“Don’t feel bad, Leila, beti. It will happen for you too,” my mother consoled me, even though I had given her no indication of needing consolation. “Marriage is part of our tradition. Every girl dreams of one day being a wife. It is the most important job you will have—aside from being a mother.” She looked at me and smiled. I bit my tongue and kept my eyes on the road. “You know, I think maybe you should spend more time with me in the kitchen,” she offered. “I can help you with your cooking. A girl your age should know how to do more than just roll chapatis, don’t you think?”

Once again, my mother did what she always did. She blamed my lack of domesticity for every one of my failures. As if cooking were the not-so-hidden answer to all of life’s problems.

“I don’t understand how cooking has anything to do with me not being engaged,” I muttered, the frustration in my voice edging through.

“Beti, it has everything to do with you not being engaged. You know what they say: the way to a man’s heart is cutting through his stomach.”

“I don’t think that’s the phrase, Ammi. I think you’ve just described murder.”

“Oh, you know what I mean, Leila.” She playfully slapped my thigh. “The point is, you must make yourself more appealing as a wife. Learn to cook and watch how quickly you’ll attract a husband. When I was your age I knew how to make all kinds of . . .” She continued on and on.

I sighed, looking glumly at the road ahead. Even though my mother was trying to be helpful in her own annoying way, she came from a different generation. She didn’t understand that my views of marriage and gender roles differed from her own—which was exactly why I had refrained from sharing my answers with her at Seema aunty’s office that day. In my opinion, there was more to being a wife than just cooking and cleaning. From my mother’s perspective, that was the sole responsibility. While there was nothing wrong with her views, my vision of marriage was more American than Indian. I wanted someone who was not only my dance partner, but also my life partner. Someone who was my equal. Someone who challenged cultural expectations and didn’t adhere to conventional gender roles. But how could I make her understand these things? How could I make her see that I desired more—more than what she had—without breaking her heart or causing her to go into hysterics? All her talk about cooking did was reinforce my belief that if cooking was the only way to a traditional Indian man’s heart, then traditional definitely was not the type of man I wanted to attract.

* * *

“Come in! Come in!” Yasmeen aunty greeted us at the door. The spicy aroma of chai wafted pleasantly from inside.

My mother had insisted that I come in to say hello—even though I had insisted it wasn’t necessary. I did not win that argument. Yasmeen aunty lived in this palatial home in Palos Verdes Estates with a circular driveway and tall, pristinely pruned hedges lined up like neat little soldiers around the edge of the yard. As we’d walked toward the door, my mother had turned to me and clucked her tongue in disapproval.