by Zara Raheem
I thought back on the conversation with my mother that morning. When she first met my father, she had no idea that he would turn out to be her Mr. Perfect. She took a giant risk by moving halfway across the world with a stranger who was seven years older than her. But that risk eventually paid off. And now she was trying to make sure that it somehow paid off for me too—sooner rather than later.
I drew in a deep breath. Even if I weren’t Indian and my mother were not in the picture, I would still want to find Mr. Perfect for myself. Maybe it didn’t matter so much how I found him or even when, as long as I did.
I smoothed out my hair and picked up the Post-it note once more.
* * *
“Um, hello . . . Can I speak to Sajid?” I adjusted my sweatshirt and sat up.
“This is Sajid,” said a deep, raspy voice on the other end.
“Hi, this is Leila. I got your number from Seema aunty.”
“Oh, yeah. Hi,” he said, coughing.
“Hi.” I slapped my hand to my forehead. Why couldn’t I say anything other than “Hi”? “So, how’s it going?” I cleared my throat awkwardly. I couldn’t remember the last time I had a phone conversation with someone other than my mom. I should’ve just texted him. At least I could’ve formed messages that contained more than a string of one-syllable words.
“Good, I’m good.” he responded. I could hear some rustling in the background.
“Is this a bad time?”
“No, not at all. I’m just on my way to pick up some food.”
“Oh, cool. So . . . um, you’re an engineer, right?” I slapped my forehead again. I must’ve sounded like such a moron.
“Yeah.” He coughed again. I could hear more rustling.
“Cool.” I wanted to kick myself. Why had I let that obnoxiously bright Post-it note badger me into calling? This was exactly why no one talked on the phone anymore; it was physically painful.
“So, what do you do?” he asked after a few moments.
“I’m a teacher.”
“By choice?”
“Just on the days I’m not handcuffed.”
Sajid let out a deep, throaty laugh. “Handcuffed,” he said, his laughter breaking into coughs. “You’re funny.”
“The teenagers at school would probably disagree. They never laugh at my jokes. But thanks.” I smiled.
“Whoa! You work with teenagers. That’s dank!”
“Dank?”
“That must be mad stressful.”
“Uh, yeah. There are definitely days, but I suppose it’s that way with most jobs.”
“Definitely.” There was a long pause. “So how do you relieve the stress?”
“Sleep, mostly. And being set up by matchmakers. Nothing releases tension better than placing your love life in the hands of a rishta aunty.”
Sajid laughed again, this time loudly. “Yeah, dude. This whole matchmaking thing can be pret-ty stressful. You never really know who you’re talking to.” He giggled.
I smiled. So far, I was pleasantly surprised. Sajid seemed like a chill guy; a little quirky, perhaps, but as the conversation continued, I could feel my body start to relax a bit. “So what about you?” I asked. “Aside from being set up, how do you relieve stress on those long days?”
“I usually hit the gym after work. Burn off some built-up pressure.”
“Nice,” I said, my mind drifting as I pictured his broad, sweaty shoulders and oiled, chiseled chest. Granted, I had never actually met a #46: SEXY engineer before, but that didn’t mean they didn’t exist. Maybe Sajid was an anomaly. A hot brainiac who could code complex data with one hand while completing bicep curls with the other. As he talked about his workout regimen, I imagined his monster quads pounding out leg extensions like mathematical algorithms. My very own shirtless Salman with ripped acid-washed jeans and a bandanna headband. “Oh Oh Jaane Jaana!”
“What was that?” Sajid interrupted my thoughts.
“Nothing,” I stammered, feeling the heat rise in my face.
He laughed again. “So yeah, I definitely try my best to stay in shape,” he continued. I grinned and mentally checked off #15: FIT, #23: MUSCULAR, and #42: ACTIVE on my list. I knew there was a lot of hard work and sacrifice that went into getting a set of abs like Salman Khan’s, and any man who was willing to put in that work had my attention.
“That’s really great.”
“I do what I can. Actually, can you hold on for a minute? I’m starving! I’m gonna order something.”
“Okay, sure,” I said over the rustling in the background. I could hear the crack of a speaker, and then it sounded like Sajid placed the phone facedown because his voice was muffled as he gave his order:
“Can I get two Doritos Locos Tacos, three Crunchwrap Supremes, one Quesarito with extra sour cream, and a large Mountain Dew.”
The speaker crackled again. I heard Sajid cough, and then a few minutes later, he came back on.
“Sorry about that,” he said.
“So, I’m guessing today is a cheat day?” I joked.
“Ohhh, yeah.” He laughed. “I’m not as strict—food-wise—on the weekends,” he said with a giggle. “So . . . what was I saying?”
“You were telling me about ways that you deal with stress.”
“Riiiight. So, yeah, I work out a lot,” he said, crunching down on something—probably one of his Doritos Locos Tacos. “And on really stressful days, when the gym just doesn’t cut it”—he chewed loudly—“I’ll typically hit the bong.”
I dropped my phone into my lap.
“Hello? Leila? Hey, are you there?”
“I’m here. So you were saying, uh . . . you typically—um, what?”
“I chief some leaf. You know, blow some blunts? Blaze a joint? Marijuana?”
“Yeah, I know what marijuana is.” I rolled my eyes. “So you . . . smoke weed?”
“Yeah,” he said, giggling uncontrollably again. “But only on weekends. Or at night. Or when my buddy Travis comes over. It helps me unwind.” He paused. “Like aromatherapy.”
“Right.”
“You should give it a try.”
“Aromatherapy?”
He laughed. “You know, I know a guy if you’re interested—”
I plopped my head against the pillow as Sajid rambled on about the quality of “hash” his dealer sold. The image of the #46: SEXY engineer floating in my mind had now been replaced by a beanie-wearing stoner with an oversize tie-dyed T-shirt looking for Froot Loops and corner market snacks. What would I, nonsmoking, nondrinking Leila, have in common with Mr. Midnight Toker?
“Look,” I finally interrupted him, “I don’t know what Seema aunty told you about me, but I’m not really a pot smoker.”
“No worries, my dude! You don’t have to smoke it. There are many ways to consume cannabis—”
“Yeah,” I broke in. “Any of those ways, I’m not really interested.” There was a long pause.
“Okay . . . yeah, cool,” he said after a moment. “So . . . um . . .” He cleared his throat. “What kind of music do you listen to?”
We fumbled our way through another five minutes of conversation and then politely said goodbye. I grabbed the yellow Post-it from the nightstand, crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it across the room into the trash bin. It hit the purple wall and landed on the floor. Sajid, I’m sure, was a perfectly nice guy, but what did it say about me that a professional matchmaker thought I would have things in common with a pothead? Was this what Seema aunty thought I meant when I said “nontraditional”? Was she attempting to prove a point? Or did she really think this was what I wanted? I had officially hit a new low in this process. I was a third of the way into my deadline, and not even a fraction closer to finding love or romance than when I had started. My phone buzzed next to me. I glanced at the message on the screen. It was Sajid.
Hey, it was really nice talking to you. Would it be alright if I asked you a favor? I picked up the phone.
Shoot, I replied.
Could you maybe not mention the cannabis thing to anyone? I wouldn’t want it getting back around to my parents. LOL.
Of course he didn’t. Sajid’s parents would remain totally oblivious to the fact that their perfect engineer son was spending his nights dazed and confused, while I would have to make up yet another reason for why I was such a disappointment to my mother. I could already imagine the dreaded conversation:
Ammi: “Seema aunty just called, Leila. She wants to know how it went with Sajid.”
Me: “It was okay. I’m not interested, though.”
Ammi: “What do you mean, not interested?”
Me: “I don’t know. We just have different . . . hobbies. It’s not going to work.”
Ammi: Ya Allah! Here we have found you an engineer, and you are saying it’s not going to work? When are you going to stop being so picky, Leila?!”
I looked at the calendar and sighed. There were nine weeks left. Nine weeks. Either I could concede defeat now, or I could keep trying—this time on my own terms. No more matchmakers. No more interference from my mother. Just me doing everything I could to find my Mr. Perfect on my own. What is it going to be, Leila? I thought to myself.
The phone vibrated next to me. DUDE. Are we good? the message read, highlighted on the screen. I sighed, staring at the words. After a few reflective moments, I grabbed the phone and responded with a thumbs-up emoji.
Mr. Busybody
The next morning, I woke up earlier than expected to go for a jog. I needed to clear my head. I had approximately two months left before my deadline, and I desperately needed to figure out how to recalibrate my plans moving forward. As the brisk morning air brushed against my face, I thought about the one person who’d had the foresight to predict this situation years ago. I stopped at the end of the street to catch my breath and scrolled through my contacts, searching for her name. I hoped her insight would somehow offer me the guidance that I needed.
“Hello?” a familiar voice greeted me on the other end.
“Annie! Hey, it’s Leila.”
“Leila! What a surprise! Let me put you on hold for a second; I’m just finishing up a quick call.”
As I waited for her to return, I stretched out my calves on the edge of the curb. Ever since I got caught up in all the marriage stuff, I felt stuck in this continuous cycle of disappointment. I had forgotten how good it felt to just be outdoors, away from all the distractions.
“Leila? You there?” Annie’s voice broke through my thoughts.
“Let me guess, you were planning another adventurous getaway? Where to this time?” I asked. Although it had been a while since we last talked, we followed each other on social media, so I knew enough from Annie’s posts to know that she led a pretty cool life as a freelance travel blogger.
“Palau. At the end of the month. I’m going to swim with the jellyfish.”
“I don’t even know where that is, but I would be open to trading lives,” I offered.
Annie laughed. “How’s teaching going?”
“I mean, the pay sucks. And I’m up to my ears in grading. But just the other day, one of my students told me how he aced the English portion of his ACTs because of my class.” I grinned. “It’s kind of cool to know they’re learning something.”
“You were always great with kids. Remember that orphanage visit you planned during our spring break in Cancún?”
“I think you were the only one who agreed to come with me! Everyone else just wanted to lie on the beach.”
“Can you imagine? Wanting to relax on vacation. Ugh.” Annie laughed. “So when are you going to teach abroad? I thought that was the plan?”
“I guess I’ve been preoccupied with some other stuff . . .” I trailed off.
“Do tell.” I could imagine Annie leaning in closer to the phone.
I sighed. “My parents gave me a three-month deadline to find a husband. And I kind of agreed. And now I’m already almost a month in, and Mr. Perfect still hasn’t shown up yet.”
Annie remained quiet on the other end. I wondered what she was thinking. She probably thought I had lost my mind.
“Well.” She finally let out a small whistle. “I see not much has changed,” she said, a hint of disappointment in her voice. “Leila, when are you going to realize that Mr. Perfect doesn’t exist?”
“In two months?” I joked.
“Leila.” She sighed.
“In all seriousness, I have yet to meet even a decent guy these past couple months. Mr. Perfect is a long ways away.”
“I never thought I would say this, but maybe you should go back to the serial-dating Leila from college,” Annie suggested.
“But weren’t you always advocating for long-term relationships?”
“You’re attempting to do in two months what most people spend half their lives on, Leila. This is the rare exception when you can’t just go on a few dates and expect to find the one. As much as I hate to say it, it’s about probabilities. The more dates you go on, the greater your chances are of meeting this crazy deadline.”
“I suppose I didn’t think of it like that.”
If this truly was a numbers game, then Annie was right: I was doing it wrong. Rather than going on one or two dates a week, I needed to amp it up.
As soon as I got home, I logged on to Muslims Meet—an app that brought together “single Muslims seeking a life partner the halal way,” with an image of a winking goat—and went on a swiping spree. I even swiped on a few questionable guys, but if they happened to increase my odds of finding “the one,” then I was willing to roll the dice.
That Tuesday, I kicked off my accelerated mission with an early dinner date with Imran, a hedge fund manager who had also swiped in my direction. Imran and I agreed to meet at a cafe downtown, and I was pleased to find that he had arrived before me. But as I walked up to the outdoor patio where he was seated, I noticed that he was engaged in what seemed to be an important business call.
“No, no, no. That was not what we discussed—” He gave me a slight wave and pulled out a chair. I sat down quietly, smoothing out my hair and waiting for him to finish. “We need to increase our capital expenditures—” he said loudly into the phone. He stood up and paced around the table. He was wearing a pale gray tailored suit paired with a crisp white button-down, and silver cuff links that gleamed each time they caught the afternoon light. I suddenly felt very underdressed in my striped maxi dress and open-toed sandals.
“Remember, it’s all about the macro trends. Especially in the global market. We need to buy the best stocks in the trend, and ride out that flow until it compounds.” I grabbed a menu from the table and tried to distract myself. Do I want the grilled portobello burger or the ahi-tuna wrap? I could barely think with how loudly Imran was talking.
“Yes. Yes. Yes. Tell Benson to keep an eye on those dividends, and we’ll reconvene in an hour.” He finally sat down, dropping his phone on the table and turning his attention toward me.
“So sorry,” he apologized. “It’s been one of those days. Work never ceases to—” Before he could finish, he was interrupted by his phone. He paused midsentence and glanced down at the screen. “I just have to . . . ,” he said, holding up his index finger and accepting the call. “It’ll just be real quick.” He stood up. “I’ll be back in a few min— Yes.” He suddenly turned away. “Yes. Did you check with Benson to make sure there’s not a liquidity issue?”
I excused myself to go to the ladies’ room, and when I returned, there was a napkin on the table with a message:
ON CONFERENCE CALL. BRB.
I looked across the patio and saw Imran leaning across the rails, holding his phone in the air and yelling into his earpiece. I grimaced. Imran was that guy. That habitual cell phone talker who had lengthy discussions on his phone in public, soaking in the conversational limelight while forcing everyone in his vicinity to listen in. I turned away and shrank into my chair. I couldn’t believe I was on a date with that guy. The odds of this one bei
ng “the one” were highly unlikely.
Ten minutes later, Imran returned.
“Sorry about that. It’s practically impossible to get a decent connection out here,” he said, flustered.
“Yeah.” I nodded. “How annoying.”
Over dinnerw—despite his phone detonating every five minutes—I managed to learn that Imran had grown up in Chicago, was the youngest of four children, and played football in high school. He had created an account on Muslims Meet because according to his “ten-year plan,” it was time for him to settle down.
“Where do you see yourself in ten years?” he asked after sending out an email.
“Ten years.” I paused. “That’s a good question.” It occurred to me that I hadn’t really planned out my future beyond the three-month deadline. I knew I wanted to find Mr. Perfect. By July. But then what? Marriage? Kids? Would I ever teach abroad? Would I go back to grad school? Would I live happily ever after? “I guess I don’t know,” I admitted.
Imran furrowed his brows, but just as he started to say something: buzz.
Whatever thought he had was completely forgotten the second he glanced at the screen. I sighed and mentally crossed #9: ATTENTIVE off my list. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be in a relationship with Imran and his phone. There was no way I could compete with all that vibrating.
“Have you ever considered shutting that thing off?” I asked, taking a bite of my wrap.
“Huh?” He looked up.
“That.” I pointed at the phone in his hand. “Have you ever thought about just turning it off?”
“Oh, this?” He held it up, the screen flashing with messages. He laughed dismissively and glanced back down, his eyes scanning the texts.