointment.

  “Ammi, can you pass the sugar?” I asked at breakfast one morning, pouring myself a cup of chai.

  My mother pushed the sugar jar in my direction, her eyes refusing to meet mine.

  “The eggs are extra creamy today,” I raved, taking a generous bite. It was a cheap move, but I knew how much she enjoyed compliments.

  Silence.

  My father cleared his throat, darting discomfited glances from my mother to me. “Yes, jaan, the eggs are very tasty.”

  “Thank you.” My mother turned to him, smiling sweetly. “It’s nice to know someone appreciates what I do.”

  “I believe I’m the one who said they were creamy,” I said, lifting my hand.

  My mother rolled her eyes and scooped more eggs onto my father’s plate.

  “I was thinking I might go out tonight with a friend. Would that be okay?”

  More silence.

  I looked over at my father. He gave me a helpless shrug.

  “So you’re just not going to talk to me?” I eventually blurted. My mother looked at me, her mouth slightly agape.

  “Jaan,” she finally said, her voice slow yet firm. “Would you please tell your daughter that if she has not reconsidered our offer, then I have nothing to say?”

  This time, I rolled my eyes. My mother could try to guilt me as much as she wanted; my mind had been made up. I had no intentions of reconsidering. In fact, I felt quite confident with my decision . . . or so I thought.

  I tried to ignore my mother’s silence, but less than a month in, I suddenly started seeing signs of love and marriage everywhere. Whether it was a HAPPINESS IS MARRIAGE bumper sticker, a two-for-one couples discount at the local diner, or the obnoxiously incessant “Love Your Spouse” challenges on my social media feed, it was as if my mother had convinced the universe to conspire against me. Like they had combined powers and joined together to put nazr on my new independent self. How could I fight against two such powerful forces? And if that alone wasn’t bad enough, when an acne-riddled sixteen-year-old accidentally addressed me as “Mrs.” in the school cafeteria, I finally decided to concede to my fate.

  “I’ll do it,” I said to my mother at breakfast the following morning.

  She dipped a piece of cake rusk into her teacup and remained silent.

  “Ammi, I’ll let you arrange my marriage.” As soon as the last of these words left my mouth, I knew there was no turning back. If someone had happened to walk into our kitchen at that exact moment, they probably would have thought my mother had just won the California Lottery from the look on her face. Her eyes were sparkling, and she was grinning from ear to ear like a deranged maniac. It was practically the same expression she had every time there was a “buy one, get one free” sale on basmati rice at the Indian grocery.

  “Oh, Leila!” she shrieked excitedly as she leaned over the table to give me a hug. “You have made your mother so very happy,” she said, pressing me into her neck.

  “Okay, okay,” I said, trying to pry her body off my face.

  “All right.” She clasped her hands together. “First things first. We must create your bio-data.”

  I groaned.

  “Leila!” she exclaimed. “What do you expect me to send when people ask for your information?”

  “I don’t know. Can’t you just tell them to do a Google stalk—I mean, search—like everyone else?” My mother shot me an unamused look. “Besides,” I grumbled, “haven’t you already collected a whole stack of applications in your portfolio thingy?”

  “No, no, no.” She shook her head back and forth. “Those were just some sent to me here and there. But we must now do this the proper way.” She looked at me, her eyes gleaming with anticipation.

  The thought of my bio-data making its rounds through the Muslimverse made me slightly queasy. I could already imagine the sea of judgmental aunties, their writhing tentacles picking apart every single detail from my weight to my skin color to my career choices. My stomach seething, I opened my mouth to take it all back, but the words didn’t dare escape my tongue. After weeks of the silent treatment, my irrational desires to please my mother clouded my better judgment. It was the curse of the Indian daughter. How could I have the heart to take away her excitement now? I sank into my chair. “Fine. Why don’t I just email you my résumé? Better yet, I’ll send you my CV.”

  “Great!” my mother exclaimed, completely unfazed by my lack of enthusiasm. As she got up to finish cooking breakfast, I debated whether I was doing the right thing by handing so much power to my mother, of all people. Since it was too soon to tell, I quelled my doubts by reassuring myself that if all else failed, it might at least buy me some time to discover love on my own while my parents scoured the western region for a husband for me. Just because I had agreed to an arrangement didn’t mean I actually had to go through with it. I could just give them the illusion of power; give them some time to live out their lifelong dreams of doing the one thing they were explicitly born to do—control my life—while I continued a separate search for my own Bollywood romance. I tried to convince myself that this would be a win-win situation, but as I watched my mother cheerily chopping onions for my Spanish omelet with that maniacal grin on her face, I couldn’t help but wonder if the only deranged person in that kitchen was me.

  * * *

  “So we hear you are in your final year of residency at County General. How do you like it?” my mother asked as she spooned an extra-generous serving of vegetable pilaf onto Anwar’s plate.

  My mother had been slaving away all afternoon preparing the menu for tonight’s dinner. Given the immaculate array of fancy copperware filled with vegetarian and non-veg curries, spiced lentils, aromatic saffron rice, soft oven-baked flatbreads, a side of cucumber yogurt, and a variety of pickles and vegetables, the dining table looked as if it were set for the prime minister of India himself. My parents were dressed in their traditional best on either side of me, while I was conveniently seated directly across the table from my potential husband. Next to him were his parents, the Rehmans, along with Mr. and Mrs. Dhakkar, longtime acquaintances of my parents who were the ones responsible for this awkward matchmaking. While I carefully nudged a neat pile of pilaf from one side of my plate to the other, I wondered if I was the only one who thought it was strange to be on a first date with my parents and four of their friends.

  I pondered the incommodiousness of my situation during Anwar’s monotonous description of the “fascinating” ins and outs of being a chief medical resident at the sixth-largest hospital in the state. As the sound of his voice gradually faded into a dull drone, I found myself carefully examining his physical features—in between lowered gazes, of course. His dark eyes were deeply set behind thick square-rimmed glasses, and framed beneath broad, unkempt eyebrows. His wide, rectangular forehead was starkly accentuated by the horizontal sweep of his wavy black hair. I noticed his long hooked nose, tanned skin, narrow lips, and receding chin —A clear indication of a nonassertive personality, I thought. Although he was not entirely unattractive, his stiff demeanor visibly lacked the natur
al charisma to which I was typically drawn. As I watched him nervously adjust the starched collar of his peach-colored button-down shirt, I mentally crossed #46: SEXY off my list.

  I must have gotten lost in my thoughts because the next thing I knew, my mother was clearing the table while my father was carrying in a large platter of creamy rice pudding topped with golden raisins and chopped pistachios and almonds. I leaned over to pour myself a bowl of kheer—my all-time favorite dessert—thinking that this evening might have a silver lining after all. That is, until my father tapped me on the arm and said, “Leila, beti, why don’t you take Anwar into your room so you two can chat for a bit.”

  I stared with my mouth open. This was the same man who had refused to let me date, attend school dances, or receive phone calls from all members of the opposite gender until the age of eighteen; my ears were having a difficult time processing the words that were actually being spoken. The only explanation for why my father would ever ask his only daughter to escort a man—whom she had just met only two hours earlier—into the privacy of her bedroom so they could “chat” was that my mother’s absurd logic had finally rubbed off on him. I remembered countless teenage arguments with my mother over why it was haram to wear tank tops during the uncomfortably hot west coast summers, yet entirely halal to attend public cultural functions in form-fitting saris that exposed my entire midriff through the thin chiffon fabrics. And though I had grown accustomed to her irrational ways over the years, my father had always been the one person I could rely on to keep things sane. Until now.

  I reluctantly led Anwar down the hallway toward my lavender-walled bedroom. Before stepping inside, he politely excused himself so he could wash up. The hallway bathroom was situated directly across from my bedroom, and I noticed that he left the bathroom door slightly ajar. My curiosity quickly got the better of me, and I found myself watching as he meticulously rolled up each sleeve of his button-down and slowly yet thoroughly rubbed water over his arms all the way to the elbows. Then he grabbed the soap and carefully scrubbed each forearm in a circular motion before rinsing off the lather. It was almost as if he was getting ready to prep me for surgery. I shuddered at the thought. I was pretty sure that OBSESSIVE and COMPULSIVE were two qualities I had not mentioned on my list; however, I did not have much time to reflect on these thoughts because before I knew it, Anwar was making his way directly across the hall and into my room.

  He walked around my bedroom silently, studying the various objects that were scattered across the floor and shelves—piles and piles of books, a stack of essays that had yet to be graded, old high school yearbooks, trophies from various tennis matches and the spelling bee I won in the fourth grade, and a wide assortment of picture frames highlighting special memories such as the spring break I spent in Cancún with my college roommates five years ago. When he finally finished his thorough examination of the contents of my room, he slowly made his way to the edge of my bed and sat down next to me.

  We both stared uncomfortably at the purple wall in front of us, the slow ticking of the wall clock becoming louder with each passing second. I started to think about what my parents could have found appealing about him. I mean, it was true that on paper, he was exactly the kind of guy they would want me to be with—a star student who had gotten into medical school; came from a respectable family; and, most importantly, did everything his parents expected—including agreeing to participate in this old-fashioned matrimonial process. However, it seemed highly unlikely that Anwar had dated many girls in the past. My parents probably saw his lack of experience as a sign of decent values and traditions, but I saw it as yet another cultural flaw. As awkward as he was, I couldn’t really blame him. Until I moved away for college, the only conversations I was allowed to have with boys involved homework or smack talk on the tennis courts. It was no wonder that most South Asian men and women were far more stunted when it came to social interactions of these kinds. We were taught our whole lives to avoid any specimen of the opposite sex like the plague; yet the instant we reached a “marriageable” age, we were suddenly expected to skip the whole dating process and go directly into lifelong commitment. It was probably unreasonable of me to expect Anwar to know how to “woo” a woman when the only girls he had probably ever talked to were ones he was related to.

  If this conversation was going to go anywhere, I had to figure out a way to get the ball rolling. So when the silence finally became unbearable, I turned to Anwar and asked him what kinds of things he did for fun. He looked at me and furrowed his bushy eyebrows, which up close seemed to be magnified behind the thick lenses of his glasses. I could tell by his expression that I had already lost him at the word fun. “Let me rephrase,” I said, trying not to let my discomfort show. “What do you do when you’re not working?”

  “Well,” he began in that same monotonous tone, “the life of a medical resident is quite intense. When I’m not at work, the majority of my time is spent studying and reviewing terms and procedures, filling out paperwork, and catching up on my beauty sleep.” He chuckled and pushed back his glasses. I smiled politely and mentally crossed #4: SENSE OF HUMOR off the list. It was becoming apparent that the qualities my parents found appealing in Anwar didn’t share the same order of importance as the ones on my list. While most American women, like myself, considered a sense of humor to be an important aspect of determining compatibility, South Asian parents felt this trait was far less significant in comparison to a groom’s profession or height.

  “I also enjoy watching medical dramas,” Anwar continued.

  “Medical dramas?”

  “Yes, like Grey’s Anatomy, ER, and Scrubs.”

  I looked at him quizzically. “So even your hobbies are somehow related to work,” I stated rather than asked.

  He grinned. “I mean, I’m sure you’re the same. Aren’t you thinking about your students all the time?”

  I thought for a moment. Typically, when that two thirty bell rang, I jetted out of my classroom at full speed—sometimes even knocking over a student or two in the process. I liked my job an acceptable amount, but once the school day ended, work was the last thing on my mind.

  “Well, I wouldn’t say all the time,” I finally said. I found it odd that Anwar was so obsessed, for lack of a better word, with his job. He seemed so sheltered. Completely caught up in his own little bubble. I wondered if he even had room in his life for anything other than work.

  “Hmm” was all he said as he rested his index finger against his chin and frowned. The silence indicated that he was just as confused by my response as I was by his.

  After a few more awkward, uncomfortable minutes, I remembered that it was my job to carry the dreadful conversation, so I said, “Surely you must have some questions for me?”

  “Yes, of course,” he replied hesitantly. “I’ve actually been quite curious about your family history.”

  “Oh, really?” I said, surprised. I was expecting that he might be more curious to learn about me before delving into my family; however, I figured it was at least a good sign that he was showing some interest in something other than his profession.

  “So, let’s see. I’m an only child,” I began, “however, I do have a ton of cousins and relatives . . . well, you’re Indian, so I’m sure you can relate . . .”

  “Actually,” he interrupted, “I meant more like your family medical history.”

  “Huh?”

  “Are there any medical problems in your family? Like cancer, heart disease, high blood pressure, chronic flatulence?”

  “Um,” I replied, trying to ignore the fact that he’d just mentioned flatulence in my presence. “I suppose none of the above. Although I do have an uncle on my dad’s side who is known to spit excessively when he talks. I don’t know if that’s considered a medical problem, but he should definitely get that checked out.”

  “I see,” he said, clearly not amused by my lack of seriousness. “So what about you? Do you have any allergies or conditions?”


  “Conditions? Oh God, not that I know of. Why, what did you hear?” I asked, feigning concern. While I suffered from bouts of intermittent asthma, I figured it was in my best interest to withhold any information that might cause Anwar alarm.

  “Nothing. Well, what about your habits? Do you smoke, drink, or partake in any . . . uh, how shall I phrase this . . . recreational drugs?” he asked, shooting a quick glance toward my spring break photo collage. Although I was not as religiously conservative as my parents, I did manage to steer clear of cigarettes and alcohol. The cigarettes were primarily due to my mild asthmatic symptoms, and the alcohol owed to a single incident back in college when I accidentally downed two bottles of Mike’s hard lemonade during a barbecue and ended up vomiting for thirty-six consecutive hours. If that was my punishment for going against the religious teachings imparted on me in Sunday school, then it worked, because any desire I once had to drink instantly disappeared after that weekend. In terms of recreational drugs, aside from the snorts of Flonase I was known to inhale every now and then, most of my activities were pretty halal.

  “No.” I rolled my eyes, not willing to provide any further explanation. This was definitely not going in the direction I had expected. At this rate, it would only be a matter of time before Anwar asked me about my next menstrual cycle. If there was ever a place for an out, this was it.

  “Maybe we should make our way back to the living room,” I suggested as graciously as I could.

  “Oh, but I still have a few more questions for you,” Anwar replied eagerly.

  “As much fun as I’ve had with this brief consultation, I think that’s about all the questions my insurance covers.” I smiled. “Besides, I think the other six members of our date might be waiting for us,” I added, feeling a sense of relief as I finally saw him get up. I shut the bedroom door behind us, and we made our way down the hall. I couldn’t help but think that if this was the caliber of potential grooms available, then this process was definitely going to be a lot more painful than I had predicted. What had I gotten myself into?