“Oh, Leila!” she shrieked excitedly as she leaned over the table to give me a hug. “You have made your mother so very happy,” she said, pressing me into her neck.

“Okay, okay,” I said, trying to pry her body off my face.

“All right.” She clasped her hands together. “First things first. We must create your bio-data.”

I groaned.

“Leila!” she exclaimed. “What do you expect me to send when people ask for your information?”

“I don’t know. Can’t you just tell them to do a Google stalk—I mean, search—like everyone else?” My mother shot me an unamused look. “Besides,” I grumbled, “haven’t you already collected a whole stack of applications in your portfolio thingy?”

“No, no, no.” She shook her head back and forth. “Those were just some sent to me here and there. But we must now do this the proper way.” She looked at me, her eyes gleaming with anticipation.

The thought of my bio-data making its rounds through the Muslimverse made me slightly queasy. I could already imagine the sea of judgmental aunties, their writhing tentacles picking apart every single detail from my weight to my skin color to my career choices. My stomach seething, I opened my mouth to take it all back, but the words didn’t dare escape my tongue. After weeks of the silent treatment, my irrational desires to please my mother clouded my better judgment. It was the curse of the Indian daughter. How could I have the heart to take away her excitement now? I sank into my chair. “Fine. Why don’t I just email you my résumé? Better yet, I’ll send you my CV.”

“Great!” my mother exclaimed, completely unfazed by my lack of enthusiasm. As she got up to finish cooking breakfast, I debated whether I was doing the right thing by handing so much power to my mother, of all people. Since it was too soon to tell, I quelled my doubts by reassuring myself that if all else failed, it might at least buy me some time to discover love on my own while my parents scoured the western region for a husband for me. Just because I had agreed to an arrangement didn’t mean I actually had to go through with it. I could just give them the illusion of power; give them some time to live out their lifelong dreams of doing the one thing they were explicitly born to do—control my life—while I continued a separate search for my own Bollywood romance. I tried to convince myself that this would be a win-win situation, but as I watched my mother cheerily chopping onions for my Spanish omelet with that maniacal grin on her face, I couldn’t help but wonder if the only deranged person in that kitchen was me.

* * *

“So we hear you are in your final year of residency at County General. How do you like it?” my mother asked as she spooned an extra-generous serving of vegetable pilaf onto Anwar’s plate.