That’s his pitch? Thank goodness Rashid uncle is a physician and not a salesman.

As the conversations about my marriage continued, I stared out the window, feeling helpless. Meena, watching carefully from the table, slowly got up and took a seat on the ledge next to me. Below, people rode past on bicycles. A group of boys were playing with an old soccer ball in the front courtyard. A pani puri vendor had set up a cart across the street and was doling out plates of the tasty snack to customers walking by. Meena looked at me and smiled. “So how do you like it here?” she finally asked.

As I heard my mother break into a monologue of all the prospects she had found for me and how I had refused each one, I rolled my eyes. “The only thing anyone cares about is whether I ate and when I’m getting married. So I guess it’s not much different from home,” I replied. Meena smiled and turned back toward the window.

“So, what is America like?”

“It’s okay, I guess.”

“Is it really as clean as it looks in the movies?”

“I suppose it’s cleaner than here.”

“California must be so glamorous,” she said wistfully. “Have you visited Hollywood?”

“Yeah, it’s like a twenty-minute drive from my house.”

I refrained from telling her that Hollywood was full of homeless people and crackheads. I also left out the details of how unglamorous my life back home was. She was getting married. Perfect, pretty Meena. The only thing I had was her unrealistic fantasy of America.

“Would you like something more to eat, Leila?” Jamila aunty suddenly called out. I shook my head, looking at all the empty small plates stacked on the ledge next to me. If I don’t start pacing myself, I’ll be grossly obese by the end of the week, I thought, glancing down at my belly. And I knew that my mother would be the first to remind me that overweight and single did not make a good combination.

“I’m actually feeling a bit tired. Would it be all right if I lie down for a bit?”

“Of course, beti. Meena will take you. You two will be sharing a room.”

Great.

I followed Meena down the hallway to the other side of the flat, the chatter from the front rooms becoming fainter. At the end of the hall, she flipped on the switch, and as the fluorescent lights flickered, a small bedroom came into view. The walls were painted in faux Venetian plaster, and there was a large bed in the center of the room with a luxurious gauze canopy and hand-embroidered throw pillows. Two mahogany armoires stood elegantly at the top corners of the bed. The room looked straight out of a Pier 1 catalog—but authentic. It was vastly different from the traditionally bland decor in the other rooms.

“Whoa,” I muttered, unable to hide my awe. “Your room is beautiful,” I said, touching the tiny wooden ornaments lined across the shelves.