by Zara Raheem
As soon as I gave them the green light, they began brainstorming; however, it was only a matter of minutes before I realized they weren’t the greatest of ideas.
“What about the Indian guy who works at the coffee shop across the street?” Hannah said.
“The one with the beard who always wears plaid?” She nodded excitedly. “Okay . . . what about him?” I asked.
“Well, he’s kind of cute, right?” Hannah turned to the others, receiving only a minor signal of affirmation from Liv.
I shook my head. “I’m pretty sure he’s, like, twelve,” I said, rolling my eyes.
“No, he’s definitely older. He’s got a beard,” Hannah stated.
“I think you’re forgetting that Indian boys start growing facial hair at the ripe age of seven,” I said, turning toward Tania, who nodded in agreement. “I’m not really into younger guys. And even if I was, I’m not going to date some random guy from the coffee shop just because he’s Indian.”
Why did people always assume two people would be compatible just because they shared the same ethnicity? I would never walk up to a friend and say, “Hey, you know Joe? He’s Caucasian. And since you’re Caucasian, I thought the two of you would be perfect for each other!” That would be ridiculous. Joe would only be considered “perfect” if he and my hypothetical friend shared hobbies or interests, or complementary personalities—none of which were being taken into account with coffee shop dude.
“I agree, it is a bit random, but I don’t know. Maybe Hannah is onto something. This might be a good opportunity to push past your comfort zone,” Liv suggested. “I mean, you’ll never know what possibilities are out there unless you try.”
“Thank you, Liv,” Hannah piped up excitedly. “I think you should really consider it, Leila. Who cares if he’s younger? It’s scientific fact that women live longer than men. Which means if you marry someone younger, it’ll all balance out in regards to life spans.”
“You don’t plan a relationship based on who will die first,” I exclaimed, dropping my head to my knees. I let out a muffled groan. If this was their idea of helping, I might have been better off on my own. The only problem was, I didn’t have anyone else in mind.
“This is crazy,” said Tania, quickly jumping to my aid. “We can’t just set her up with random coffee shop guy. It has to be someone we know and think will be compatible.”
We all sat around thinking. After what seemed like hours but was probably only a few minutes, Hannah jumped to her feet. “I’ve got it,” she said with a huge grin on her face. “I think I know someone.”
“Really? Because this can’t be like the time you set me up with that ex-felon,” Liv said, the sudden memory causing me and Tania to break into giggles.
“He wasn’t a felon!” cried Hannah as she sat back down in a huff. “He was charged with a misdemeanor, and I told you, I didn’t even know about it until after I set you up!”
We could barely contain ourselves at that point, and the three of us burst into laughter as Hannah’s smile quickly dissolved into a frown. Although her intentions were always good, it was no secret that Hannah’s matchmaking skills were a little rough around the edges. In addition to the ex-felon, she had also managed to set up two other friends who coincidentally turned out to be cousins, and her hairstylist Pam with Liv’s brother, not realizing that Pam was actually a lesbian. For years, it was a running joke among our friends, and Hannah’s oversensitivity to the subject always gave us even more reason to tease her about it.
“Fine, laugh all you want,” Hannah finally said, looking defeated. “But I don’t hear any of you coming up with ideas of your own.”
“Okay, okay,” I said once the laughter subsided and I had pulled myself together. I hated to admit it, but she was right. Since neither Liv nor Tania had any other potential options, I had no choice but to at least entertain Hannah’s suggestion, regardless of her previous track record.
“So who is this someone that you know?” I finally asked.
“His name is Omar. He’s a friend of a friend. We were in undergrad together, although I think he graduated a year before me,” she said, the smile on her freckled face slowly reemerging.
“Okay . . . well, what is he like?” I asked, trying to sound interested. I still wasn’t sure if I fully trusted Hannah’s judgment; however, with this three-month deadline looming over my head like an ominous cloud, I knew I had to consider all my options.
“From what I remember, he’s really smart, friendly, and I think he was president of the Muslim Student Association on campus, which means he must be pretty in touch with the culture. That might get you some bonus points with your parents.” Hannah grinned.
I thought back to the bearded guys from my alma mater’s MSA and winced. Hopefully Omar had stronger social skills than those guys, but it was still a gamble. His MSA background would definitely earn him points with my parents, but I wondered how well this trait would hold up to my list. My idea of “being in touch with the culture” meant having a superhuman tolerance for spicy foods, knowing enough Urdu to have basic conversations and watch Bollywood movies without the subtitles, and making semiregular appearances at the mosque. Anything more than this might be too much. Anything less might not be cultured enough—as was the case with the non-desis in the past.
My phone suddenly buzzed. I looked at the screen to see a text from my mother. When I clicked on it, an image of a man with wide-rimmed frames, a shaved head, and a red polo shirt outlining his rounded gut popped up. Below it, she had typed PHD. I clicked the screen off.
“Everything okay?” Hannah asked, her face eagerly awaiting a response.
Maybe the guy she had in mind wouldn’t turn out to be so bad. I figured as long as he didn’t turn out to be a felon . . . or one of my cousins . . . or a lesbian, there might actually be a chance.
“Okay,” I said haltingly. “I guess I’ll do it.”
“Great!” Hannah jumped up excitedly. “Don’t worry, Leila.” She grabbed me by the arms and gave me a tight hug. “I’ll set everything up; all you have to do is show up.”
The clock ticking away, I returned Hannah’s excitement with an apprehensive smile and silently prayed that by some divine miracle, my friend, just this once, would somehow turn out to be a better matchmaker than my parents.
Mr. Bollywood
What am I doing? What am I doing? What am I doing? I repeated to myself nervously as I tapped the heel of my navy blue stiletto against the table leg and stared at the gold-embossed vintage clock hanging on the wall directly behind my table. My stomach felt woozy, like I had just stepped off the Tilt-A-Whirl, and I tried my best to calm my nerves. Hannah had stayed true to her word and set up the entire date.
Three o’clock sharp, and don’t be late, Leila! she had texted right below the address of the location last night. Although I had gotten to the bistro a little early, I couldn’t help but wonder when Omar would arrive. Muslims were notorious for being late—we had even coined the term “Muslim Standard Time” to jokingly refer to our issues with punctuality. Despite this cultural malfunction, I always made the extra effort to dispel this stereotype and couldn’t help but silently judge those who didn’t do the same. I glanced at the clock once more, watching the minutes tick by. The anticipation was beginning to do a number on my nerves, and anyone who knew me was aware that patience was definitely not one of my strongest qualities.
As I sat there, restless, a torrent of questions flooded my mind: What is he like? Will he like me? Will I like him? Is he cute? Regardless of all the impressive things Hannah had told me about Omar over the past week, I had never actually had a direct conversation with him. Everything I knew about him came from a secondary source, so although I was hopeful, I tried not to have any expectations. I’d learned in the past few weeks there was no worse feeling than that of disappointment; it was far better to be pleasantly surprised than utterly disillusioned. However, as I watched the small hand pass the fifteen-minute mark on the cl
ock, I couldn’t help but think that Omar wasn’t making the best first impression by being late to our first date. My hopes of him not running on MST were already dashed.
My thoughts were suddenly interrupted when the doors of the small restaurant opened and a tall, muscular, caramel-complexioned man came striding through. It had to be Omar. I held my breath for a second as I watched him quickly scan the restaurant; his eyes stopped squarely in my direction. He precisely lowered his shades with his right index finger, gave me a slight smile, and strutted toward the table. He was wearing a slim-fitting, white, collared shirt that was unbuttoned down to the middle of his chest, tight-fitted gray slacks, and shiny Italian-leather loafers. His outfit was complete with a gaudy Armani belt and gold-framed aviator sunglasses—which I noticed he still had not taken off.
“Greetings, I’m Omar,” he said in a deep, commanding voice as he held out his hand. As we awkwardly shook hands, a glint of bright yellow from his thick gold chain-link bracelet nearly blinded me.
“So sorry I’m late. I got a little lost,” he said as he sat down on the stool across from me. “This is not my usual neighborhood.” He flashed me a movie-star smile, and I couldn’t help but notice that he might have gone a bit overboard with the Crest Whitestrips. I tried my best not to be distracted by how out of place he looked in the midst of the quaint bistro. He wasn’t kidding about being in the wrong neighborhood. Nearly everyone around us was dressed in casual spring attire. I was wearing indigo skinny jeans, a white boho blouse, and a floral-printed scarf. After nearly an hour of going through every item in my closet to find the perfect outfit that screamed sexy without trying too hard, I was now seated across from this glossy, gelled-up man who looked like he had just taken a detour from the fist-pumping electronic beats at Fuego De Vida.
After we ordered some refreshments—an iced green tea for me, a cup of coffee, straight black for him—Omar finally removed his shades. “It’s cozy in here,” he said, looking around. “This is a nice place for us to talk and get to know each other.” He hit me with another one of his blinding smiles, and I actually contemplated reaching over for his sunglasses for a split second.
“Well, I guess we have Hannah to thank for picking out a good spot. She’s convinced she has a future in this matchmaking business,” I joked.
Omar laughed. “So how long have you and Hannah been friends?” he asked.
“I’ve known her for about four years now. We met at a mutual friend’s dinner party a few weeks after I moved back to L.A. We dominated the night when we were teamed up for a game of charades, and we’ve been friends ever since.” I smiled. “You guys met in college, right?”
“Yeah, we sat next to each other in a business writing class that we had together during my second year of undergrad. I tried to flirt with her, but she was having none of it. I think I must have been a contributing factor to her changing majors.”
I laughed. “Well, she at least thinks you’re a pretty good catch, otherwise she wouldn’t have been so adamant about setting us up.”
“Well, I’m glad she was.” His centerfold smile flashed across his face. “But enough about Hannah. I’m more interested to know what you think about me.” He leaned across the table, and I had to hold my breath for a second as the thick, leathery scent of his cologne overwhelmed my nostrils.
“Um, I’m not quite sure,” I said as I slowly leaned back. “I don’t think I know you well enough yet, but why don’t you tell me a little more about yourself?” I asked, steering the conversation back to him.
“Well, most people who know me would describe me as a very confident person,” he began, taking a sip of his coffee. “I believe it’s important to carry yourself in the way you want to be seen by others.”
I nodded. “So how is it that you want to be seen?” I asked.
“I want to be seen as a man willing to take risks. A man unafraid to pursue his dreams. That is the way I’ve lived my whole life . . . I’m sure Hannah has told you all about my many accomplishments.”
“She mentioned some, but I’m sure you would love to tell me about the rest of them.” I pursed my lips.
“I go after what I want, Leila,” he continued without missing a beat, completely mesmerized by the sound of his own voice. “When I want something, I work hard to get it. For example, when I wanted to start a Muslim Student Association on campus, I pursued it and BAM, I made it happen. And then I wanted to be president of the organization, so I campaigned and BAM, I got elected. We started with only a few members and by the time I graduated, BAM, we had over a hundred. I mean, a lot of people would not be able to accomplish these things, Leila, but I’m a go-getter. BAM, BAM, BAM, I get things done,” he said, slapping his palms on the table.
With every BAM, I jumped slightly in my chair. For someone claiming to be a go-getter, I really wished he would “go get” a new catchphrase. Normally, at this point, I would’ve been rushing toward the nearest exit. But there must have been something Hannah saw in him that made her think we would be good for each other. If anything, I told myself, I should be impressed by Omar’s ambition.
It reminded me of my father, who was the OG when it came to ambition. Every birthday, or family gathering, or Tuesday afternoon when he’d pick me up from school, he would tell me the story of how he came to America with sixty dollars in his pocket and a dream. I knew every detail of his story—how he stocked boxes in the back room of Mervyn’s and took engineering classes at night until he saved enough to buy a house in the suburbs. My father worked harder than anyone I knew, and my admiration for this quality in him was the reason #29: AMBITIOUS was on my list. I felt like I owed it to both Hannah and my father to see this thing out.
“So I gather your college years were quite successful,” I interjected, trying not to get clobbered by his heightened sense of self-confidence. “But what are some things you’ve been doing since graduating?”
“I’m currently a top agent at my father’s real estate firm. However”—he leaned in again—“my true passion is music.”
“Oh. What kind of music?” I asked, preparing myself for his response. I quickly ran through all the possibilities in my head—hip-hop, hard-core rap, straight-up country, even traditional mariachi—just so I wouldn’t be caught off guard again.
“Do you watch Bollywood movies?” he finally asked.
“Yes . . .” I said slowly, my heart gently fluttering.
“Well,” he continued—I suddenly noticed a sparkle in his eyes—“my ultimate dream is to become a Bollywood playback singer.”
I had to give it to him: that was one possibility that had not even crossed my mind. I was intrigued. What if this was the Bollywood fantasy I had been dreaming of my whole life? I never thought it would happen, literally, but I was suddenly pleased with my earlier decision to stick this date out. It would have been a shame if I had let a little gel and ostentation stand in the way of my Indian fairy tale. He was South Asian and Muslim (check). He had decent hair (check). He had a passion for cheesy love songs (check). The only thing missing was a meadow to run through leading us to our happily ever after.
“You’re kidding?” I said, taking in a deep breath. I had to remind myself not to get too excited yet. “What got you into that?”
“Well, I grew up listening to old Bollywood soundtracks. Mohammed Rafi, Lata Mangeshkar, Mukesh, that kind of stuff. Both my parents were real enthusiasts. And the older I got, the more aware I became that my own singing voice was up to par with—if not better than—most of the great singers out there.”
I took a sip of my tea and smiled pleasantly.
“So,” he continued, “I eventually realized that it was my responsibility to share this God-given talent with my people.” He pointed his finger toward me and winked.
“Wow. That’s so . . . generous of you,” I replied, ignoring his pretentiousness. “I haven’t met many guys who are into Bollywood music, so that’s cool. It sounds like a really unique hobby.”
“Hobb
y?” He chortled. “Dear Leila. It’s not a hobby. It’s a way of life.” He spoke in such a serious tone that I had to cover my mouth to hold in the giggles. “Would you like to hear some of my work?”
“Um, sure . . . Right now?” Before I had my answer, he had already pulled out his cell phone and a set of earbuds from his back pocket. “Oh, do you have some of your tracks recorded on there?” I asked, watching his perfectly manicured fingers skimming through his playlist, his pinkie raised.
“Here, put this on,” he said. He seemed pretty psyched as he placed one of the earbuds in his right ear and handed me the other.
I hesitantly stuck it in my ear; the familiar percussive beats mixed with a medley of strings and high-pitched instruments came blasting through the speaker. It took me a few moments to realize that it was the instrumental version of the classic love song “Dil To Pagal Hai” which loosely translates to “My Heart Is Crazy (For You).” I glanced over to find Omar with his right hand over the earbud, eyes closed, his head gently swaying to the rhythmic sound of the music. The scent of his cologne too close for comfort, I turned and coughed. I looked around the bistro. Was anyone else noticing how incredibly awkward this date had just become?
Impatient for this moment to be over, I reached out, gently tapping Omar’s left hand, and asked him if his vocals would soon begin. He didn’t reply. Just as I was about to shake him out of the trance he was in, he suddenly opened his eyes, grabbed my hand, and started belting out the opening verse of the song—in Hindi.
I know I’d agreed to hear his work, but never in my wildest dreams did I think that meant I would be forced to sit through a live show in the middle of a semipacked bistro. Without the lush greenery of the countryside, the elaborately dressed background dancers, the gentle wind blowing in our hair, and the pitch-perfect voice of Udit Narayan, this moment wasn’t quite as romantic as I had always imagined it would be. As I sat there completely dumbfounded, mortified, and trying to make sense of exactly what was happening, Omar continued serenading me with each emotional lyric of the song—entirely oblivious to his tone deafness and the dozens of eyes that were curiously pointed in our direction.
