Matchmaker, Matchmaker

“Leila, beti, can you come in here?” my mother called from the kitchen. “We need to talk about something.” My stomach dropped. I had spent the first half of my weekend recovering from my Bollywood nightmare, and despite the piles of papers that still needed to be graded, all I wanted to do was lie on the couch indulging in romantic comedies and wallowing over my failed love life. Whatever it was that my mother wanted to talk about, I just wasn’t in the mood.

“Ammi, what is it?” I yelled back from the couch. There was some shuffling in the kitchen and then footsteps. Finally, my mother appeared in the living room wearing a polka-dotted apron and holding a rolling pin in her hand. I picked up the remote and muted the TV.

“Leila, I know you wanted to find somebody on your own, but look at you.” She nodded her head toward my oversize T-shirt with holes in the armpits and my long black hair, rolled into a messy topknot. “It just doesn’t look like you’re off to a very good start.” My mother possessed a natural flair for capitalizing on my lowest moments.

I rolled down my sweatpants and picked a single Cheeto off my shirt—examining it thoroughly before placing it in my mouth. “What are you suggesting, Ammi?” I said, licking the orange powder from my fingers.

“Well, since you ask . . .” She smiled and pushed my legs aside, making herself comfortable next to me. “Do you remember Rubina aunty?”

I shook my head. In South Asian culture, any person who was middle-aged was automatically referred to as aunty or uncle. I remember from when I was a kid how confusing this was to my non-desi friends, who just assumed that all Indian people were somehow related to one another. As my parents’ circle of friends continued growing over the years, even I could hardly keep track of all the aunties and uncles rolling through.

“You remember,” my mother persisted. “We met her last Eid at Sharmila aunty’s house. She brought the lamb biryani?” I continued shaking my head. “The rice was slightly undercooked. It ruined the whole taste. Remember? She wore that beaded salwar kameez that looked terrible with her maroon lipstick. Remember?”

“Oh, yes, the maroon lipstick. I remember,” I said, rolling my eyes.

“Well,” she continued, my deception going unnoticed, “Rubina aunty’s daughter-in-law, Mariam, has that friend with the boy-cut hair. Well, her mother has a neighbor who is a dentist, Dr. Fareedah, who is friends with another sister who works for the local mosque and does matchmaking in our community. So, of course, I told her about you, Leila.” She smiled and patted my leg. “And guess what? She wants to meet us!” And there it was. My mother had scheduled an appointment with a community matchmaker.

“Ammi,” I protested. “Please tell me you’re kidding. Who goes to a matchmaker these days?”

“Leila, matchmaking is a very good way to find an alliance,” she said, sounding like the official spokesperson for South Asian matchmakers everywhere. “What is the problem?” She shrugged. “It is the same thing your friends are trying to do, except she is a professional.”