While the idea of my parents arranging my marriage might seem preposterous, I had listened in on enough conversations at the mosque and community gatherings to know that this was a pretty normal topic of discussion in Muslim American households like mine. In traditional South Asian culture, marriage was considered the climactic point of one’s life. Most Indian parents equated marriage to happiness. Marriage was the ultimate goal. Once you reached this goal, you had not only attained happiness but had also completed the first half of your filial duties as an Indian son or daughter. (The second half completed only after the successful birth of a grandchild.)

I was always subconsciously aware of the importance of marriage in my culture, even though it was never directly stated by either of my parents. Even as a child, I had a slight inkling that all the hours spent in the kitchen with my mother held a far greater purpose than simply practicing the art of cooking. Looking back on it now, it was obvious that my mother was preparing me to become a “good” wife so I could one day honor my family by making impeccably seasoned biryani and rolling perfectly round chapatis for my future husband. The same way if I were a boy, I would’ve been taught early on to get good grades and prepare myself to apply to a respectable (non–liberal arts) college so I could study either medicine or engineering and become a more desirable candidate as a husband.

The signs were all there, so I probably should not have been quite as surprised by my parents’ plans for my future. The only problem was that I had never—at least not until that exact moment—considered my parents to be such staunch traditionalists. They had grown up in India and were both practicing Muslims, but despite being religiously conservative, they had made great efforts to assimilate to American culture when they immigrated almost thirty years ago.

For as long as I could remember, my mother wore high heels, watched Wheel of Fortune, and prided herself on her “international” cuisine. My father was a Dodgers fan. For all I knew, I was American. At least as American as a Starbucks chai tea latte. They had even agreed to let me go away for college and did a commendable job of pretending they didn’t know about all the Chad Edelsteins and the non-Camry-driving dates over the years. I could only assume they were kidding with this proposition . . . at first. But as soon as I saw my mother pull out a carefully organized portfolio of “bio-datas”—a collection of résumés containing the names, birth dates, family histories, and professions of all the South Asian Muslim potential grooms residing in the greater Los Angeles area—during dessert, I suddenly realized that this was no joke.

“How did you get all of these?” I asked incredulously as I watched my mother unclasp a one-inch stack of “applications” from the black portfolio.

“Oh, never mind all that,” she said, shrugging off my question. “Now that you are twenty-six, beti, it is time to think of our future.” She took a seat next to me at the table. “Remember, Leila, marriage is half your deen.”