The Marriage Clock

by Zara Raheem

  * * *

  “Well, that was a very nice evening,” my father said. The three of us were standing on the doorstep waving goodbye to our guests as they backed out of the driveway. My cheeks were starting to numb, and I wondered how much longer I would have to keep the fake smile plastered across my face.

  “Yes, it could not have gone any better.” My mother beamed as the glare from the headlights turned onto the road. We shut the door behind us, and I stealthily backed out of the room while my parents continued gushing about what a wonderful night it had been. Just as I was about to reach the hallway, my mother’s voice called after me.

  “Leila, beti, can you help me with the dishes?”

  I groaned. So close.

  “Coming,” I said, dragging my feet into the kitchen.

  “So, how did it go with Anwar?” my mother finally asked.

  “Okay,” I said, stacking the dirty plates in the sink.

  “Just okay?” My mother turned to me. “You two were talking for a very long time.”

  “He was asking me if you guys were chronic tooters.”

  “Tutors?” She scrunched her face. “Did you tell him about the after-school tutoring you started for your students? He will be very impressed to learn that!” She bobbled her head.

  “No, Ammi, that’s not what I meant,” I said, annoyed. “Never mind.”

  “Don’t worry if you didn’t get a chance to say everything, Leila. We will see the Rehmans again next weekend, insha’Allah. You can mention the tutoring to him then.”

  “What?” I turned to her, my soapy hands dripping onto the floor. “What do you mean we’re seeing them next weekend?”

  “Mona aunty invited us for dinner. Beti, we cannot say no,” she said, pouring the leftover curries into clear Tupperware containers. “I think you should wear your light pink salwar kameez. And go a little easy with the eyeliner next time.” She pointed to my face. “How can we see your eyes with all this black stuff?”

  I sighed. “If they invited you, why do I have to go?”

  “Because Anwar will be there!” she exclaimed. “Leila, what is the problem?”

  “I’m not interested in him,” I stated flatly.

  “Not interested?” my mother repeated, her voice surging. “Leila, he is smart. He is good-looking. And he is a doctor. Really, what is the problem?”

  I shrugged, feeling irked by her debriefing. She couldn’t possibly have thought Anwar was the one for me. This was only a first date, and she was already planning the wedding.

  “He’s a nice guy, but we just didn’t connect,” I said.

  “Connect? What is this, a Wi-Fi signal?” My mother glared at me.

  “Ammi, didn’t you say if I didn’t like someone, I would have other options?” I asked. “You’ve only introduced me to one prospect, and you’re already putting all this pressure on me.”

  “No pressure, Leila.” My mother held up her hands. “But he is really a very good boy—”

  “I know, Ammi.”

  “Even his parents are both very nice—”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “And you’re now saying you’re not feeling the same—”

  “I don’t know, Ammi.”

  “I mean, it makes no sense, Leila! How can you not like—”

  “I just don’t,” I snapped.

  My mother and I stared at each other, the tension mounting above the silence. Neither of us spoke a word.

  “Can we move on?” I finally asked.

  “Fine,” my mother said quietly, placing the Tupperware in the fridge. “I will let them know.”

  “Thank you,” I said, breathing a sigh of relief. But when I turned to offer her a smile, she was already gone.

  The Marriage Clock

  If my mother was disappointed by my decision about Anwar, she didn’t show it. Instead, she kicked her matchmaking duties into overdrive and made sure to give me every “option” she could find. The next few weeks could only be described as a classic Bollywood flop. Each morning, I awakened to a freshly printed stack of bio-datas on my nightstand with certain phrases like cardiovascular surgeon, computer engineer, and close to his family highlighted. Other times, I would just receive a random text message with a guy’s picture and the words Harvard educated below it. How my mother managed to acquire so many prospects, I had no idea. It was as if she was a card-carrying member of an elite, underground rishta network comprising middle-aged suburban aunties with a lot of time on their hands. Needless to say, I quickly realized that it worked in my favor to not question the process.

  Meal conversations were spent with my parents quizzing and grilling me on the information listed in the bio-datas in attempts to determine PGC—potential groom compatibility.

  “Did you see what was listed under hobbies, Leila?”

  “No, Abba, I didn’t.”

  “It says that he played tennis in high school.”

  “Cool.”

  “You also played tennis, Leila. Remember?”

  “Yes, Ammi. How could I forget?”

  “And he also enjoys watching movies, just like you!”

  “I’m pretty sure everyone enjoys watching movies, Ammi. That’s like saying you like french fries.”

  “No, Leila, it is very rare to have so many things in common. What do you think, jaan?”

  “I think he sounds perfect.”

  “Yes, I agree. What do you think, Leila?”

  These discussions would typically end with my parents staring at me eagerly until I finally gave them a response. If I showed the slightest bit of interest, they would jump on the phone to schedule a meeting. If I voiced any concerns, though—even if they were valid—they would be quickly dismissed as “unimportant” and replaced with solutions.

  “So what if he is a little overweight, Leila? He can always get a gym membership.”

  “But what about the fact that he hates animals?”

  “It’s okay, you can get a bird.”

  “And why does he only wear clothes in different shades of brown?”

  “Ya Allah! He went to Yale, Leila! Stop being so picky!”

  I swallowed it all, surrendering to the fact that my weekends now consisted of a steady stream of awkward dinners followed by parental interrogations. My mother had developed quite a knack for selecting the dullest men in the South Asian Muslim community. And while I tried to remain optimistic, after my last date with a computer programmer who sounded strangely like Apu from The Simpsons despite growing up in West Covina, I finally decided, for the sake of my sanity, that it was time to take matters into my own hands.

  “What do you mean you don’t want us to find any more rishtas for you?” cried my mother when I broke the news to her. “How else will you find a husband?” She clutched one hand to her heart and waved the other in the air. “Ya Allah! What will we do with a twenty-six-year-old unwed daughter? This is my life’s curse!”

  I sighed and prepared myself for the drama I had known would inevitably follow the announcement of my decision.

  “Look, Ammi. I met more than my share of potential grooms from your portfolio these last few weeks, but I’m going to need extensive therapy if I have to sit through any more of those horrible dinners.”

  My mother shot a look of confusion across the table at my father. “Horrible dinners?” My father shrugged, his face mirroring the same uncertainty as my mother’s. “I thought the dinners all went exceptionally well, no?”

  “I agree, jaan, they went very well.” He nodded in agreement. “In fact, the kheer was especially delicious last night with the Khans.”

  “Oh, really, you thought so?” My mother switched off her hysteria as swiftly as she’d switched it on, suddenly beaming with pride. There was nothing she loved more than a food-related compliment. “You know, I added some condensed milk in there for a little extra sweetness,” she stated proudly, wobbling her head.

  What is happening right now? I thought as I watched my parents discuss their mutual
affinity for condensed milk. The only thing I could even remember about last night’s dinner was the enormously long, wiry black hair protruding from my potential groom’s fleshy left nostril—never mind the dessert. Now, if they had wanted to have a conversation about that monstrosity, I would have been on board, but, the last thing I wanted to do was discuss cooking techniques. “Are you even listening to me?” I finally interrupted with an exasperated sigh. “I’m talking about needing therapy and all you guys can talk about is the kheer?”

  “Leila, beti, we are not ‘guys,’ we are your parents. Do not use this term with us,” my father said with impatience. “And tell us now, what exactly is your plan for finding a good boy, who fits all our requirements, without our help?”

  “I don’t know, Abba. But maybe we could spend some time reevaluating how well your requirements match with mine to reach some sort of . . . compromise.” I stumbled over the final syllables as they hastily left my mouth. My parents stared at me with doubt etched across their faces. A reevaluation of any kind was definitely out of the question.

  Who am I kidding? I thought miserably. My requirements, my wants, my tastes meant nothing to my parents. All this time, they simply pretended they didn’t know about my dating history because it was far easier than having to admit that I could actually have preferences of my own. Maybe I hadn’t found what I was looking for yet, but I had gone out with enough guys—desi and non-desi—to at least know what I didn’t want. If they would only be willing to hear my opinions, this process could go so much smoother. But as far as they were concerned, they already knew what was best for me and my future. I was just interfering. As frustrating as it was, I knew I had to play this smarter if I was going to convince them to let me do this on my own. I had to hit them with an angle they didn’t expect.

  “What if you just gave me a little bit of time to find someone on my own? And in return”—I rushed through without giving them a chance to interrupt—“I give you my word that I will find someone who you both approve of. I mean, based on all the promising prospects you’ve already found, how hard can it be, right?” I said, flashing them my most convincing smile.

  “It is very hard, Leila! Don’t you understand, beti, you are already twenty-six!” my mother cried, hysterical once more. I rolled my eyes at the emphasis placed on the twenty and the six. Any time age was referred to in an Indian household, it was a reminder that the marriage clock was ticking. The fact that my age had already been announced twice in a span of five minutes suggested that mine was not only ticking but was on the verge of falling off the wall. While twenty-six was still considered young in American years, in South Asian years, I was almost past my expiration date. Fortunately for me, my mother never hesitated to point this out.

  “I’ve only been twenty-six for a couple months, Ammi. It’s not that big a—”

  “But tomorrow, you will be thirty!”

  “That’s not how aging works, Ammi.”

  “And what will we do when that day comes? Who’s going to marry you after thirty? Have you thought about that? Ya Allah!” my mother wailed as she placed her palm over her forehead for extra effect. “We have waited too long!” She turned to my father despairingly. “We are going to be old and without grandchildren! Our noses will be cut!”

  “Arey, arey,” my father interjected, reaching across the table and taking my mother’s hand. “Leila, your ammi is right. Your time is short. If we don’t act quickly, this will not end well.” My mother let out another wail.

  I tried to appear sympathetic, but I couldn’t understand why they were being so dramatic. I had just turned twenty-six. And mentally, I felt even younger. I didn’t own a home yet. I had just started my career. Aside from Cancún, I had never traveled outside the country, and my mother still did my laundry—I was barely an adult! I still had my whole life ahead of me, yet my parents were acting as if I had been diagnosed with a terminal illness and given only a few weeks to live. Sure, I was slightly older than more traditional Indian girls in starting the process of finding a husband, but I still had plenty of time. Most Americans in their mid-twenties were still in the “discovery” phase. They were traveling, partying, enjoying the single life. None of my other non-Muslim friends were panicking about dying alone yet. What my parents’ generation didn’t understand was that it was much more common for people to marry later in life these days. Besides, everyone knew that South Asians didn’t raisin, so they had nothing to worry about.

  “Listen, Leila,” my father continued. “I know you think you can do this alone, but please, beti. There is too much at stake. Allow us to help you,” he said in a hopeful tone.

  “No, Abba, wait,” I cried. All I wanted was to have some say in my future, but they had managed to turn this into stakes and cut noses. Any hope I once had was now seeping through my fingers like tiny grains of sand, and I could feel a sense of urgency roaring in my gut. I had to do something—anything—to regain some control over my life. I took a deep breath and tried to stay calm.

  “Just hear me out.” I looked at them pleadingly. “I’m just asking for a little time to explore this process on my own and for you both to trust me. That is all. Just a little time.”

  After a few moments of thought, my mother finally spoke up, her voice shaky and small. “Okay, Leila, we will let you try on your own. But listen carefully, you are at a very crucial point in your life.” She wagged her finger at me. “We have already waited too long; we cannot risk any more time. If you do not succeed in finding a suitable boy by our thirtieth anniversary, it is in our hands from there,” she said warningly, holding up the dreaded black portfolio. “No more excuses.”

  I exhaled and nodded quickly, trying not to imagine the awful contents remaining in the folder. I had approximately three months before my parents’ anniversary in July, and based on what I had just promised, I knew the odds were already stacked against me. At the most basic level, my parents simply wanted someone who was South Asian and Muslim. A sudden flashback of Chad Edelstein quickly reminded me that I had already come to the same conclusion years ago. We were all in agreement on at least two of their requirements. The rest, I wasn’t so sure.

  I needed to find not only someone whom they approved of, but someone who also checked off all forty-six items on my list. Sexy with a sense of humor; sensitive yet strong; American-born but also cultured—especially in his love of Bollywood. My exact counterpart. The type of person I could fall in love with. Although three months hardly seemed like a reasonable amount of time to accomplish this feat, I knew that if there was anything I was good at, it was a challenge. And this was one challenge I could not afford to lose.

  Set in Motion

  “What do you mean you have three months to find a husband?” squealed Hannah as she gawked at me with widened eyes. It was a typical Tuesday night, and my girlfriends and I were hanging out in Liv’s apartment eating junk food and watching high-quality reality television—in other words, anything playing on the Bravo network. I had been anxiously waiting all evening, trying to figure out the perfect time to tell them about my newfound predicament, and the best I could come up with was during a Real Housewives marathon—right after Ramona Singer downed her fifteenth glass of pinot grigio.

  “You can’t be serious, Leila. That’s not a lot of time.” Hannah frowned as she tucked a strand of thick red hair behind her ear. Liv muted the television and shook her head with a worried look on her face.

  I sighed heavily. If anyone understood how crazy this sounded, it was me; however, the last thing I needed was for my closest friends to point out how cracked I was for agreeing to go through with it. In fact, I needed them to come to my aid and find some sort of solution to this burden of a problem that I had been carrying around for the last seventy-two hours.

  “So, what are you going to do?” asked Liv, her brows knitted together.

  I shrugged.

  “Maybe an arranged marriage isn’t such a bad idea,” Hannah offered. “At least you’re guar
anteed you won’t end up alone.”

  I glanced at Tania, who watched us silently from the armchair. She was one of my few Muslim friends, and although she was more outwardly conservative—she wore a hijab—I could already tell that her opinions about my situation were a lot less optimistic than Hannah’s. “You know, you’re never going to be happy if you just do what your parents say,” she finally said bluntly.

  Tania’s lack of trust stemmed from her own past experiences. Her parents had pressured her to marry a distant cousin back in her homeland of Bangladesh when she was just eighteen years old. They divorced four months later—and the “shame” associated with her choice ultimately caused her parents to sever their relationship with her. Despite being subjected to the “log kya kahenge” epidemic that often infested the South Asian Muslim community, Tania remained intent on never falling victim to traditional expectations again. She had moved out of her parents’ home, went back to school, and managed to carve out a fairly successful career for herself in public relations. She also made certain to steer clear of all romantic relationships and kept a healthy distance from the clutches of prying aunties. While I was not in the least bit surprised by her sentiment, I also knew that no one could truly understand the mess I was in better than her.

  Although my parents weren’t by any means suggesting a forced marriage, like Tania’s, their idea of an arranged marriage, which “generously” offered both the prospective bride and groom a say in who they would spend the rest of their lives with, was still a scary proposition. Just the image of that awful black portfolio racked my body with a shudder as I tried to shake it away.

  “I honestly don’t know what I’m going to do.” I was sitting upright on the carpet with my back against the couch, knees bent up toward my chest. “That’s the reason I need your help,” I pleaded, burying my chin into my knees. “At this point, I’m open to any suggestions as long as they’re legal and don’t involve fleeing the country.”