by Zara Raheem
Anyone who knows Bollywood music knows that most classic love songs are sung as duets between two enamored lovers. This means there’s always a guy’s part and a girl’s part. However, that gender constraint didn’t stop Omar; as soon as he finished the third verse of the song, he seamlessly transitioned into the girl’s part, passionately singing his heart out to the man of his dreams. While I could feel the stares continue to pierce through every layer of my skin, I sat there silently, plotting all the different ways I could murder Hannah for this godawful date she had set me up on.
When Omar finally finished, I didn’t know whether to clap or run, although I was leaning more toward the latter. Instead, I gave him an embarrassed smile and thanked him for his “performance,” relieved that the horror was over.
“So? What did you think of my voice?” Omar asked earnestly, wiping beads of sweat off his forehead with a white napkin.
“What do you mean?” I replied, feeling grateful that we were at least back to talking rather than singing.
“I mean, my tone and pitch. How would you rate them?”
Rate them? Is this guy for real? I’d thought the worst was over, but now he wanted me to critique him? This was definitely not how I pictured my Indian fairy tale panning out. I had imagined me + Akshay Kumar + quaint European village + romantic song + dancing elephants. Instead, I got guy with too much gel + weirded-out looks + tone-deaf singer + a lifetime ban from ever stepping foot into this bistro again.
I stumbled through a few generic compliments, and the remainder of the date was more or less a blur. Omar continued to talk—primarily about himself—and I pretended to listen while silently praying each time he opened his mouth that I would not be subjected to the remix version of his song. At the end of the date, we finally said our goodbyes, and I watched Omar pull away in his shiny red Audi S5 convertible—the shattered remnants of my Bollywood fantasy emanating from the trail of smoke he left behind.
Matchmaker, Matchmaker
“Leila, beti, can you come in here?” my mother called from the kitchen. “We need to talk about something.” My stomach dropped. I had spent the first half of my weekend recovering from my Bollywood nightmare, and despite the piles of papers that still needed to be graded, all I wanted to do was lie on the couch indulging in romantic comedies and wallowing over my failed love life. Whatever it was that my mother wanted to talk about, I just wasn’t in the mood.
“Ammi, what is it?” I yelled back from the couch. There was some shuffling in the kitchen and then footsteps. Finally, my mother appeared in the living room wearing a polka-dotted apron and holding a rolling pin in her hand. I picked up the remote and muted the TV.
“Leila, I know you wanted to find somebody on your own, but look at you.” She nodded her head toward my oversize T-shirt with holes in the armpits and my long black hair, rolled into a messy topknot. “It just doesn’t look like you’re off to a very good start.” My mother possessed a natural flair for capitalizing on my lowest moments.
I rolled down my sweatpants and picked a single Cheeto off my shirt—examining it thoroughly before placing it in my mouth. “What are you suggesting, Ammi?” I said, licking the orange powder from my fingers.
“Well, since you ask . . .” She smiled and pushed my legs aside, making herself comfortable next to me. “Do you remember Rubina aunty?”
I shook my head. In South Asian culture, any person who was middle-aged was automatically referred to as aunty or uncle. I remember from when I was a kid how confusing this was to my non-desi friends, who just assumed that all Indian people were somehow related to one another. As my parents’ circle of friends continued growing over the years, even I could hardly keep track of all the aunties and uncles rolling through.
“You remember,” my mother persisted. “We met her last Eid at Sharmila aunty’s house. She brought the lamb biryani?” I continued shaking my head. “The rice was slightly undercooked. It ruined the whole taste. Remember? She wore that beaded salwar kameez that looked terrible with her maroon lipstick. Remember?”
“Oh, yes, the maroon lipstick. I remember,” I said, rolling my eyes.
“Well,” she continued, my deception going unnoticed, “Rubina aunty’s daughter-in-law, Mariam, has that friend with the boy-cut hair. Well, her mother has a neighbor who is a dentist, Dr. Fareedah, who is friends with another sister who works for the local mosque and does matchmaking in our community. So, of course, I told her about you, Leila.” She smiled and patted my leg. “And guess what? She wants to meet us!” And there it was. My mother had scheduled an appointment with a community matchmaker.
“Ammi,” I protested. “Please tell me you’re kidding. Who goes to a matchmaker these days?”
“Leila, matchmaking is a very good way to find an alliance,” she said, sounding like the official spokesperson for South Asian matchmakers everywhere. “What is the problem?” She shrugged. “It is the same thing your friends are trying to do, except she is a professional.”
I sat up in surprise. “How did you know my friends were trying to set me up?”
“Leila.” She clicked her tongue. “You forget, beti, I know everything.”
I sank back into the couch. “Well, this matchmaker lady—”
“Seema aunty,” she interrupted.
“Seema aunty.” I stressed each syllable for effect. “She doesn’t even know me. How can she set me up with someone if she doesn’t know anything about me?”
“That is why we are going to meet her, Leila. So she can get to know you.” I buried my face into the cushion and groaned. “Leila, if you agree to do this with me, I will not interfere anymore.” She clasped her palms together. “Really. I mean it,” she pleaded with hopeful eyes.
“Fine.” I surrendered, knowing full well that once my mother set her mind to something, it was impossible to talk her out of it. “When do we meet this Seema aunty?”
“Two thirty.” She tapped my leg and got up. “You should freshen up.” She pushed the hair out of my face as I drew back. My stomach churned as she walked back into the kitchen, humming a little melody.
I clicked off the television and forced myself up. On the way to my room, I caught an unfortunate glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror. My skin was oily and greasy from not having been washed all day. Little bits of mascara from the night before had gathered under my eyes, giving me a freckled-raccoon look. I removed the elastic band from my hair and tried to smooth out the bump. No success. Freshen up? I sneered at my mother’s words. I had less than an hour. It was going to take nothing short of a belt sander and a miracle to survive the uncompromising scrutiny of a South Asian matchmaker.
* * *
“Salaams! Come in!” Seema aunty welcomed us enthusiastically and invited us into her office. She was a large woman in her fifties with a bright smile and a youthful face. As she and my mother exchanged greetings—a standard hug and kiss on each cheek—I hovered near the door, looking around the small office attached to the local mosque. There was a rectangular gold placard on the door, on which was written MATRIMONIAL SERVICES. This was a lot more legit than I had expected. Perhaps my mother was right. It did look very professional. My mother extended her arm and pulled me close.
“This is Leila, my daughter.” She beamed.
“Masha’Allah, beti, come here and let me look at you.” Seema aunty took me by both hands and pulled me toward her. I suddenly felt very self-conscious—despite having had enough time to wash my hair and put on some lip gloss. I glanced over at my mother uncomfortably, not sure what to make of this inspection. She gave me a slight nod, indicating this was perfectly normal.
“Come, come, sit down,” Seema aunty said, still holding me captive, her clammy palms handcuffed around my wrists as she steered me toward the chairs in front of her desk. When I was finally released, I took the seat closest to the door and my mother sat down beside me.
Seema aunty opened up the filing cabinet behind her desk and pulled out a manila folder. “I ask al
l my clients to fill out this questionnaire before we begin.” She slid the folder across the desk in my direction. “Now, please be very detailed with your responses as it will give me a chance to know you better, Leila.” She gave me a gummy smile. I noticed there was lipstick on her right front tooth. “And Mrs. Abid”—she wagged a chubby finger at my mother—“no helping your daughter with these questions. Let her answer on her own.”
My mother appeared shocked by the suggestion but nonetheless nodded in compliance. Seema aunty told us she’d be back in a bit and closed the door of her office on her way out. I opened the manila folder. There was a packet of twenty pages stapled together. I lifted it up.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said, flipping through the pages. It was like the SATs. There was a true/false section, short-answer responses, and even a few essay questions. “In a paragraph or two, describe the qualities that your ideal partner possesses. Describe how you imagine married life to look. Explain your role as a husband/wife,” I read aloud.
“Subhanallah! These are very good questions,” my mother stated as she leaned over my shoulder. I could feel her inquisitive eyes surveying every word on the page. “Remember, Leila. Don’t hesitate to mention anything at all that might be important. For example, if you want a good family . . . or you want a doctor . . . or an engineer. Write down whatever is important to you.”
“Ammi, you’re not supposed to help me with this.”
“I’m only giving you suggestions, Leila, but if you don’t want—” She held up her hands in resignation. “I will sit here quietly.” She pretended to zip her lips. I looked back at the packet. I couldn’t believe I was being forced to complete this application. This was nothing more than a glorified version of the bio-datas my mother had stacked in her black binder at home. I sighed and glanced at the analog clock hanging on the wall. It was three o’clock. This was going to take me forever and all I wanted to do was put my sweatpants back on and vegetate in front of the TV. My mother opened up her purse and fished out a pen for me. I snatched it miserably and began to write.
Thirty-eight minutes and forty-two questions later, the office door opened and Seema aunty walked back in carrying a box of chum chums. She held out the box as an offering, but my mother and I shook our heads, politely declining. “Okay,” she said, taking a seat in the leather chair, which creaked under her weight. “Let’s see what you have for me.”
I watched her anxiously as I rubbed my fingers, trying to squeeze out the cramps. This was the most I had handwritten in years. Imagine how much time would be saved if they had just uploaded the application online. But clearly nothing about this process was twenty-first century.
Seema aunty placed the packet in front of her while simultaneously popping a chum chum into her mouth. She spent the next ten minutes flipping her sticky fingers through each page of the packet, grunting every now and then. I had a difficult time interpreting her thoughts from her sounds, and the whole thing was making me very, very nervous. What if I answered something incorrectly? What if I forgot to mention the great hair? What if I didn’t list everything from those seven napkins? My mind swimming with what-ifs, I imagined this was how guests on the Maury show felt when they were just about to learn the results of a paternity test.
“So,” she said, finally pressing the packet closed. “You are looking for an intelligent, outgoing, adventurous, ambitious, emotionally mature partner”—she drew in a deep breath—“with a great sense of humor, movie star looks”—she raised her brows—“a balance of Indian and American values, and”—she paused and looked at my mother—“who comes from a good family?”
The corners of my mother’s lips instantly turned upward and she nodded with approval.
Seema aunty had intentionally left out the part where I wrote that I was not looking for a “traditional” husband. I wanted someone who was more evolved in his views of marriage; who did not consider a wife’s only role to be that of a domestic guru but who desired an equal partner in every sense of the word. She probably knew that my traditional Indian mother would not approve of those wants, so I appreciated that she left them out.
“Are you sure, Leila, this is what you want?” Seema aunty asked with a knowing look. I hesitated for a moment. I had a feeling she was inquiring about the parts she’d left out. But that was it. I was sure that was what I wanted. I nodded eagerly.
She pushed her bottom lip out and flipped her palms upward. “Okay. Let’s see what we can find.” She leaned down and pulled out the second drawer of her filing cabinet. It was full of manila folders just like the one she had given me.
“Are those all the applications from potential grooms?” I asked, glancing at my mother, whose eyes were wide with awe.
“Hmm.” Seema aunty ignored my question as she flipped through each folder. Every now and then she pulled one folder out—her left index finger keeping tabs—quickly skimmed through the packet inside, and then returned it to its place. My heart rose and fell synchronously. What if she actually has my perfect match in one of those folders? What if I wasted all this time looking around, and my Mr. Perfect is just waiting for me right here in this cabinet?
She pulled out folder after folder; the anticipation was making me giddy. My mother was sitting at the edge of her seat, her lips moving in silent prayer. All hope for my future lingered in Seema aunty’s sticky hands. This really could be it. My grueling search might actually be over.
I held my breath, watching her scan through each folder. The closer she edged to the end of the row, the fewer folders were left, and she had yet to pull one out completely. She finally pushed the drawer shut and leaned back in her chair. She looked at me and my mother intently, her pencil-drawn brows pinched together. For a few moments, no one said a word. The steady ticking of the clock kept time to the thumping in our chests. Finally, she broke the silence.
“Unfortunately, I do not have a match for you at this time,” Seema aunty said solemnly. Her words reverberated through the room.
“What do you mean no match? How can that be?” My mother turned toward me. “Leila wants a traditional, straightforward husband. You read her description.”
I looked down at my hands, trying not to make eye contact.
“You are telling me there is not a single person in your filing cabinet who could be a match?” my mother cried, lines of concern engraved across her forehead.
“Not according to what she is looking for.”
My mother looked like she was about to cry.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Abid. I know this is not what you want to hear, but not everyone will necessarily have a match for them.”
“I . . . I don’t understand,” my mother stammered, confused.
“I will keep an eye out in case something comes up. But you must understand, it is not so simple. Sometimes people are unable to find someone who is a good match.”
“So what happens in those cases?” I asked, avoiding my mother’s gaze and trying to keep my voice steady.
“If no good match is found”—Seema aunty flung her hands out casually—“well then, my advice is to not get married.” My mother gasped in horror. Seema aunty looked at her and then over at me sympathetically. “I am just saying, Mrs. Abid, sometimes the duties required in marriage are not right for everyone. In those cases, it may be better to remain unmarried than go the more traditional route—”
“Remain unmarried!” My mother jumped up with disgust. “She is my daughter.” She pointed in my direction as I sat there confounded. “Marriage is half her deen! What do you mean to say she will not marry?”
“Mrs. Abid, please.” Seema aunty attempted to defuse the situation. “I’m not saying she will not get married, but keep in mind, marriage is only one aspect of one’s faith.” She paused and popped another chum chum in her mouth before turning toward me. “With the divorce rates rising these days, even in our own communities, I think it is wiser to wait until a good match comes up. Someone who shares your values.” She lifte
d her brows. “In the meantime,” she continued, “as I said, I’ll keep my eye out in case something comes up. I just don’t have anyone at this moment.” She wiped her fingers on her pants, leaving a syrupy trail on the gray wool, and held out her hand. “It was very nice meeting you, Leila.” I shook it, speechless. She then nodded toward my mother and walked us to the door.
“What rubbish,” my mother muttered under her breath as we walked out to the parking lot. “No match.” She sneered angrily. “Don’t listen to that nonsense, Leila. Who is she to tell me my daughter won’t marry? Of course you will marry. You are my daughter, after all! That woman has no idea what she is talking about. What kind of matchmaker says marriage is not for everyone?” She shook her head in disbelief.
I was too shocked to respond. How was it possible that a professional matchmaker—with a drawer full of potentials—could not find a match for me? Was what I wanted really so radical? So impossible? I never anticipated this.
As I listened to my mother repeatedly vow to never recommend Seema the matchmaker to anyone and harshly question the judgment of Rubina aunty, Mariam, her friend with the boy-cut hair, her mother, and Dr. Fareedah the dentist during the entire drive home, I leaned my head against the window and stared out at the trees sliding past the glass.
What if Seema aunty was right? What if I was unmatchable? Would that really be such a terrible thing? It wasn’t like I’d had much success with the prospects I had been “matched” with these past few months. If Seema aunty had no one in her drawer who shared the same values as me, perhaps it was better to end up alone. I had been alone before. And I was perfectly fine with it . . . But maybe I was fine with it because I used to think my aloneness was an outcome of my choice. What if it isn’t a choice at all? What if it’s because there’s no one out there for me? What if Mr. Perfect doesn’t even exist? This realization suddenly made my situation seem a lot more tragic.