The Marriage Clock

by Zara Raheem

  Ten minutes later, I walked back into the kitchen to see my mother talking to someone on my cell phone, which I had accidentally left behind.

  “Yes, and what do your parents do? I see. I see. Please give me their number so I can give them a call.” She scribbled the digits onto a Post-it note. I stood there watching her, horrified.

  “Ammi, give me my phone,” I hissed, trying to snatch it from her hand. She pulled away and lifted up her index finger.

  “Yes, yes. Okay, then. It was very nice talking to you. And don’t forget to email me your bio-data. Okay, I will be waiting.” She pressed the red button and handed the phone to me.

  “What are you doing?” I said in between clenched teeth.

  “Your friend Mahmoud called while you were in the shower,” she said casually. “Leila, it would be rude not to answer.”

  “Ammi!”

  “Leila, I just had a very brief chat with him. All I wanted was to ask a couple questions—”

  “You should’ve asked me first!” I broke in.

  My mother looked at me with surprise. “Asked you first? Why? Are you not my daughter? Have I no right to know who you are talking to?”

  “You promised if I went to the matchmaker, you would not interfere anymore—”

  “Beti, I’m not interfering. But I need to know that the person you are talking to is the right person.”

  “Right person for who?” I cried, feeling frustrated. “You’re not giving me a chance to do this on my own!”

  “I am, beti, I just—”

  “Just trust me, okay? Give me a chance to figure this out.” I sighed, walking away. This was exactly what I was afraid of. I wanted to make sure Mahmoud was the right person for me before involving my parents. After what happened with Anwar, it was far too complicated to balance everyone’s emotions.

  SO sorry about that, I texted Mahmoud once I was alone.

  No worries. Your mom seems . . . nice, he replied with a tongue sticking out.

  I sent him an angry emoji face.

  LOL.

  I drew in a deep breath.

  So, we’ve been talking for a while now. Maybe we should meet up soon? I typed. I held my breath, hoping he’d still want to meet after that conversation with my mother.

  How’s tomorrow night? he replied immediately.

  Tomorrow night sounds perfect. I smiled. I was finally going to meet my cyberprince, and I could not have been more ready.

  * * *

  Friday evening, I arrived at Un Beso—a romantic Italian restaurant with twinkling lights and red-checked tablecloths. Although I had taken some extra time to curl my hair into long, loose waves and put on some red lipstick, I still managed to show up slightly earlier than planned. This is finally going to happen, I kept thinking as I nervously adjusted my red midi dress and crossed and uncrossed my legs for the fifteenth time.

  Although I had never experienced love at first sight, all the Shah Rukh Khan and Kajol films I devoured over the years taught me it existed. This could be that defining moment for me. Like when Anjali saw Rahul for the first time after eight years apart in Kuch Kuch Hota Hai. Or when Simran finally fell into Raj’s arms as he pulled her onto a moving train in Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge. The thought of Mahmoud possibly being the King Khan of my real-life romance made me both exhilarated and nauseous at the same time. Lost in these thoughts, I didn’t even notice Mahmoud enter the restaurant until after the hostess brought him to where I was seated.

  “Here is your table, sir.”

  I looked up from my phone and all my hopes instantly plummeted.

  “Hi, you must be Leila,” he said as he sat down across from me. “Sorry, I’m a little late. I had to stop and get gas.”

  As I stared at him from the other side of the dimly lit table, I kept wondering if he had traveled here by time machine. It was the same face, but he somehow looked . . . different. He seemed older, more mature in person. He also seemed shorter . . . and chubbier. Stop imagining things, I told myself as I forced a smile and tried not to gawk at the sprinkle of gray peppered along his receding hairline.

  “Wow, you’re exactly how I imagined,” Mahmoud said, returning the smile and taking off his blazer, which he hung neatly over the back of his chair.

  If only I could say the same, I thought as I tried my best to act normal. Although we had never FaceTimed or Skyped or talked on webcam before, he had texted me almost a dozen photographs of himself over the course of two weeks. Based on that exchange, I had felt fully prepared to meet him face-to-face. However, now that I was actually sitting across from Mahmoud, I could not wrap my mind around how different he looked. I was expecting him to look identical to the images that had been imprinted in my mind over the past twelve days, but instead, I found myself looking at the vintage version of those photographs. I couldn’t help but feel caught off guard.

  “Are you nervous?” Mahmoud asked as he grabbed a menu from the center of the table.

  No, I’m freaked out by the complete stranger sitting in front of me! I thought as I slowly shook my head. So what if he looks different? I tried to reason with myself. Apart from his appearance, the two of you still made a connection over this two-week period! I tried to focus on all the things we had in common. We both like to read. We both have a good balance of culture and religion. We both despise tofu in our salads. And how could I forget all the sweet and thoughtful text messages? I tried to remind myself that we were Leila and Mahmoud, but something about the way he tapped his upper lip and grunted as he read through the menu filled me with overwhelming repugnance.

  This wasn’t the first time I had experienced Sudden Repulsion Syndrome. The first time I was hit with SRS was shortly after my dating debacle with Chad Edelstein. I was invited on a double date with Annie and her boyfriend, and the guy they had set me up with had shown up wearing slip-on boat shoes. In February. For whatever reason, the sight of his sockless feet in faux leather slippers caused me to feel an inexplicable sense of disgust, and the rest of the night was just a domino effect. From the way he leaned over to one side when he laughed to the shade of green on his sweater—the disgust was irrevocable. When he finally leaned across the table to reach for a plate of onion rings, every muscle in my body convulsed, and I had to run out of the restaurant before I spewed all over him. It had been years since I had dealt with such an acute case of SRS, but watching the crepey skin below Mahmoud’s chin jiggle as he talked, I knew that no amount of memories over these past twelve days would salvage this relationship.

  “What are you thinking?” Mahmoud’s droopy eyes gazed directly into mine.

  I was really thinking about how he should quit sending people photographs of himself from 1999, but I bit my tongue. “I’m thinking I’m just going to order something light. I’m not really that hungry,” I finally said.

  Mahmoud smiled. I noticed how his crow’s feet became more accentuated with the lift of his mouth. “I hope you’re not just saying that because you’re nervous.” He wagged his finger playfully, keeping his eyes on me. “I was serious when I told you that I like a girl who isn’t afraid to eat.” I shifted uncomfortably in my chair as flashbacks of our first text conversation came back to me.

  As we waited for our food to arrive, I attempted to fill in the awkward silences with mundane chatter about the “pleasant weather” and the interior decor of the restaurant. Whether it was because I was still recovering from my initial shock at Mahmoud’s appearance or just dealing with the symptoms of my SRS, it was obvious that the conversation between us did not flow as naturally in person as it did over texts. My discomfort was palpable, and I could tell Mahmoud was trying extra hard to impress me. When our dinner finally arrived, he shifted into a lengthy discussion about how incredibly busy he was at his corner office with his fancy-schmancy clients and the high-stakes project he was currently working on. I sat there with a forced smile on my face and nodded, pretending to be interested, even though all I really wanted to do was finish my bowl of minestr
one and get the hell out of there.

  When the check finally arrived, I exhaled with relief. I couldn’t wait to get in the car and chew out Liv and the other girls for convincing me to give online dating a whirl. I should have known this was going to be a major fail with my luck. I was disappointed in myself for even getting my hopes up.

  Mahmoud took out his phone and swiped up on the screen to open an app. He punched in a few numbers and then turned to me unabashedly. “Would you like me to calculate your portion of the tab?” he asked, reaching for his wallet.

  I nearly choked on my water. Whatever happened to #13: GENTLEMANLY and #25: CHIVALROUS? I was not old-fashioned by any means, but I grew up in a household where I was taught that men always treated women with courtesy and respect. They opened doors. They carried groceries. They paid the bill. Especially when it was a first date at a restaurant that they insisted on. For the past twenty-four hours, Mahmoud had raved on and on about this “charming little Italian place” that he just knew I would love. Initially I was smitten by his confidence, but that was before he showed up looking more like an uncle than a potential husband, and then subjected me to forty-eight minutes of busy-bragging. And now Mr. Catfish—with his lucrative career and mahogany Wegner Swivel chair in his corner office—wanted me to split the tab with him?

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to just make it my treat?” I asked irritatedly as the small serving of soup violently threatened to push its way up my throat.

  “Your treat?” His face lit up. “Are you sure?”

  I looked at him, flabbergasted. I could feel my muscles convulsing, and I had to swallow the urge to scream from the top of my lungs. I wanted to grab twenty units of Botox and inject them into his face until he looked like the Mahmoud from the photographs. I wanted to print out all our past conversations, all the “good morning, beautiful” texts, shred them into a million pieces, and throw them at his wrinkly face. I wanted to do all these things, but instead, I pulled out my credit card and dropped it into the small black tray. If this was what it would take to get me out of this date, I figured it was a small price to pay.

  “Thanks, Leila.” He grinned, quickly stuffing his wallet back into his blazer pocket. “I’ll tell you what. Next time, it’ll be on me.”

  His words filled me with detestation. Next time? There will never be a next time. I cringed to myself as we walked out of the restaurant. Every cell of my body recoiled as Mahmoud placed his arm around my shoulder and leaned into me, laughing. “I think this went really well,” he said, his leather-soled loafers flapping against the concrete. I turned and looked away in disgust as the image of my once-again-nameless Mr. Perfect floated farther into the distance.

  Mr. Smoky

  “Morning,” I mumbled as I staggered into the kitchen the next day.

  “Sleep well, beti?” my mother asked, glancing at the green numbers above the stove. It was 10:47. I rubbed my eyes and nodded, taking a seat on the counter stool.

  “So,” she said, placing two warm scallion pancakes on my plate next to a bowl of fresh Greek yogurt. “How did it go?”

  “What?” I mumbled sleepily as I tore off a piece of flaky pancake and dipped it into the bowl.

  “Your dinner? With your friend? Mahmoud.” She turned the stove off and gave me her full attention.

  “I don’t know.” I shrugged. “He was old.”

  “Old? Beti, he is not much older than you.” She clucked her tongue. I ignored her comment and continued eating. “Besides, the bio-data he emailed said he was only twenty-eight.”

  “Twenty-eight going on forty,” I muttered under my breath.

  “Hm?”

  “I don’t know, Ammi. He just seemed older.”

  “Older is not so bad.” My mother wiped her hands on the kitchen towel and rolled out another spiral of dough. “Your abba is seven years older than me.”

  I rolled my eyes. Just because my mother had married someone seven years older didn’t mean I wanted to.

  “What you think you want now, Leila, might not be what you want later in life. I used to think seven years was such a big distance, but now?” She smiled. “I am grateful. When I first married your abba, I was so young. I wasn’t even eighteen years old! For the first couple months, I cried every day. I was so homesick. I wanted to go back and see my mother. I wanted to play with my siblings. I missed my home. But your father was so patient with me. He took care of me. He protected me. He watched over me like a precious piece of glass.”

  “Not everyone is like Abba, though,” I said, still cringing over the fact that Mahmoud was okay with me “treating him” on the first date.

  “Yes, beti, but remember, you are not getting any younger either, so it is important to keep an open mind. You never know how life will surprise you.” She patted my hand. “Speaking of surprises, you won’t believe who called me this morning,” she said, placing the dough into the skillet.

  “Amitabh Bachchan?”

  She chuckled, shaking her head. “No, Leila, it was Seema aunty. Remember, the matchmaker?”

  I groaned, stuffing another bite of warm, yogurt-covered pancake into my mouth. How could I forget Seema aunty? She was the worst professional matchmaker in the history of matchmaking. “Did she call to remind you that I was still not marriage material?”

  “Of course you are marriage material!” My mother placed one more steaming pancake onto my plate and wiped her hands on her apron. “Why do you say this?”

  “It’s okay, Ammi. Maybe she was right. Maybe marriage isn’t for everyone—”

  “Bas!” She held up her hand. “Don’t say these things, Leila. I don’t want to hear it.”

  I sighed and looked down at my plate. I had felt so confident on the drive back from Seema aunty’s office a few weeks ago. I felt so sure that I was going to find someone and prove to be matchable, but after last night’s date with Mahmoud, I wondered how many more Uday Chopras I would have to date in order to find a Hrithik Roshan.

  “Listen, Leila. Maybe for whatever reason you say, Mahmoud didn’t turn out to be right. But you must keep trying,” my mother said as she rolled another pancake with her pin.

  “What difference does it make?” I propped my face against my forearm. I had tried plenty over these past few weeks. And I had yet to find the perfect guy.

  “The difference is, this time Seema aunty called because she thinks she might have found a match for you.” She looked at me excitedly.

  “No, thank you.” I let out a scoff. “I’m not interested,” I said, waving my hand.

  “Don’t you at least want to know about him, Leila?”

  “Not really. And why are you even interested? I thought you hated Seema the matchmaker.”

  “Seema aunty,” my mother corrected me. “And I never said I hated her.” I looked at her, lifting my eyebrows. “Okay, Leila, it doesn’t matter now. She has come through for us.” She smiled once more and lifted my chin off my arm. “She found you an engineer.”

  “And?”

  She looked at me with a confused look on her face. “And, she thinks you two might have a lot in common.”

  “Why, was he also placed in her file of rejects?”

  “Stop it, Leila.” My mother leaned over the counter and gently swatted me on the arm. “Here.” She stuck her hands into her apron pocket, feeling around for something until she finally pulled out a yellow Post-it. “His name is Sajid, and this is his number. He already spoke with Seema aunty, and he’s expecting your call.”

  “Ammi!” I cried. “What do you mean he’s expecting my call?”

  My mother raised both her hands and shrugged. “I’m just telling you what she told me. No pressure, Leila. Call if you want, or not.”

  She placed the number next to my plate and then returned to the stove while I sat there brooding quietly, trying not to make direct eye contact with the brightly colored sticky note glaring at me aggressively. So this is supposedly my match? These ten digits scribbled hurriedly on a piec
e of paper? I suddenly envied all the cute couples who had sweet, romantic stories of how they first met. “Both of us reached for the last copy of Jane Eyre at the bookstore, and he’s been my Rochester ever since!” or “We locked eyes during ‘La Macarena’ at my sister’s wedding and realized that this was much more than a one-hit wonder!”

  What would my sweet first-encounter story be? “Oh, my mother got his number from a matchmaker, and since I was almost a month into my three-month deadline and I’d exhausted all my other options, I figured what the hell.” I sighed. Leave it to South Asians to find a way to wipe out every smidgen of romance from the process. I stuffed the last of the pancake down my throat and placed the empty plate into the sink.

  “Thanks for the food, Ammi,” I said on my way out. “If you need me, I’ll be at the coffee shop,” I called over my shoulder, leaving my ten-digit match on the counter untouched.

  * * *

  After spending hours inhaling espressos, grading papers, and making out a week’s worth of lesson plans, I finally called it a day and returned home. My parents were in the living room watching a television show about child geniuses that was literally called Child Genius, so I walked back into my room unnoticed and shut the door behind me. The first thing I saw on my nightstand was the Post-it note beckoning me with its bright yellow hue. Of course, when my mother had said, “Call if you want, or not,” she hadn’t actually meant I had a choice.

  I picked up the number and lay down on my bed, turning it over and over again, my fingers tracing the handwritten name scrawled in blue ink. Sajid. From the corner of my eye, I could see the calendar on the wall with three weeks’ worth of X’s crossed off.

  I sighed and shut my eyes, trying to imagine what it would be like if I weren’t Indian. If there were no time limit on my future, and I were free to pursue love however I wanted. Would I still be searching for the same thing? I thought about my forty-six-item list. The problem was not with who I was searching for; the problem was with how I was searching for him. And the limited amount of time I’d been given to find him. Unfortunately, a life without this external time constraint was a freedom reserved for those who weren’t wheat-complexioned. But since I was never not going to be Indian, I had no choice except to surrender to the fact that all my relationships were going to come with a healthy dose of marital pressure.