On the buffet table, the white platters that had been overflowing with sweet and savory foods were now nearly empty. For the past few weeks, Ajay had spent every free moment cooking. Some days the kitchen had been filled with the delicate scents of milk and rose essence blending together, and others it had carried the savory smell of freshly ground spices. He had made a traditional meal of lentils, veggies, samosas, and roti. But the mithai, the sweets, were the best part of the meal, and it was those he had labored over the most. In addition to the halwa, he had made kheer (a rice pudding), gulab jamun (like donut holes in a sweet syrup), and sweet shankarpali (bite-sized deep-fried sugar cookies).

Even though Ajay was 100 percent Indian-American, his background was a bit of a hodgepodge. All four of his grandparents had come from different parts of India, which meant they all spoke different local languages. His other grandmother, who had died last year, hadn’t spoken Hindi at all.

“Aprita, there is a boy we think you should meet,” his grandmother said now.

His parents stiffened and exchanged a glance as Grandmother fumbled with her phone. She finally pulled up a man’s photo and reached across the table. His sister took it gingerly and then, after a glance, gave it back.

“Don’t go by the picture photo,” Grandmother said quickly. “He is a very nice boy. Good family. I’m just saying you should meet him, that’s all.”

Aprita kept her eyes on her lap. “I’m too busy with my studies.”

Grandmother was not deterred. “And soon you’ll be a resident. Your mother followed the same path and managed to find time to meet your father.” They had been engaged a month after that first meeting. “You’re not getting any younger. And this boy would be perfect for you.”

“Look, Mama,” Ajay’s father finally said. “America will always be the world’s melting pot. It’s why you and Papa came here in the seventies. It’s why we decided to raise our family to honor the traditions of India as well as to embrace American customs. The children were born here, and their future is here. They’re more American than not.”

His father’s father spoke up. “They are also Indian. America won’t let them forget that. So why should we turn our back on that truth?”

Breaking the uncomfortable silence that followed, his mother got up and began to clear the dishes.

Later, there was a knock on Ajay’s door.

“Come in,” he said.

It was his sister. Aprita perched on the edge of his bed, smoothing her new red and gold sari. He had complimented her on it earlier.

“Tonight was your night, wasn’t it?” Her voice was tinged with bitterness.

“What do you mean?” Although he had an idea.