Once all the food was set out, the uncles filled their plates before heading back into the living room while the aunties gathered around the dining table. The conversations darted back and forth between the food and stories from years ago, before my mother married. Since my mother was the only one in her family to move abroad, there was a lot of curiosity surrounding her life in Amreeka and all the things they had heard over the years.

I heard you can find Shan masala at the local grocery stores, is this true, Nida? Is it true that women also attend the masjid for Jummah namaz? Do they really teach sex education to children in elementary school?

My mother lived for this sort of attention, and she had no problem exaggerating mundane experiences—like discovering halal lamb at Costco or streaming her favorite Hindi serials on Netflix—for their entertainment.

“So when are you planning on getting Leila married?” one of the aunties asked after my mother finished a story about the “staggering rate of teenage pregnancy.” It was only a matter of time before the discussion shifted toward my unmarried status. And unfortunately for me, everyone had an opinion.

“Nida,” Fawiza aunty said, turning toward my mother, “Leila is much too old to not be settled already. You know, marriage is half her deen!”

And here we go again.

“That is what I keep telling her, but she won’t listen.” My mother shook her head, scowling in my direction.

“Leila, it is time for you to get married,” Jamila aunty called out to me matter-of-factly. “I know many young boys who would be a good match if you are interested.” I sipped my chai silently. My marriage clock was ticking on Indian time now, and Indian time was even more aggressive than I was used to.

“You know Masoud’s boy?” Shazia aunty said to my mother. “He just returned from completing his studies in London.”

“What about putting an ad in the Indian Express? You know, something simple like ‘Seeking an alliance for educated, fair, U.S.-born daughter.’” Jamila aunty looked at me and smiled. “Don’t mention her age and just watch. Leila will be the hot commodity!” She snapped her fingers. I looked away, trying to mask my humiliation.

“Yes, the Haider family down the hall found their daughter a very nice boy in the matrimonial section, even though she was nearly twenty-five,” Asima aunty said in hushed tones.

Suddenly Rashid uncle entered the dining room, clearing his throat loudly. All the women went quiet. He looked around sternly at each of the faces around the table, and then slowly turned to me. I gulped.

“What about Bilal? You know the Abdallas’ boy? He’s a CPA accountant,” he finally said, bobbling his head.

“Very good suggestion!” Jamila aunty chimed in. “He would be an excellent match for Leila.”

Was this seriously what my life had come to?

“He’s a very nice boy, but his hair is slightly thinning,” Rashid uncle said, reaching across the table for more pakoras.