“Even his parents are both very nice—”

“Yes, I know.”

“And you’re now saying you’re not feeling the same—”

“I don’t know, Ammi.”

“I mean, it makes no sense, Leila! How can you not like—”

“I just don’t,” I snapped.

My mother and I stared at each other, the tension mounting above the silence. Neither of us spoke a word.

“Can we move on?” I finally asked.

“Fine,” my mother said quietly, placing the Tupperware in the fridge. “I will let them know.”

“Thank you,” I said, breathing a sigh of relief. But when I turned to offer her a smile, she was already gone.

The Marriage Clock

If my mother was disappointed by my decision about Anwar, she didn’t show it. Instead, she kicked her matchmaking duties into overdrive and made sure to give me every “option” she could find. The next few weeks could only be described as a classic Bollywood flop. Each morning, I awakened to a freshly printed stack of bio-datas on my nightstand with certain phrases like cardiovascular surgeon, computer engineer, and close to his family highlighted. Other times, I would just receive a random text message with a guy’s picture and the words Harvard educated below it. How my mother managed to acquire so many prospects, I had no idea. It was as if she was a card-carrying member of an elite, underground rishta network comprising middle-aged suburban aunties with a lot of time on their hands. Needless to say, I quickly realized that it worked in my favor to not question the process.

Meal conversations were spent with my parents quizzing and grilling me on the information listed in the bio-datas in attempts to determine PGC—potential groom compatibility.

“Did you see what was listed under hobbies, Leila?”

“No, Abba, I didn’t.”

“It says that he played tennis in high school.”

“Cool.”

“You also played tennis, Leila. Remember?”

“Yes, Ammi. How could I forget?”

“And he also enjoys watching movies, just like you!”

“I’m pretty sure everyone enjoys watching movies, Ammi. That’s like saying you like french fries.”

“No, Leila, it is very rare to have so many things in common. What do you think, jaan?”

“I think he sounds perfect.”

“Yes, I agree. What do you think, Leila?”

These discussions would typically end with my parents staring at me eagerly until I finally gave them a response. If I showed the slightest bit of interest, they would jump on the phone to schedule a meeting. If I voiced any concerns, though—even if they were valid—they would be quickly dismissed as “unimportant” and replaced with solutions.

“So what if he is a little overweight, Leila? He can always get a gym membership.”

“But what about the fact that he hates animals?”

“It’s okay, you can get a bird.”

“And why does he only wear clothes in different shades of brown?”

“Ya Allah! He went to Yale, Leila! Stop being so picky!”

I swallowed it all, surrendering to the fact that my weekends now consisted of a steady stream of awkward dinners followed by parental interrogations. My mother had developed quite a knack for selecting the dullest men in the South Asian Muslim community. And while I tried to remain optimistic, after my last date with a computer programmer who sounded strangely like Apu from The Simpsons despite growing up in West Covina, I finally decided, for the sake of my sanity, that it was time to take matters into my own hands.