by Sonya Lalli
And then?
And then, as if overnight, we’re of marriageable age. Suddenly, we’re not girls in need of protection but women, and being very single was our very own fault.
“I’ll make more of an effort,” I said finally, because I did want to get married one day, and there was no point in fighting the inevitable. “But I don’t like the apps.”
“Fair.” Dad nodded. “Thank you.”
I grabbed the remote, ready for the conversation to be over, but they didn’t budge. Oh great. The talk wasn’t yet over.
“Yes?”
I was looking at Mom because she was the one who clearly had more to say. Her mouth was weirdly tense, and she was playing with the buttons on her cardigan as if they were puzzle pieces.
“Beti,” she said affectionately, which was strange because her love language was sass. “Do you . . .”
“Mom, please. Just out with it, OK?”
She nodded primly. “OK. I am outting with it. I am . . .”
“Mom!”
“Do you want us to set you up?”
My jaw dropped. Like, to the floor. I could practically hear it land on the hardwood, shattering every which way.
“But . . .” I sputtered. “You didn’t even have an arranged marriage!”
Mom and Dad snuck a look at each other, sly and knowing and with so much intimacy they really shouldn’t have expressed in front of their own child. They were both in their early twenties when they moved to the US, Mom studying and Dad working, and had met at the local gurdwara. It wasn’t a saucy meet-cute exactly, but it was a love match, and from the stories I heard, they matched so well that the whole dating process chugged right along. They were both Sikh. Tick. They both valued their Punjabi heritage and family values. Tick tick. So within five months of first laying eyes on each other over plates of aloo paratha in the langar hall below the prayer room, they were married.
Triple tick.
“We didn’t have an arranged marriage, no,” Dad said, looking back at me. “And we are not suggesting this for you.”
“Exactly.” Mom cleared her throat. “We are simply saying if you were interested in meeting someone outside of the apps, then maybe we know somebody.” She paused, searching my face. “Maybe you could go for coffee, and if you like each other, you can . . .”
“Bang?”
Dad blushed, while Mom pretended not to hear me.
“Niki, you can date normally. We will not interfere. We don’t even know the boy.” Mom sighed. “He is nephew of our friends. Apparently, very sweet. Modern. A doctor—”
“Wow, a doctor? Sign me up!”
“We do not approach you with this lightly,” Mom continued, ignoring me. Her voice was suddenly small and weak, and it made me feel terrible. Like a terrible daughter who, despite every effort to the contrary, had somehow still managed to disappoint them.
“You know.” She had turned to Dad and was sweetly scratching the hairs on his beard. “We were Niki’s age when we were married.”
Their body language mirrored the romantic cheek-hold going on in the background between Matthew and Jennifer, and for the first time in a long time, I felt very single.
Were my parents trying to make me feel worse than I already did?
No, they weren’t cruel. They were a little cheeky—intrusive and condescending at times—but they were good parents. The best, actually.
And so I, being the good daughter that I was, told them to give their friends’ nephew my phone number.
Photo by Ming Joanis at A Nerd’s World
Sonya Lalli is a Canadian writer of Indian heritage. She studied law in her hometown of Saskatoon and at Columbia University in New York, and later completed an MA in creative writing and publishing at City, University of London. Sonya loves to cook, travel, and practice yoga. She lives in Toronto with her husband.
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