by Sara Desai
“What’s hard to say about Baboo?”
Layla shot Sam a glare. Aside from cursing at him when he arrived, she hadn’t spoken to him since he walked into the office. Being trapped in the boardroom with him, knowing that beneath that handsome exterior beat a cruel and callous heart, was almost more than she could bear. “Bob is a perfectly fine name. So is Baboo.”
“And Layla is a lovely name,” Bob said. “Did you know it means ‘dark beauty’ in Arabic? It suits you.”
“Thank you.” Her smile faded when Sam scowled.
“It’s a tragic name,” Sam said. “Very unlucky. I’m sure you know the Arabian legend of Qays and Layla, a young couple who fell so deeply in love they were unable to contain their passionate devotion.”
“What exactly does that mean?” Layla asked, hoping to distract him in case Bob was superstitious like Lakshmi Auntie. India had a billion-dollar superstition-centric industry focused on astrology, black magic, and fake babas. An unlucky name had derailed more than one prospective marriage. “Is it anything like being unable to contain your opinion about things no one asked you about?”
“I’m sure we can all guess what it means.” Sam didn’t address her sarcastic quip. “Layla used poor Qays for his magnificent body and then went prowling around for a new man only hours after leaving his bed. It caused quite the scandal in their conservative community. Qays was denied her hand in marriage and prevented from seeing her ever again, although why he would want her after that, I don’t know. Distraught, he fled into the wilderness while chanting love poems about his darling Layla until he descended into madness and death.”
“What one man sees as a tragedy, another sees as a romance,” Bob said. “I’ve always thought of Romeo and Juliet as a love story.”
“Me, too.” Layla mentally ticked off a box in the plus column for Bob. “So do you think love can grow in an arranged marriage? Or are you looking for just a friend or companion?”
“Definitely love.” He put a hand to his chest. “I’m a romantic at heart.”
“Nothing says romance like finding a woman online,” Sam muttered.
“So you’re a psychologist.” Layla tried to ignore the glowering man beside her. Seriously? What right did Sam have to be angry that the interview was going ahead? He’d shown his true colors by defacing her drawings. At least she knew he’d been in the office and not with another woman.
Bob nodded. “Yes, I study human behavior through observation and interpretation to help people cope more effectively with life issues.”
Sam leaned forward. “Be careful. He reads people’s body language and tells them what they want to hear.”
“At least he’s brave enough to tell people uncomfortable truths to their face instead of slinking out at dawn and scrawling on their personal papers like a child,” Layla snapped. “And I’m sure he doesn’t give advice unless someone has asked for his opinion.”
“That’s true,” Bob said. “I would never presume.”
Sam folded his arms across his chest. “Would you jump to conclusions or point fingers without gathering all the facts?”
“I do take my time to consider the entire situation before—”
Layla slammed her pen on the table. “Don’t talk about me as if I’m not sitting right here, Sam.”
“You started it.”
She waved a dismissive hand. “I was making a general statement.”
“About me.”
“If I could interrupt.” Bob’s gaze flicked from Layla to Sam and back to Layla. “You mentioned reading body language, and that is something I have learned to do over my years of practice. But I can’t see inside a mind. Every individual is unique, and I am very privileged to be in a profession where people trust me enough to share their innermost thoughts. In fact, I specialize in couples counseling, helping people breach the barriers to intimacy that are keeping them apart. I am a grateful guide on their journey to self-fulfillment.”
“My apologies.” Layla gave him a warm smile. “Unlike some arrogant, insensitive people I know, you are refreshingly humble.”
“You’re too kind.” Bob leaned forward, his dark eyes focused, intent. “May I ask a question?”
“Of course.”
“Are you serious about getting married? If you have feelings for someone else . . .”
“Yes, I’m serious. And no. I have no feelings—”
“Isn’t that the truth,” Sam interrupted with a snort.
“I have no romantic feelings for anyone in particular,” Layla continued, emphasizing each word. “Especially not for people who act one way to your face and another behind your back.”
“I’m looking for a woman who respects our traditions, but not a traditional woman,” Bob said. “At your age, I would expect you to have had a boyfriend or two, but if you’ve had intimate—”
“I’m not that old.” Layla bristled, cutting him off.
“In this market you are.” Sam smirked. “Most of the girls who have responded to my desilovematch.com profile are under twenty-one. You’re practically an auntie. I’m surprised your profile got as much interest as it did.”
Layla narrowed her eyes. “Oh. I’m sorry. Did I ask for your opinion? Um. No. I didn’t. And yet here you are unable to hold it in again. Maybe you should go get your black Sharpie and scribble what you really think about Bob on his CV and hide it in the trash.”
“Should I come back another time?” Bob asked.
“No. Of course not.” She forced a smile through clenched teeth. “How do you feel about your wife working? Are you looking for a career-oriented spouse or someone to stay home, clean up your mess, and eat cold oatmeal while you run out in the early hours of the morning for a fictitious meeting?”
Bob chuckled. “I enjoy my work, and I’m looking for someone who has a fulfilling career outside of the home, but also likes to travel. My family owns properties in Sydney, London, Madrid, and Delhi. I employ a cook and a maid, so those skills are not necessary.”
“How perfectly lovely.” She shot a smug look at Sam. Another tick in the plus box. Bob was definitely a contender. Her parents would like him, too. He was a nice, average, reliable guy, albeit a little boring and bland. But if she were to score him on the list of traits that her fantasy man possessed, he would get a zero. There was no mystery behind that smile. No fire or fury. Bob wouldn’t slam her against a Jeep and kiss her. He wouldn’t tear off her clothes or have sex with her against a door. What you saw was what you got. And what you got was a brown version of everyman Bob.
“I have one more question,” Bob said.
“Of course.”
“Are you a virgin, madam?”
“Excuse me?”
Sam pushed away from the table, his chair scraping against the tile floor.
“I want my wife and I to truly belong to each other.” Bob handed her a card. “This doctor is a family friend. He can do the premarital exam. If it all checks out—”
“No.” Sensing Sam’s fury, Layla slammed her arm across his chest as he rose from his seat with all the power and menace of a tsunami. “I knew this might come up at some point. I’m sure he doesn’t mean to be offensive.”
Sam growled. “And I won’t mean to cause him pain when I rip off his arms.”
“There’s no need for violence,” she said, thinking quickly. “I’m sure Bob will understand that I require the same of my partner. You can take him to the restroom and do his premarital exam.”
Bob’s eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?”
“Sam is a doctor. He’ll be able to confirm you are untouched so we can truly belong to each other. Isn’t that what you’re expecting to hear from your doctor friend about me?”
“That’s ridiculous. I’m a man.”
“And I shouldn’t have the same requirement? How is that fair? Are you afraid of havin
g your intimate area examined and judged by a stranger? Or are you saying you’re . . .” She slapped a hand over her mouth in mock horror. “Not pure?”
Bob looked shocked, then affronted. “I’m a healthy thirty-two-year-old man and I needed experience for the marriage—”
“So you’re not a virgin?” Layla stood abruptly. “I’m so sorry, Bob. I’m afraid that’s a deal killer for me.”
“Now can I punch him?” Sam asked, his body quivering with rage.
“No, but you can walk him out.” She felt curiously calm as she smiled at Bob. Only a few weeks ago she would have reacted in a much different way. But she was running her own business now and making mature choices about her future. “Blue Fury” was behind her. Except for falling off the sex wagon last night with Sam, she was a changed woman. She could fight fire with fire—not fury—and she didn’t need a man to save her. “Thank you for coming. It was nice to meet you.”
Decent—albeit traditional—guy that he was, Bob shook her hand. “I should have known when I saw your receptionist and her dog that we weren’t a match. Your passion and fire would be wasted on me, Layla. You need to find your Qays.”
“You want me to find a man I can drive to madness and death?”
Bob laughed, his gaze flicking to Sam. “I don’t think you’ll need to look too hard.”
• 16 •
SAM took a deep breath and then another, steeling himself for his least favorite activity of all time. Even as a boy, he had dreaded the family trips to the shops on El Camino Real in Sunnyvale. Invariably he would be dragged into an Indian clothing store, and hours would go by before his mother remembered she had a son who needed food and water. It was a torture worse than death—bright colors, loud music, unorganized racks and tables heaped with clothes, women roaming the aisles in packs, pouncing on him because he was the same size as a nephew or cousin who had wisely refused to be fitted for wedding attire . . .
There was no escape.
So why was he voluntarily walking into one of the hellholes now? Was he here for Nisha or to put things right with Layla? He hadn’t had a chance to talk to her after Baboo’s visit because as soon as the psychologist had gone, she and Daisy had disappeared for the afternoon.
He found Layla’s aunt’s store, Krishna Fashions, tucked away in a suburban strip mall at the intersection of the Lawrence Expressway and East El Camino Real. Widely known as Little India, the area had sprung up to serve the needs of the South Bay’s South Asian population during the Silicon Valley boom. Anchored by the Bharat Bazaar market, the area boasted a plethora of clothing stores, buffets, restaurants, cafés, and food stalls.
Everywhere sounds and scents assailed him. Store windows filled with brightly colored saris and salwar kameez enticed groups of aunties out for a Saturday stroll, while girls in pretty pink party dresses pulled their grandparents toward the chaat stands along the road, begging for walk-away treats. Across the road, a line had formed outside the door to the Pink Palace, famous for their masala dosas, the lacy, crisp rice-flour crepes stuffed with turmeric-spiced potatoes and onions he’d loved as a boy.
Sam pushed open the door only to be greeted by the glare of lights, the blare of Bollywood music, and a vast array of colors, patterns, and clothes. He wandered through the men’s section as he searched the sprawling store for Nisha and Layla. It had been years since he’d shopped for traditional clothes. He doubted his kurta pajama or sherwani would fit him now. Although the pants were loose fitting, the long tunic would no doubt be tight around his chest after two years of daily workouts at the gym.
His hand slid over the soft fabric of an embroidered jacket as he remembered all the weddings, sangeet ceremonies, and engagement parties he’d attended over the years. He missed the dancing, music, endless food, rishta aunties trying to marry off all the single men and women, the drunk uncles, and the hours he’d spent with his friends at the bar checking out all the girls in their beautiful clothes. Had Layla been at any of those weddings? If she had, why hadn’t he noticed her before?
“Are you looking for a sherwani?” A woman dressed in a plain beige sari, her gray-streaked hair pulled back in a tight bun, peered over the rack. She was accompanied by a slightly younger woman wearing a name tag that read DEEPA on her bright orange and pink salwar kameez. There was a strong family resemblance between them, although the older woman was about the same age as his mother.
“Over here we have the new styles.” The older woman gestured to a rack of wedding attire.
“I’m just looking for my sister. She’s here with her friend Layla.”
“Layla is Nira’s niece,” Deepa said, gesturing to her companion. “They’re in the changing room trying on clothes. I’ll let them know you’re here.”
“This one just came in.” Nira pulled out a long cream-colored jacket with heavy maroon embroidery. “Modern but traditional. Classy and elegant. You aren’t a man who likes too much fuss so you’ll appreciate that the decoration on this sherwani is just down the front and over the chest.”
Sam studied the outfit. It was exactly what he would have chosen if he were getting married. “It’s very nice, Auntie-ji, but I’m not going to any weddings, least of all my own.”
“You never know. A good boy like you who looks after your sister, handsome and tall . . .” She slid her measuring tape around his arm. “Strong, too.” She reached up to wrap the measuring tape around Sam’s chest. “Fit.”
“I don’t—”
“It’s perfect for you. I’ll need to make some adjustments, but it should be ready for you in a week or two.”
Sam grimaced. “Thank you, but I really don’t need a sherwani—”
“You don’t like our clothes?” Her mouth turned down in a sad smile.
His gut clenched. He was no good at this game. Usually his mother did all the bargaining when it came to buying traditional outfits. “Yes, I do. They’re beautiful but—”
“So no problem.” She continued measuring him, writing down numbers on the small notepad she had pulled out of her apron.
“I’m not getting married.”
“Not getting married?” She waved a dismissive hand. “Of course you’re getting married. A man like you was made to settle down.”
“I’m not getting married now,” he explained. “When I do—if I do—I’ll get my clothes at the time.”
“At the time? There is no time at the time.” She snapped the tape after the last measurement. “I’ll give you a special price. One thousand dollars. It will be ready next week.”
“What’s going on here?” Layla came up beside him, a sticky orange jalebi in one hand and a silver shawl in the other. “Are you getting married?”
“No, but your aunt seems to think I am.”
Layla laughed. “What price did Nira Auntie give you?”
Sam’s mouth opened and closed again. “I don’t care about the price. I don’t need—”
“See.” Nira smiled. “He doesn’t care about the price. He knows $1,000 for this quality is a good deal.”
“For last year’s style?” Layla fingered the material. “This isn’t worth more than $700.”
Nira slapped a hand over her heart. “Seven hundred dollars? You want me to give it away? I’ll go out of business. He can have it for $1,100 and that’s a final price.”
“What happened to $1,000?” Sam asked.
“That was the old price.” Nira shook her head. “You should have taken it before it went up.”
“Seven hundred fifty dollars,” Layla said. “And you’re lucky to get an offer like that since it’s covered in dust from sitting so long.”
Nira brushed off the sherwani. “That’s not dust. That’s pure gold powder that we sprinkle on it for luck. Just one ounce costs over $100.”
“Look at this thread.” Buoyed by Layla’s presence, he jumped into the game. He negotiated wi
th clients and employees every day. How hard could it be?
“No, Sam.” Layla groaned softly and shook her head.
“That’s high-quality thread,” Nira’s lips quivered at the corners. “What was I thinking offering it to you for $1,100 when a sherwani of that quality usually goes for $1,200?”
“At the store down the street they are charging $700 for sherwanis that don’t have threads on them,” Layla countered. “Maybe we should go there.”
“One thousand dollars and I’ll throw in the juti.” Nira smiled. At least Sam thought it was a smile, or maybe she was baring her teeth. “Special price on shoes for friends of family.”
Layla glanced over at the rows of formal wedding shoes. “Embroidered. Not plain.”
Sam made one last attempt to save his masculine pride. “I’m buying my sister’s clothes so I can’t pay more than $800.”
Nira threw up her hands. “Any less than $950 and I might as well close my doors.”
“You won’t go out of business for $50, Auntie-ji.” Layla held out her hand. “Are we agreed on $900?”
“It hurts my heart that family would take advantage of an old lady like me.” Nira shook her head. “Eight hundred seventy-five dollars.”
“Including the pajama,” Sam added, gesturing to the pants that went with the outfit.
“You two together . . . rascals.” Nira shook Sam’s hand. “Eight hundred eighty-five dollars. Pay up front.”
“What just happened?” Sam watched Nira carry the sherwani away.
Layla laughed. “We tag-teamed and now you’re all ready for your wedding. You just need to pick out your shoes.”
“I didn’t come here to buy an outfit, I came for . . .” He trailed off when he saw Nisha laughing with Deepa by the fitting rooms. She was wearing a royal blue short-sleeved ghagra choli heavily embroidered with silver thread, a matching orange skirt draped over her lap, and a silver shawl over her shoulders. She clearly didn’t need him. She was handling it all herself, as he had always known in his heart she could.
“I came to see you.”