by Zara Raheem
I pushed aside the half-eaten wrap on my plate and dabbed the edge of my mouth with the napkin. “Perhaps we should go.” I motioned toward the exit.
“Uh, yeah, sure,” he replied with his face still fixated on the screen, his fingers furiously clicking away.
The clicks continued as he paid for our meals, and they followed us all the way through the parking lot.
“So,” I said when we reached my car, “Thanks for dinner. It was nice meeting you, Imran,” I pulled open the door. “Oh, and tell Benson I said hi,” I joked as I sat down inside.
Imran put his phone into his pants pocket and turned toward me. “What?”
“Never mind,” I said, giving him a slight wave, hoping he would move aside so I could shut the door. But he remained in place.
“Say, Leila, I was wondering: would you like to have dinner again with me tomorrow evening?” I could hear the phone vibrating from inside his pants.
“Will your phone be joining us?” I asked, trying not to look directly at his pulsating groin.
“Oh,” he said, brows stitched together. “Yes. Why?”
“No reason,” I said, turning away. “I’ll check my schedule and let you know.” I could see his face drop.
We stared at each other silently for a moment, the buzzing in his pants increasing in intensity by the second. Finally, when he couldn’t take it any longer, he pulled out the phone and looked at the screen.
“I’m sorry, would you mind—”
“Not at all,” I said as he walked a few feet away and accepted the call.
I shut the door and waited until he was a few minutes into his conversation about “yields and interest” before I backed up and drove away. One more down. An indefinite number to go.
Ambushed
I texted Imran later that night to let him know that I was busy tomorrow evening—and every consecutive evening for the unforeseen future—and continued with my search in the hopes that my luck would eventually change.
Thursday afternoon, I had lunch with Salim, an Indian businessman who proceeded to end the date by bluntly asking me if I was ready to get married because he wasn’t interested in “wasting time.” As #7: ROMANTIC as his proposal was, I decided a second date was probably not in my best interest.
Thursday evening, I went to dinner with Imad, a recently divorced man who spent the majority of the night convincing me that he was ready to move on and find the one. Nevertheless, when his ex-wife called him in the middle of dessert to “check in” and the ringtone “Nobody Knows It but Me” by Babyface came blasting through his phone, I quickly realized that he was not as ready as he claimed.
Friday afternoon, I had coffee with Karan, an accountant/magician who tried to impress me by making my credit card disappear. I would’ve been a lot more impressed had it not taken him another fifteen minutes to figure out how to get it back. Neither I nor the barista was very amused.
Friday night, I met up with Mo, a graphic designer who spent the evening reminding me of how his parents would not really “approve” of my career, as they preferred him to settle down with a doctor or a lawyer. When I asked him if that had anything to do with financial reasons, he looked offended. “Of course not. They obviously don’t expect her to practice medicine or law after marriage. It’ll be far too difficult with the children. They just want her to have the qualifications.”
By the time the weekend rolled around, I had crossed #2: HONEST, #18: EMOTIONALLY STABLE, #22: MATURE, and #30: SENSIBLE off my mental list. I was thoroughly exhausted and my emotions were drained. I decided, for my own mental health, to take a couple of days off and resume my mission on Monday.
Sleeping in past noon and binge-watching old episodes of Project Runway was the perfect remedy. Just when I was beginning to feel slightly replenished, my mother barged into my room on Sunday morning and asked if I could drive her to her friend Yasmeen aunty’s house for lunch.
“Why can’t you drive there on your own?” I asked, yawning.
“I just wanted to spend some time with you, is that too much to ask?” my mother said, looking hurt. “Every day you are out, out, out. We don’t even see you for dinner anymore.”
I sighed. Doesn’t she realize that she is the one to blame for that? I thought, pulling off the covers. Spending time with my mother was definitely not what the doctor prescribed, but I reluctantly agreed. After having a whole day to myself, I figured some fresh air might help get my mind off the Shakespearean tragedy my life had become.
On the drive to Yasmeen aunty’s house, my mother attempted to cheer me up with her version of small talk.
“So, did you hear that Meena is engaged?” she began. I cringed. Meena was my first cousin on my mother’s side. She was two years younger than me, and even though she lived in India, my mother had felt the need to share with me all of Meena’s accomplishments over the past twenty-something years.
“Meena was named captain of the badminton team at her school. Isn’t that wonderful!” my mother coincidentally mentioned a week after I told her I wanted to quit tennis my junior year of high school. “Meena is studying engineering,” I learned after I announced to my parents that I was no longer considering law school but, instead, wanted to get my teaching credentials. Although I had never met Meena in person, I knew more about her than I frankly cared to through these snippets of information thrown my way. As a kid, I’d hated the mention of Meena’s name because I knew whatever followed would be another reminder of how she had one-upped me for the millionth time. Therefore, it was no shock that she had also managed to get engaged—like the perfect Indian daughter—before me.
“Oh, that’s nice,” I said pretending to sound interested. I often wondered what it would feel like to be the Meena of my family. To just once do something that my mother would be proud of. But no matter how hard I tried, I always seemed to disappoint her. In my defense, things never quite worked in my favor. It seemed as though there was only room for one Meena in the universe, and the position was filled. I silently prayed that the barrage of lackluster dates from the past few weeks along with my impending deadline would not result in yet another major disappointment.
“Don’t feel bad, Leila, beti. It will happen for you too,” my mother consoled me, even though I had given her no indication of needing consolation. “Marriage is part of our tradition. Every girl dreams of one day being a wife. It is the most important job you will have—aside from being a mother.” She looked at me and smiled. I bit my tongue and kept my eyes on the road. “You know, I think maybe you should spend more time with me in the kitchen,” she offered. “I can help you with your cooking. A girl your age should know how to do more than just roll chapatis, don’t you think?”
Once again, my mother did what she always did. She blamed my lack of domesticity for every one of my failures. As if cooking were the not-so-hidden answer to all of life’s problems.
“I don’t understand how cooking has anything to do with me not being engaged,” I muttered, the frustration in my voice edging through.
“Beti, it has everything to do with you not being engaged. You know what they say: the way to a man’s heart is cutting through his stomach.”
“I don’t think that’s the phrase, Ammi. I think you’ve just described murder.”
“Oh, you know what I mean, Leila.” She playfully slapped my thigh. “The point is, you must make yourself more appealing as a wife. Learn to cook and watch how quickly you’ll attract a husband. When I was your age I knew how to make all kinds of . . .” She continued on and on.
I sighed, looking glumly at the road ahead. Even though my mother was trying to be helpful in her own annoying way, she came from a different generation. She didn’t understand that my views of marriage and gender roles differed from her own—which was exactly why I had refrained from sharing my answers with her at Seema aunty’s office that day. In my opinion, there was more to being a wife than just cooking and cleaning. From my mother’s perspective, that was the sole
responsibility. While there was nothing wrong with her views, my vision of marriage was more American than Indian. I wanted someone who was not only my dance partner, but also my life partner. Someone who was my equal. Someone who challenged cultural expectations and didn’t adhere to conventional gender roles. But how could I make her understand these things? How could I make her see that I desired more—more than what she had—without breaking her heart or causing her to go into hysterics? All her talk about cooking did was reinforce my belief that if cooking was the only way to a traditional Indian man’s heart, then traditional definitely was not the type of man I wanted to attract.
* * *
“Come in! Come in!” Yasmeen aunty greeted us at the door. The spicy aroma of chai wafted pleasantly from inside.
My mother had insisted that I come in to say hello—even though I had insisted it wasn’t necessary. I did not win that argument. Yasmeen aunty lived in this palatial home in Palos Verdes Estates with a circular driveway and tall, pristinely pruned hedges lined up like neat little soldiers around the edge of the yard. As we’d walked toward the door, my mother had turned to me and clucked her tongue in disapproval.
“You really shouldn’t have worn that hoodie, Leila.” She shook her head. “Can you at least fix that hair on your head?” She reached over to push the hair out of my face. “Try and make yourself look somewhat presentable.”
I dodged her reach and quickened my pace. If I look like such a troll, why is she insisting that I come in? I haven’t shampooed in two days; what does she expect my hair to look like? I thought, trying to smooth out the frizz in the few seconds I had right after ringing the bell. When the door opened, I smiled sweetly. Now that we were in another person’s presence, my mother would finally stop fussing over me.
As Yasmeen aunty led us through the marble-tiled foyer into the sitting room, I began salivating at the sight of pistachios, dates, fruits, tea biscuits, and other desserts piled on the coffee table. This seemed quite elaborate for a lunch—even for Yasmeen aunty—but who was I to object to extravagance? I beamed as she handed me a gold-rimmed plate.
“Help yourself, Leila,” she said, smiling warmly. “You must be starving; look how thin you are!” She grabbed my waist.
I was suddenly glad I’d come in. Ignoring the daggers of death my mother kept shooting at me from the corners of her eyes, I quickly filled my plate with as many goodies as I could fit. Years of being dragged to social gatherings as a child had taught me it was poor etiquette to load up my plate at someone else’s house. It was much more polite to take a small sampling of each item so as not to waste anything. But as soon as I popped a laddu, a ball-shaped sweet made entirely of butter, coconut, and sugar, into my mouth, all rules of etiquette flew out the window. I greedily stacked four more laddus onto the pile of sweets on my plate, paying absolutely no heed to my mother’s embarrassed scowl. Besides, she was the one who’d insisted I come in. I was simply making the best of the situation.
I stuffed another ball of sugary heaven into my mouth and carried my plate of new friends into the living room. My mood lifted: I settled comfortably into the sofa next to my mother, chomping blissfully.
“Beta, come sit,” Yasmeen aunty called out from the couch. Suddenly, a man a few years my senior walked into the room, nodding shyly at the three of us. “This is Zain, my eldest son. He is in town this week for a conference.” Yasmeen aunty motioned him over. “Beta, why don’t you come join us for lunch?” She cleared her throat and glanced at my mother with a suggestive smile.
The laddu suddenly hardened in my mouth. I had been ambushed: This whole thing was a setup! The fancy spread. All the desserts. How could I have so foolishly walked into their trap?
“Sure, Ammi,” Zain said, taking a seat.
How could my mother do this? I glowered at her. She was just sitting there casually eating a grape, pretending that she had nothing to do with this. This was a new level of betrayal even for her. I could feel the heat rising in my face. I turned toward the front door, calculating how long it would take to get from the couch to the car, but an escape was out of the question. It was too late. My anger festering, the only thing I could do was stay put and endure the impending humiliation.
I looked over at Zain to find him peering in my direction. He was seated on the opposite end of the couch, our mothers wedged in between us like an awkward tikka roll. Is he in on this too? He was dressed a lot nicer than I was, in pleated beige chinos and a light-blue polo shirt. I noticed that his hair had been neatly combed back and his face was freshly shaven. Was I the only one who didn’t know this was a date? I pried my gaze away from his curious eyes and nervously adjusted the zipper on my hoodie, suddenly feeling very self-conscious.
“So, Zain, beta, I hear you are a chiropractor?” my mother began as she stirred a cube of sugar into her chai. She placed the spoon on the edge of the saucer and lifted her cup. “How long have you been practicing?”
“He’s been working for seven years now at his own clinic in Houston,” Yasmeen aunty responded, patting Zain on the knee. “We are very proud of him.” She smiled as the steam from her teacup danced gracefully across her face.
“Very nice,” my mother said, turning toward me. “Isn’t that nice, Leila?” I nodded stiffly and forced a weak smile.
“Zain is thinking about opening up another clinic in Los Angeles, aren’t you, beta?” Zain nodded, fiddling with his hands. “It will be so nice to have him nearby again,” Yasmeen aunty exclaimed. Zain gave his mother a thin-lipped smile before glancing in my direction. I turned away.
“Oh, yes. That will be very nice,” my mother responded, taking a sip. “You know, we are very proud of our Leila too,” she continued after a moment. “She is an English professor.”
“Teacher, Ammi,” I muttered under my breath.
“Huh?” My mother looked at me, confused.
“I’m a teacher, Ammi; not a professor,” I corrected her. My face flushed a deep crimson.
“Yes, yes, we know, Leila,” she said impatiently. She turned back toward the other end of the couch, her back to me. I sank into the plush cushions and swallowed the last bite of laddu. It tasted like wet car keys as it passed down my throat.
“She molds the minds of the youth,” my mother went on. “Shaping the next generation of thinkers. Our future is in her hands . . .” Every word out of her mouth made my skin crawl. Why can’t she just stop talking? Indian mothers were known to exaggerate the accomplishments of their children, but this was next-level deception. Yes, I worked with teens, and at times it was honorable and offered small rewards. But the majority of my days were spent explaining why “YOLO” was not a universal theme, trying not to get caught in the cross fire of hormone-related drama, and convincing a bunch of apathetic fifteen-year-olds that writing was more than just texting. On most days, I was simply making sure their young brains weren’t rotting rather than attempting to “mold” them.
“It’s such wonderful work she does.” My mother beamed with pride. I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping I could make the words stop. All of them. It took every cell in my body to force myself not to bolt out of the room.
Yasmeen aunty bobbled her head in agreement. “Masha’Allah. That is very admirable work, Leila. Isn’t that wonderful, Zain?” Zain pressed his lips together and nodded. The corners of his mouth curled up in slight amusement. Is it possible to die from sheer mortification?
For the next hour, our mothers discussed our hobbies, likes, and dislikes while Zain and I sat there, completely mute. I eventually surrendered to the indignity of my situation and found comfort in the fact that I could at least remove myself, if not physically then emotionally, from the entire conversation. At one point, I even dozed off for a minute until my mother elbowed me in the gut. Luckily, I was able to quickly wipe away the drool trailing down the side of my mouth before Zain took notice from the other end of the couch. I could tell by the glum expression on his face that he too had grown bored. He sat there staring at
his phone, reading what I imagined to be an article on the legal protocols for how to divorce your parents.
By the time lunch ended, I knew every detail of Zain’s personal and professional life, even though we hadn’t uttered a single word to each other. While we exchanged our goodbyes at the front door, our mothers exchanged our phone numbers without so much as asking our permission. It wasn’t until we had reached the car that my mother finally turned to me excitedly and said, “That went well, Leila, don’t you think?”
I glared at her, my mouth agape with incredulity. “Ammi, you set me up!”
“I did not do such a thing!” she said with a shocked expression.
“Pfft,” I hissed, crossing my arms. “Whatever happened to you letting me find someone on my own?”
“Leila, beti, I just want what is best for you.” My mother let out an exasperated sigh. “It is my duty as your mother to get you married. Can’t you see? You need me, Leila. Otherwise, you’re going to end up all alone, and I will have failed,” she said with worry.
“I don’t need you,” I stated firmly as I unlocked the car. “I can do this on my own. In fact, I am, and it’s only a matter of time until I find someone.”
My mother sat in the passenger seat, and I slid in next to her. “We shall see,” she said, unconvinced, folding her hands into her lap.
While I waited for her to fasten her seat belt, I thought about how humiliating it was that my mother had dragged Yasmeen aunty into her little scheme. It was bad enough to be branded unfit for marriage by Seema the matchmaker; I didn’t need another one of my mother’s friends joining the “Single Leila” pity party. And the fact that the two of them had conspired to involve Zain—without so much as a courtesy warning—was infuriating. I had actually shown up with the word PINK splashed across my rear!
I squeezed my eyes shut. He must’ve thought I was pathetic. A total loser. The only reason I had agreed to this three-month deadline was so I could have some semblance of control over my life. But my mother and her shenanigans were preventing that from happening. I had less than eight weeks left of my own search to deal with. The last thing I needed was for my mother to add another layer of pressure to my situation by blaming me for not allowing her to carry out her “maternal duties.” I pulled out of the driveway, tuning out my mother’s yammering about how wonderfully the afternoon had gone. Instead, I readjusted the GPS to program the quickest possible route to get home. All I wanted was to crawl back into bed with the box of sweets Yasmeen aunty packed for us and erase all memories of this ambush date from my mind.