“Why is everyone so obsessed with marriage?! And by everyone, I mean my mother.”

“That’s every mother, Leila.”

“It’s like she turns every conversation into a discussion about why I’m not married. I can’t catch a break!”

“If it helps, I can tell you, we’ve all been there.”

“Yeah, but at least you don’t have the same pressures that us women have,” I replied testily. While all South Asian mothers badgered their children about marriage at some point, it was a known fact that they were always less judgmental toward their sons. No one would bat an eye if a South Asian man chose not to marry until his mid- to late thirties. Women, on the other hand, were expected to bear children, so they couldn’t be afforded the same leniencies. The younger a South Asian woman married, the more desirable she was in the eyes of her husband and her in-laws. Therefore, even though Hisham was trying to relate, I couldn’t help but feel that the pressures faced by Indian men were minuscule compared to their female counterparts.

“That’s not true. At least you live in America. You probably don’t have it nearly as bad as we do here.”

“It’s even harder in America!” I cried. “We’re the minority population. Imagine how difficult it is to find a good Muslim, who is of a similar ethnicity, whom you like, who likes you back, who meets all the criteria on your list, and whom your parents approve of. Here, all you have to do is walk outside, and you’re met with a million options. We don’t have it quite as easy as you think.”

Hisham cocked his head. “So if there are so many options here, why haven’t you found someone yet? I mean, all you have to do is walk outside, right?” He wiggled his brows playfully. “What about him?” he said, pointing to a turbaned man on the street tugging along a wooden cart filled with boxes. “Or him?” He pointed to a young man wearing tiny shorts and a tank top on a scooter.

“You know what I mean,” I said, rolling my eyes.

“Oh, look at that one!” He directed my attention to a stocky, middle-aged uncle spewing chewed-up gutka onto the curb, leaving behind a reddish-brown stain.

“Gross.” I turned away, disgusted.

Hisham continued pointing out every ridiculous “prospect” he could find for three blocks until my sullenness subsided and I finally cracked a smile.

“Okay, I get your point. You can stop now.” He gave me a lopsided grin. “So where is this sweets shop, anyw—”

A giant drop of water suddenly plopped onto my forehead and I peered upward at the grayish-white sky. Hisham glanced in my direction, amused, as I wiped it away.

“What?” I snapped, flicking the moisture from my fingers toward him. Just then, sprinkles of wetness hit us both on the backs of our necks. As light scattered drops painted the sidewalk a darker shade, we looked overhead and watched as the billowy clouds suddenly broke and a flurry of rain showered down upon us. I squealed and lifted my hands over my head as Hisham quickly pulled me across the street into the small mithai shop at the corner.