Seema aunty opened up the filing cabinet behind her desk and pulled out a manila folder. “I ask all my clients to fill out this questionnaire before we begin.” She slid the folder across the desk in my direction. “Now, please be very detailed with your responses as it will give me a chance to know you better, Leila.” She gave me a gummy smile. I noticed there was lipstick on her right front tooth. “And Mrs. Abid”—she wagged a chubby finger at my mother—“no helping your daughter with these questions. Let her answer on her own.”

My mother appeared shocked by the suggestion but nonetheless nodded in compliance. Seema aunty told us she’d be back in a bit and closed the door of her office on her way out. I opened the manila folder. There was a packet of twenty pages stapled together. I lifted it up.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said, flipping through the pages. It was like the SATs. There was a true/false section, short-answer responses, and even a few essay questions. “In a paragraph or two, describe the qualities that your ideal partner possesses. Describe how you imagine married life to look. Explain your role as a husband/wife,” I read aloud.

“Subhanallah! These are very good questions,” my mother stated as she leaned over my shoulder. I could feel her inquisitive eyes surveying every word on the page. “Remember, Leila. Don’t hesitate to mention anything at all that might be important. For example, if you want a good family . . . or you want a doctor . . . or an engineer. Write down whatever is important to you.”

“Ammi, you’re not supposed to help me with this.”

“I’m only giving you suggestions, Leila, but if you don’t want—” She held up her hands in resignation. “I will sit here quietly.” She pretended to zip her lips. I looked back at the packet. I couldn’t believe I was being forced to complete this application. This was nothing more than a glorified version of the bio-datas my mother had stacked in her black binder at home. I sighed and glanced at the analog clock hanging on the wall. It was three o’clock. This was going to take me forever and all I wanted to do was put my sweatpants back on and vegetate in front of the TV. My mother opened up her purse and fished out a pen for me. I snatched it miserably and began to write.

Thirty-eight minutes and forty-two questions later, the office door opened and Seema aunty walked back in carrying a box of chum chums. She held out the box as an offering, but my mother and I shook our heads, politely declining. “Okay,” she said, taking a seat in the leather chair, which creaked under her weight. “Let’s see what you have for me.”

I watched her anxiously as I rubbed my fingers, trying to squeeze out the cramps. This was the most I had handwritten in years. Imagine how much time would be saved if they had just uploaded the application online. But clearly nothing about this process was twenty-first century.