by Zara Raheem
If it was up to me, my timeline wouldn’t be as rigid as my parents’, but even so, I did eventually want to get married. I never planned to end up alone. Forever. I was just waiting for the right guy. But if there was no right guy, did that really mean that I wouldn’t get married? Did that mean that I couldn’t?
I closed my eyes, trying to quiet my doubts.
I had been taught all my life that marriage was half my deen, so how was I supposed to believe that my life would still be complete or meaningful if I didn’t have a husband to share it with? I suddenly felt very lost.
We stopped at a red light, and I looked out at the patches of wild dandelions scattered along the side of the road. Thickets of weeds the color of sunshine.
Seema aunty was wrong.
The one consistent element in every Bollywood film was that it ended with a marriage. Girl meets boy. Girl falls in love with boy. Girl and boy fight off band of criminals, disapproving in-laws, jealous ex-lovers. Girl and boy get married. Le fin. This was the only ending I knew. So my story had to end the same way. Right? Maybe my views of marriage were a bit nontraditional, but I still deserved the same outcome as every heroine on the screen. A perfect guy and a perfect wardrobe. I wasn’t going to let Seema aunty snatch my happily ever after from me by making me feel like my wants were too extreme. I was my mother’s daughter, after all! I just needed to keep looking. I needed to find my perfect match and prove Seema aunty wrong. The other “half of my deen” did exist. He had to, because I was matchable—to whom was yet to be known, but I was more determined than ever to find him on my own.
Cyber Suitor
After my newfound resolve following the matchmaker debacle, I found myself back in Liv’s living room the following Tuesday night. My friends and I had collectively decided—for the sake of humankind—that Hannah was officially banned from the matchmaking business, and thereby forbidden from setting any two people up on a date. Ever. With that out of the way, the rest of us quickly began searching for other options. The last thing I wanted was to put my fate back in the hands of my parents—or Seema the matchmaker—so whatever we could find, we had to come up with fast.
“You should date online,” Liv suggested.
“Oh, c’mon Liv, I’m not that desperate,” I said. However, as soon as the last of these words left my mouth, I knew I wasn’t convincing anyone. I had just been deemed unmatchable by a person who matched people for a living. With zero prospects on the horizon and less than three months to find a husband, of course I was desperate.
In my mind, I knew online dating was a perfectly viable option. Everyone and their mom was online dating these days. It was how most people my age met their significant others. The success stories were there, but for some reason, a part of my brain still reserved online dating solely for losers, social outcasts, and serial killers—even though logically, I knew this was no longer the case. It was just that in all my fantasies of falling in love over the years, I had factored in picturesque meadows, synchronized dance routines, and slow-motion hair flips, but never swiping right. I just imagined I would meet someone the old-fashioned way: in the international foods aisle at the grocery store. Or at a Bombay Jam fitness class as we thumka-ed our way into each other’s heart. I never thought my real-life circumstances would become so dire that I would be forced to resort to virtual options. But this was ultimately what it had come to.
“Trust me, Leila,” Liv coaxed, clearly sensing my hesitation. “Everyone online dates. Even I’ve tried it.”
“You have? When?” I asked, slightly taken aback. For as long as I had known Liv, since our junior year of high school, she was always in a relationship. Even her current relationship with Dreamy Darian had been going strong for more than two years. I’d always assumed she was just lucky when it came to the opposite sex. With her jet-black hair and alabaster skin, men were drawn to her like macaroni to cheese. I never would’ve guessed that someone like her would have to go online to find a date.
“Remember Alejandro? That Brazilian guy I dated a few summers ago?”
I nodded.
“I met him on eHarmony back when it was trendy,” she continued.
“No way,” I sputtered in complete disbelief. “You never told me that!”
“Well, you never asked.” Liv shrugged. I had presumed Liv had met Alejandro at a club or something, but thinking back on it, I should’ve known that serendipitous encounters with hot Brazilians didn’t just happen by chance in the suburbs of L.A. Once Liv had made this admission, I was surprised to learn that the others had had their own forays into the world of online dating.
“My sister met her boyfriend on a dating app too,” Hannah added. “And they’ve been together for over a year now.”
“Yeah, but that’s probably because you didn’t set them up,” I retorted, and we all broke into giggles, even Hannah.
“I’ve tried it before too.”
“Tania?!” we all exclaimed. Since the end of her marriage, I had never heard Tania mention being involved in any type of relationship—serious or casual. I figured her ultraconservative upbringing, coupled with her divorce at eighteen, had thwarted her from pursuing other dalliances of the sort. It seemed she was perfectly content on her own without the hassles of rishta aunties, meddling parents, and the temptations of online dating. But I was obviously mistaken. At least about the latter.
“I wanted to see what was out there,” she said nonchalantly. “It’s actually kind of nice.”
I raised my eyebrows, still trying to wrap my mind around the idea of Tania on a dating website.
“It gives you access to all these options that you wouldn’t otherwise have in real life.”
“Like what?” I frowned, still feeling slightly skeptical.
“I’m a twenty-five-year-old divorced Muslim woman, Leila,” she said. “Aunties aren’t exactly fighting to set me up with their precious, ‘virgin’ sons, you know.”
I knew exactly what she meant. It didn’t matter that Tania was strikingly beautiful or intelligent or successful; the fact that she had been previously married was reason enough for many Muslim parents to disregard her as a contender for their sons. Although not all Muslim families shared this mentality, Tania had probably encountered enough of them over the years to feel limited by her preferences.
“I have more control,” she continued. “So, for example, I can filter my options to only show me men who have also been divorced. Or who have no issues with women who are divorced. I can hand-select all of the qualities I’m looking for, and it will generate a list of options for me based on my choices. It’s almost like . . . shopping. But instead of pashminas and ankle boots, you’re trying on husbands for size.”
“Huh.” I’d never thought about online dating from that perspective, but Tania’s analogy suddenly made it sound much more appealing. The more my friends talked about scientific data sets, compatibility algorithms, and sepia-tinted profile pictures, the more excited I became.
“So you mean I can choose all the characteristics I’m looking for, match them up to my requirements, and it’ll just generate a bunch of options for me?” I asked.
“Pretty much,” Tania said.
“And then you just pick the guy you like best.” Liv smiled.
A vision of my perfect guy on seven napkins suddenly came dancing through my mind. “This almost sounds too easy,” I said, astonished.
“The important thing is that we choose the right website or app, though,” Liv said. “They have something for just about everyone these days.”
“Literally everyone,” emphasized Hannah. “Amish singles. Cat lovers. Biker dudes and dudettes. Big-hearted introverts. Singles with food allergies. I even saw a commercial once for a dating app for vegan dairy farmers.”
“How does that even—” I began, confused, but Tania interrupted me.
“Leila, what she means is, they have South Asian matrimonial sites that are specifically geared towards Muslims.”
“Now
that sounds perfect!” Liv said. “That’ll narrow it down, so you won’t waste any time.”
“You’d be surprised by how many people are on there,” Tania continued. “I actually helped my cousin make a profile on one, and she ended up meeting some really great prospects.”
“I guess it wouldn’t hurt to check it out,” I said hesitantly. I settled into the couch as Hannah and Liv squeezed in on either side of me. Tania grabbed Liv’s laptop from the dining table, pulled up a chair next to us, and quickly logged on to the website her cousin had used. Within seconds, she was filling out the five-question survey asking for my name, birth date, height, weight, and skin complexion.
“Skin complexion?” Liv asked as she watched Tania scroll down the list of options ranging from fair to wheatish to dusky. “Isn’t that kind of . . . what’s the word?” She turned toward Hannah.
“Racist.” I helped her out. Sadly, I wasn’t all too surprised by this question. It was an often repeated inquiry on every bio-data, and even on the matchmaker’s application packet. “Unfortunately, that’s pretty common in our culture,” I added, looking at Tania with a knowing look. “Basically, a fair-skinned bride has more marriage value than a ‘dusky-complexioned’ bride.”
“But why?” Liv asked.
“Beauty, status . . . ,” I began explaining.
“Colonialism,” Tania interjected.
Liv and Hannah looked at us, their faces perplexed.
“That’s just how it’s always been,” I said. “Fair skin in the Indian culture is considered more attractive. Which I suppose makes sense when you’re a country that has a two-hundred-year history of British rule—”
“And a caste system based on inequality,” Tania said.
“And a totally skewed perception of beauty.” I sighed. “Whiteness has always been linked to superiority . . . or power . . . or whatever. It’s not right, but it’s a belief that’s embedded deep within the Indian psyche.”
“But people don’t still believe that, do they?” Hannah asked.
Tania and I looked at each other. As much as I wanted to say no, I knew that wasn’t true. It was obvious that these prejudices still existed. I remembered glancing through my mother’s Stardust magazines on her nightstand as a kid and feeling so confused by all the ads for bleaching creams. Growing up in Southern California, I was used to seeing images of beautiful, tanned people everywhere. I couldn’t understand the desire to be “Fair and Lovely!”
While my parents never overtly expressed these views, they would still say things like “Leila! You can’t go out to play until the sun goes down!” or “Here, use this dupatta to shade your arms” whenever we’d go on long road trips. I just assumed it was normal.
“Do you think men on this website also have to answer these questions about skin color?” Liv asked.
“They do, but it doesn’t matter,” Tania said as she checked the box next to fair on the survey. I looked down at my hands. I could pass for “wheatish,” but no way was I fair. “You’ll just get more interests that way,” she stated matter-of-factly.
I nodded, swallowing the guilt I felt for allowing myself to succumb to these unfair standards. I was certain that males in our communities dealt with some aspect of colorism, but I doubted it was to the same extent as the females.
“So is that it? Is that all they want to know about me?” I asked, slightly irked. For some reason, I’d imagined the online survey was going to be more like a digital version of the matchmaker’s questionnaire packet. I thought it would have detailed questions about my personality, my views on life, my wants in a partner. Instead, everything about it felt so superficial. I wondered how my mother would feel about this method. Based on the specificity of the résumés in her portfolio, I doubted she would approve.
“You can always go back and fill out a more detailed version of your profile later,” Tania said, her eyes still glued to the screen. “But for now, I think we should just skip past the tedious parts and go straight to browsing the profiles.” She looked back at us and wiggled her brows. “Ready to give it a whirl?”
The four of us crowded around the computer screen, scrolling through endless lists of potential grooms in my age range. It didn’t take me very long to realize that this dating website was nothing more than an electronic Rolodex of the same options from my mother’s black portfolio. It was pages and pages of the same type of guy—well-educated doctors and engineers, good families, traditional values, blah, blah, blah. It was not that I didn’t recognize the merit behind these qualities; it was just that I was looking for something . . . more. I wanted someone who was #5: PASSIONATE, #11: ADVENTUROUS, #21: SPONTANEOUS. Someone who wasn’t afraid to jump on a moving train or climb atop a mountain peak to proclaim his love for me. It was hard to imagine that type of romance with any of these straitlaced, conservative-looking guys.
“No. No. Oh, God. No,” the four of us repeated in unison as we skimmed through each page. Every now and then, one of us would point to a picture and say, “Oh, what about him?” or “He looks cute,” but as soon as we’d click on his detailed bio, a quick glance at his profile would reveal that he was gluten-free by choice, or he had an affinity for parakeets, or he played the tambourine, and we would quickly write him off and move on to the next. After fourteen pages of no’s, we eventually went back and modified our search criteria.
“I think you should adjust the age range up to thirty-five.”
“And expand the mile radius from you.”
“And consider checking ‘normal’ body types too, instead of just ‘athletic’ and ‘muscular.’”
“And maybe you don’t need someone that tall.”
“Or someone that rich.”
After some slight protesting on my end, we finally clicked SEARCH with more realistic expectations.
“Oh wait, what about this one?” Tania pointed to a thumbnail image near the bottom of the newly refreshed page. When she clicked it, a detailed profile for “Mahmoud” popped up on the screen. We all leaned in closer to get a better look at the full-sized image of him. I was surprised to admit, he wasn’t too bad. He had short-cropped hair, light brown eyes, and a friendly smile that showed off his chin dimple. He had his arm around an older aunty, who I deduced by the facial resemblance was probably his mother. Tania clicked on the small arrow to the right, and the next image showed him leaning back with his arms outstretched—a classic Bollywood pose—in front of the Louvre Museum in Paris.
“He’s kind of hot,” Hannah swooned.
“And well traveled.”
“And close to his mom.”
“And did we mention hot?”
“Let’s look at what he says in his profile,” I said, wanting to make sure that his personality matched up with his looks. As I read through paragraph after paragraph describing his hobbies, ambitions, and what he hoped to find in a future partner, I could feel my heart flutter with every line. He’s an avid swimmer. I didn’t know how to swim, but I enjoyed lounging poolside, and Finding Nemo was my favorite Disney movie. He loves to read. That was definitely something we shared in common. Being an English teacher would finally work to my advantage! He works at a successful consulting firm. He wants a cool, down-to-earth, independent girl who has a good balance of culture and religion. Check. Check. Check. And check! It was as if he was describing me to a T. Each sentence was well-written, with correct grammar and punctuation. The more I read, the more hopeful I became. I kept searching for a catch, but when I couldn’t find one, I finally turned to my friends and said, “I like him!”
Liv smiled and gave me a squeeze on my shoulder while Tania and Hannah typed up a quick message to send to him that included my phone number and email address.
“Do you think he’ll call?” I asked anxiously. Mahmoud. I repeated the name in my head. It was such a great name. There was something exciting about the fact that my Mr. Perfect finally had a name.
“Of course he will!” Hannah exclaimed. “Didn’t you see the gorgeou
s ‘fair-complexioned’ picture of you we posted? How could he resist?” She winked.
I stared nervously at the screen as they clicked SEND MESSAGE. All I have to do now is wait, I thought, leaning back against the couch. Mahmoud. I repeated the name again, playing with the syllables on my tongue. Leila and Mahmoud. It had a nice ring to it. I picked up my phone and switched the ringer on—eagerly awaiting a phone call from the dreamy, chin-dimpled man from behind the screen.
Mr. Catfish
It had been almost two weeks since Mahmoud first reached out to me, and the past twelve days had been an endless stream of emails and texts between the two of us.
Each morning, I awakened to a Good morning, beautiful text on my phone, and each night a Sweet dreams, Leila. Can’t wait to talk to you tomorrow message arrived before I went to bed. Throughout the day, Mahmoud and I would talk about anything and everything—from the crusty tofu they sold at the salad bar in his office cafeteria, to the latest Atif Aslam song, to the annoying kid in my sixth-period class who decided to abbreviate the term assonance on his poetry quiz. The more we talked, the more often I thought about him as the days passed. He was funny and witty, and I loved how easily the words flowed between the two of us.
Even my mother noticed the significant improvement in my mood.
“How is the search going?” she asked me at breakfast one morning.
“Fine,” I mumbled, grinning at the video of a grumpy cat that Mahmoud had just texted.
“Anyone in particular who you are talking with?” She glanced at my phone.
“Hm?” I looked up. “Oh, um, no. Just a friend,” I stammered, taking a bite of my toast. Mahmoud was actually someone I was excited about, and I didn’t need my mother ruining it by intervening. I stuffed the last of my breakfast into my mouth and got up to place the dishes in the sink. “I’m going to shower and get ready for work,” I said quickly before my mother could ask me any more questions.