A Match Made in Mehendi

by Nandini Bajpai

  Not even a thank-you that my clumsiness scored them a discount?

  “You are so kind,” Preet murmurs to Jolly after they leave. Her smile is extra warm.

  Jolly waves off the praise. But his ears go even redder.

  I raise an eyebrow. I may be in trouble right now, but they’re so vibing.

  “Simi, you’re bleeding!” Preet points to my hand.

  “What?!” I look down and, to my surprise, a small trickle of blood drips from my right palm.

  Jolly lifts it and examines the cut.

  “It looks clean,” Geet says clinically.

  “There’s a first aid kit in my office,” Jolly says. “I can go get it. Or you all can come with me?”

  “My mom has Band-Aids in the car. She’ll be fine,” Geet insists.

  Honestly, can’t she see Jolly’s trying to buy more time with Preet? Duh. So obvious.

  “It really hurts,” I whine, because someone has to help Jolly out. “And I don’t think Masi has a kit in the car anymore.”

  “Let’s get one from the office,” Jolly replies.

  Preet takes my arm and pulls me along. Geet follows close behind, looking annoyed. I try to hide my grin.

  Jolly ushers us toward a plush office in the back. There’s a big dark wood desk, a carved-wood-and-velvet sofa set, and a coffee table in the middle, covered in more fat textbooks. He pulls a first aid kit from a drawer in his desk. He clears away the books, piling them on the desk as he gestures toward the sofas. “Please, sit.”

  Preet takes the first aid kit from him and binds up my cut expertly, after cleaning it with an antiseptic wipe. “Oh, you have a cut, too.” She points to his wrist.

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Here, let me.”

  I jump up quickly to make room for Jolly to take my place beside her. This time Preet’s hands are not quite so steady as she works. Jolly’s making her laugh, and her bangles jingle prettily. Their heads tilt close together as she presses the Band-Aid along his wrist.

  “It’s really nice of you not to charge for the vase,” Preet tells him. “And to give my mom a discount. I think you’ve earned a lifelong customer. She’s so going to recommend your store to everyone now.”

  “It was the right thing to do. The important thing is that Simi isn’t hurt,” he says.

  “I agree.” Preet clicks the first aid kit shut. A strand of hair tucked behind her ear falls forward, and she pushes it back with one hand. She gives Jolly an impish smile.

  He grins back.

  I usually hate this kind of stuff. Being the kid of a matchmaker means you’re stuck in the middle of lovey-dovey romantic crap all day long. But seeing Preet like this makes me happy. The sparks flying between her and Jolly could seriously power the national grid. Talk about chemistry. I can almost hear the faint sound of wedding dhols drumming in the distance.

  Jolly looks over at me and Geet. “Would you like something to eat?”

  She shakes her head, but I pipe up. “Yes, please.”

  “Ravi, chai samosa lah,” Jolly calls out, and within minutes, one of the other salesmen has brought out the tea and snacks.

  I reach right over and grab a samosa. The crispy crust is hot and stuffed with potatoes and peas. I sigh with delight as I dip mine into the spicy green chutney and take a big bite.

  Preet and Jolly laugh at me.

  “What?” I say with a mouthful. “They’re my favorite.”

  They turn back to each other, chatting away like Geet and I aren’t in the room. The scent of fried yumminess, peppery and warm, curls around them on the sofa like an invisible blanket.

  I elbow Geet and nod toward the sofa, where Preet has now gently placed a hand on Jolly’s arm, her head thrown back in laughter. “Geet Di, maybe we should, you know, look at rugs or something?”

  “Why?” Geet says.

  I nudge her meaningfully. Is she honestly not seeing this?

  She likes him? she mouths at me, and I nod. She can be pretty slow for a onetime National Merit Scholar.

  She narrows her eyes, watching Preet and Jolly with a small crease between her brows, as if she’s observing an experiment. In her head, she’s probably going through the list Mom and Masi use when they make a match:

  JOLLY’S CASTE: The turban tells us he’s Jat.

  RELIGION: Sikh

  GENDER: Male

  AGE: Late twenties

  STATUS: Available? No wedding ring visible.

  EDUCATION AND EMPLOYMENT: Needs further investigation.

  Eavesdropping reveals interesting details: Jolly’s the son of the furniture store’s owner. He’s looking after it while his father is in India on a buying trip. And he’s a lawyer. Or will be soon, anyway.

  “Yeah, I’m taking the bar exam in six weeks,” Jolly says. “My dad always tells me to leave my law books home—he’s afraid I’ll end up distracted and knock something over.” He flashes a smile at me.

  Preet laughs. “Oh, you should see some of the things Simi has knocked over in her life—lamps, gigantic bowls of watermelon, garden ornaments. And then there was that incident with the bike, the day she got her training wheels off; remember, Sim?”

  Preet’s still laughing, but a glance at my ruby-red face and she shuts right up. “But, I mean, it runs in the family, nah?”

  “I’m not listening to this,” I say, mock-offended, and sneak out my sketchbook. I roll my eyes and practice drawing random figures while we wait for Mom and Masi to return. I sneak glances at them—moving close, mirrored hand motions, eye contact—all signs of a couple liking each other, at least according to leading relationship experts Mom and Masi.

  I do a quick sketch of Preet and Jolly. Not to brag or anything, but it’s great. Catches the moment and everything. I decorate the air around them with little hearts and smiles. Yeah, I’d totally ship them if I were the matchmaking type. Which I am not.

  The door swings open and Mom and Masi scurry over, their arms full of fabric swatches. Looks like the discount has triggered some more shopping.

  “All done?” I say, standing, ready to go.

  Mom notices the Band-Aid on my hand. “Simi, are you hurt?”

  “Just a scratch. Preet took care of it. Can we go home now?”

  “Just make sure you don’t forget anything,” Mom says. “Your cell phone, your book…”

  “Here.” Masi picks up my sketchbook and turns it over before handing it to me. “What’s this?”

  The sketch of Preet and Jolly—in all its heart-sprinkled glory!

  “Good God,” Geet mutters.

  “Hai Rabba,” Mom echoes in Punjabi.

  I flush to the roots of my hair, but I’m pale compared with Preet’s rosy cheeks.

  “It’s just a sketch for my figure-drawing class. I didn’t mean anything by it. Just trying to draw from life…” I realize the implication of my words as soon as they’re out. Oops.

  “Oh, you know Simi; such an overactive imagination. Remember when she was seven and thought Jeetu Uncle was a Bollywood star?” Geet says, trying to run interference.

  “She’s just a kid,” Preet says. She turns to Jolly to explain. “Very creative, you know?”

  Jolly doesn’t say a word, but his face is suddenly serious. He holds Preet’s gaze with calm, questioning eyes. Preet stops talking for once. Her lips curve into a tiny smile as a silent exchange passes between them.

  Masi sits down on the sofa, wearing a small frown.

  Mom pats a hairpin back into her bun and squares her shoulders. Her eyes wander over the wall of the office where Jolly’s college diplomas hang, in between framed pictures of the Sikh gurus, hands raised in blessing. Her eyebrows rise. It’s finally clicked that Jolly isn’t an employee but the owner’s son.

  Mom exchanges a quick glance with my masi, her expression thoughtful. “Beta, will you tell us more about your family? Perhaps we know them?”

  “We’re from Kapurthala originally, but I was born here in New Jersey, Auntie.” Jolly is quick
to respond. “My father is an engineer by trade, but he started an import-export business twenty years ago, including the furniture store. My parents are in India right now; that’s why I’m helping run the store.”

  Mom sits by Masi, taking the sketch from her. “I do know your parents, though it’s been a while since we met,” she says. “You’re related to the Randhawas in Washington, DC, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, that’s my mamaji,” Jolly says.

  Masi nods approvingly, pulls her reading glasses from her pocket, and puts them on. There’s nothing to read. She’s shifted gears into dead-serious mode. “It’s nice that you’re helping with the family business. But where did you go to school, and what have you studied?” She’s looking for confirmation of the credentials she sees on the wood panels of his office wall.

  “Georgetown Law,” Jolly says. “And Penn for undergrad. I’m an attorney.” He motions to his desk. “Or I will be, as soon as I pass the bar.”

  “Beta, we would love to catch up with your parents,” Masi says. “It’s been too long since we saw them last. When are they returning from India?”

  “In a week,” Jolly says, smiling. “I’ll have them call you as soon as they’re back.”

  My mom and Masi grin, too. That gleam in their eyes means trouble.

  They’re going to ruin everything by getting parents involved.

  I open my mouth to say something but stop at the serene look on Preet’s face. She likes this guy, or she would have stopped Mom and Masi in their tracks. Nothing happens to Preet that Preet doesn’t want, that much I know.

  Technically, no one broke the do-not-matchmake rule, either.

  I just broke a vase instead.

  chapter three

  The first day of sophomore year—I’m hoping it’s perfect.

  My outfit is Preet-inspired—a slim-fit denim skirt, white embroidered kurti top, and an armful of bangles. Flip-flops and a beaded hemp anklet over my mehendi design complete the look. The blend-into-the-background version of me would never put mehendi on during the school year or wear glass bangles to school—an accident waiting to happen. But the New Me loves bangles and mehendi. This year I’m listening to the New Me.

  I send Noah a selfie.

  Too much?

  Nooo. It’s so you!!

  Being myself, just like my stylist ordered!

  I came down with Sudden-Onset Chronic Shyness when I started high school. Thanks to the Mortifying Thing that happened at the beginning of freshman year, I went from doing, saying, and wearing what I liked to second-guessing everything. The few friends I hung out with, mostly Desi like me, branched off into different classes and cliques. But Noah and I stuck together. Two freshmen paddling in the tricky waters of high school, trying not to make waves.

  Not anymore.

  This year, Noah and I have decided to walk tall and act like we matter.

  I know, I know. It’s easy to say that everyone should matter, but in real life some people seem to matter more than others—people like Amanda Taylor. And it’s the Amandas of the world who choose who else should matter. But I’m tired of waiting around for someone to deem me worthy. Nope. This year, I’m taking it into my own hands, and so is Noah.

  Our original plan was to start a club—something fun that would make us look good on college applications, too. We were going to think of an idea over the summer, but we couldn’t come up with anything worth the effort. Now time’s running out.

  I text Noah again.

  We still don’t have a club idea!

  Yeah. Do it next year?

  Nooo. We’ll be too busy studying.

  I’ve seen what my brother, Navdeep, now a senior, had to go through as a junior. Good grades, AP tests, extracurriculars, SAT prep. This is our last chance to take a risk in high school. Next year there won’t be any time for mistakes.

  Let’s just join one.

  What’s left? We tried Earth Club, Model UN, Mock Trial, Spanish Club, FBLA.…

  Face it. We’re not Future Business Leaders of America material.

  I liked Art Club.

  RIP Art Club.

  Figures. The one club Noah and I liked got shut down for lack of members. Most of the art kids have other clubs or activities they need to get to after school—a lot of them are in band, too, like Aiden James, graffiti god, clarinet section first chair, and my art class friend. And the rest are too “antiestablishment,” as Ms. Furst would say, to join forces.

  Amanda started a Spirit Club.

  WTH is that?

  No clue.

  Well, no thank you! Let’s keep thinking.

  Okay. Leaving now. Byyeeeee!

  I put away my phone and start to pace. Usually my room is where I’m most comfortable—my girl cave, Mom calls it. My drawings decorate the walls. Favorite greeting cards I’ve saved hang from little clothespins, clipped to a ribbon strung between the lamp and my bedpost. My desk and bookshelf are stacked with stuff I love—my art supplies, the cloth elephant decorated with tiny bells that Nanima got me from India, and a decorative shoe rack with my favorite embroidered kolhapuri juttis. But today I’m on edge even here.

  My favorite corner of the room is my henna station, with its little brown packets of mehendi lined up alongside my latest experiments. Which reminds me, I forgot to scrape away the dried mehendi from my ankle. As the dark henna flakes off, the design underneath appears, stained a deep cranberry red. It turned out beautiful!

  My nerves start to fade. But then Mom’s voice drifts through the vents as she talks on the phone to Masi, who lives right next door.

  “Simran definitely has it!”

  The sound of my name makes me jump. I crane my neck to listen.

  “She’s a born vicholi. Flawless instincts—she made a match right before our eyes.”

  “No one even knew that the Singhs’ son was back in town and available.”

  Apparently, Jolly’s one of those local “boys” who flew under Mom and Masi’s radar for years—very eligible, but no one could confirm whether he was in a relationship or looking or what.

  “He’s turned out so handsome and smart,” Mom says. “And we thought he was a furniture salesman—imagine! But Simi wasn’t fooled. She’s the next generation of vichole.”

  Oooof. I squeeze my eyes shut and grimace as my stress levels shoot up again. If I don’t watch out, they’ll indenture me into our cringey family business before I graduate!

  My phone alarm blares. Only fifteen minutes until Noah gets here to walk to school. I knot my long, wavy hair, still damp from the shower, into a messy bun—my default look for when I’m out of time.

  Mom knocks on my door. “Simi, breakfast!”

  “I don’t want anything,” I shout back.

  “You will have a cup of chai and an omelet. I’m not sending an unfed girl to school. Especially not on the first day. Now, downstairs in five minutes. Masi is coming over, too.”

  “Oh no,” I mutter.

  “What was that?” she says, and I know her ear is pressed up against the door.

  “Nothing,” I reply.

  When I get down to the kitchen, Masi is grinning at me like the Cheshire cat. If I get close to her, I know she’ll smother me in a jappi, so I stay an arm’s length away.

  “Beta,” she says. “I’m just so happy!” I swat away her grabby hands trying to wrap me up in a hug. “I was very worried that it had skipped a generation or something. And that none of our kids would be able to carry on the family business.”

  “I’m not a matchmaker. Can’t people find their own matches now?”

  My older brother, Navdeep, looks up from his nerdy robotics magazine. “Wait, what? Simi’s a matchmaker?”

  I shout no, and Masi and Mom say yes at the same time.

  “If they have anything to do with it!” I explain, flashing him my help me face.

  “Give it a rest,” Navdeep says to Mom and Masi. “Let Simi figure out what she wants, okay? It’s like Dad pressuring me to apply pre-m
ed all over again. Just because he’s a doctor doesn’t mean I have to be one.”

  I snap a two-figure salute at him for effort. He may torment me sometimes, but we do have an unspoken pact to team up in the face of parental pressure.

  “There’s nothing wrong with trying something new,” Masi says. “You volunteered at your dad’s clinic, but no one’s stopping you from pursuing engineering.”

  “Volunteering at Dad’s clinic was a total waste of time. I can’t even use it as an extracurricular for engineering,” Navdeep complains. “Don’t do that to Simi. Let her be a teen docent at the art museum, or a henna-tattoo artist, or any other ridiculous thing she wants to be.”

  “But she has the talent for matching, puttar,” Mom says. “And there’ve been matchmakers in our family for generations.”

  “So what? This is America, Ma. We can be whatever we want, right?” Navdeep looks to me. “Hey, Simi, you want me to drop you at school?”

  “I’m walking down with Noah,” I say. “He should be here any minute. But thanks.”

  “Anytime,” he says. He grabs his car keys and walks off, but only after making a mock eyes on you gesture to Mom and Masi.

  “Thappar kha!” Mom threatens, lifting a palm like she’s about to swat him. He skips out the door laughing.

  “See?” I say after he leaves. “Do you see how unreasonable you’re both being now?”

  “No one is forcing you into anything,” Mom says, setting a steaming omelet in front of me. “We’re just happy you’re talented.”

  “Yes, so talented,” Masi says, squeezing me.

  “Stop it!” I say, rolling my eyes.

  The doorbell rings.

  I jump up and go answer it.

  Noah!

  I drag him inside. “They’re on a rampage,” I whisper to him before leading him into the kitchen. “Save me.”

  “Hey, Noah,” Mom says, pulling him into a big hug because Noah’s been part of the family from the day we met in kindergarten. “Chai?”

  “Hello, Mrs. Sangha,” Noah says. “Hi, Meera Masi!”

  “Beta, is that a rash?” Mom’s fingertips hover inches away from Noah’s cheek. The pink peeling skin looks too painful to touch.