Never Say Never

The weeks following my decision were trying ones, to say the least. My parents—particularly my mother—did not take my refusal well, and she made certain I felt the gravity of her disappointment.

“Ammi, can you pass the sugar?” I asked at breakfast one morning, pouring myself a cup of chai.

My mother pushed the sugar jar in my direction, her eyes refusing to meet mine.

“The eggs are extra creamy today,” I raved, taking a generous bite. It was a cheap move, but I knew how much she enjoyed compliments.

Silence.

My father cleared his throat, darting discomfited glances from my mother to me. “Yes, jaan, the eggs are very tasty.”

“Thank you.” My mother turned to him, smiling sweetly. “It’s nice to know someone appreciates what I do.”

“I believe I’m the one who said they were creamy,” I said, lifting my hand.

My mother rolled her eyes and scooped more eggs onto my father’s plate.

“I was thinking I might go out tonight with a friend. Would that be okay?”

More silence.

I looked over at my father. He gave me a helpless shrug.

“So you’re just not going to talk to me?” I eventually blurted. My mother looked at me, her mouth slightly agape.

“Jaan,” she finally said, her voice slow yet firm. “Would you please tell your daughter that if she has not reconsidered our offer, then I have nothing to say?”

This time, I rolled my eyes. My mother could try to guilt me as much as she wanted; my mind had been made up. I had no intentions of reconsidering. In fact, I felt quite confident with my decision . . . or so I thought.

I tried to ignore my mother’s silence, but less than a month in, I suddenly started seeing signs of love and marriage everywhere. Whether it was a HAPPINESS IS MARRIAGE bumper sticker, a two-for-one couples discount at the local diner, or the obnoxiously incessant “Love Your Spouse” challenges on my social media feed, it was as if my mother had convinced the universe to conspire against me. Like they had combined powers and joined together to put nazr on my new independent self. How could I fight against two such powerful forces? And if that alone wasn’t bad enough, when an acne-riddled sixteen-year-old accidentally addressed me as “Mrs.” in the school cafeteria, I finally decided to concede to my fate.

“I’ll do it,” I said to my mother at breakfast the following morning.

She dipped a piece of cake rusk into her teacup and remained silent.

“Ammi, I’ll let you arrange my marriage.” As soon as the last of these words left my mouth, I knew there was no turning back. If someone had happened to walk into our kitchen at that exact moment, they probably would have thought my mother had just won the California Lottery from the look on her face. Her eyes were sparkling, and she was grinning from ear to ear like a deranged maniac. It was practically the same expression she had every time there was a “buy one, get one free” sale on basmati rice at the Indian grocery.