“Look,” Tania whispered, nodding her head toward the entrance we came in through. I turned my head in that direction, along with all the other eyes in the room, and saw what could only be described as a real-life Bollywood bombshell. She strutted in glamorously—fully aware of the attention directed at her—with perfectly kohl-lined eyes, high cheekbones, long black hair cascading down her back, and bright red lips to match the traditional red sari she wore—which of course accentuated her curves in all the right places.

She smiled and talked confidently with the aunty, who rushed to greet her, while the handful of men in the room scrambled to pick their jaws up off the ground. I leaned into Tania, keeping my eyes on this exotic, magnificent creature. “Who is she?” I whispered.

“She is our competition,” Tania said, nervously adjusting the edge of her scarf. A part of me was relieved to see another non-hijabi in the room, but having to go head-to-head with this perfectly contoured specimen didn’t ease my confidence levels one bit. I smoothed my hair and leaned against the table, chewing my bottom lip anxiously. If a woman like that is still single, there’s no chance in hell for the rest of us. I motioned to the bartender to bring me another mocktail.

In the next ten minutes, more attendees began to stream in, and the ratio of men to women—and hijabis to non-hijabis—gradually balanced out. When the room had reached maximum capacity, we began the icebreaker activities, which were carefully designed to get us moving around and talking to people in an effort to spark an initial interest. Although none of the men really grabbed my attention right off the bat, I reminded myself to remain optimistic. In the midst of all the chatter surrounding me, I even tried a few times to catch another glimpse of Ms. Bollywood Bombshell so I could make sure to situate myself as far away from her as possible. Although I had paid particular attention to my appearance while getting ready for tonight’s event, the stress-eating from the past few weeks had finally caught up to me, adding a few extra pounds to my usually thin frame. I felt attractive enough, but I knew my love handles could never compete with her voluptuous figure, so I felt it was best to steer clear. Fortunately, with so many bodies in the room, it was difficult to spot her—which was comforting, to say the least.

After a few minutes, the organizers began waving their hands to get everyone’s attention. The chatter gradually faded to a quiet hush. The aunty handed each woman a pink index card while a formally dressed uncle passed out a blue card to each man. On the card, the names of each participant from the opposite gender were listed. Once everyone had a card, the aunty and uncle took turns dictating the ground rules for the main event:

There would be two women seated per table. (I made a silent prayer that I would not be seated at the same table as the red-lipsticked vixen). The men would rotate around the room every seven minutes until they’d had a chance to speak to every woman. After each “date,” the participants would fill out yes or no next to their date’s name on the index card. The organizers informed us that if we were on the fence about any of the candidates, it would be in our best interest to go with a yes because based on their past experience, “there’s no harm in giving someone a second chance.”