The Reluctant Matchmaker

by Shobhan Bantwal

  And she was convinced Prajay’s actions were a sign of interest.

  Chapter 5

  In a way Mom was right. Fate had taken me to a company called Rathnaya and then literally put me in the path of its CEO. To that extent I did believe in karma, but I didn’t for one minute think it had happened for good reasons.

  I’d never even heard of Rathnaya until a year ago, when I was desperately looking for a job. I’d come across their ad for a marketing /PR manager on the Internet and applied for the position. After two interviews I’d ended up working for Paul.

  At the moment, I was sitting with Mom, Dad, and Maneel in the family room, after eating a family dinner. My injured foot was propped up on the coffee table. The swelling was down, and the pain had lessened.

  Mahesh was on call this weekend, like he most often was. The poor guy worked all the time.

  I observed Maneel sitting cross-legged on the carpeted floor, TV remote in hand, flicking through channels. Although I’d never say this to his face, my big brother was a nice-looking guy, with Mom’s lively eyes and dark, curly hair combined with Dad’s sturdy build. Maneel was popular with girls.

  At five-foot-ten, he wasn’t exceptionally tall, but he was muscular and lean. He was also bright and earned a lot as a stockbroker. For one so young he had quite an impressive investment portfolio. Lots of matrimonial inquiries regarding Maneel came to my parents from the families of eligible girls. Maneel had been dodging them, claiming he wasn’t ready for marriage yet.

  I knew for a fact that Maneel was playing the field. I’d seen him flirting with girls at restaurants and popular spots where my friends and I hung out. But we Shenoy kids had our own unwritten code of honor: I’d say nothing about Maneel’s girlfriends to my parents, just like he and Mahesh, although protective of me in typical brotherly fashion, didn’t discuss my business with the rest of the family.

  Dad looked comfortable in the recliner, reading an engineering magazine, while Mom sat at the other end of the couch I was sitting on. Her feet were tucked underneath her hip, and a phone directory sat in her lap, cushioning a piece of notepaper on which she was writing a letter to her mother. Her reading glasses were perched on her nose.

  My maternal grandmother in India, my only living grandparent, didn’t have access to a computer, making e-mail communication impossible. She was also hard of hearing, so the phone wasn’t an option, either. As a result, my mom continued to send her old-fashioned letters. Right now, I’d bet anything Mom was giving her a full account of my accident.

  As I sat there observing my family, I clearly recalled their reaction last year, after I’d announced that I’d been offered a job at a company called Rathnaya. My brothers had scoffed and teased me to no end.

  “Rat-na-ya? Is that some kooky dance club?” Maneel had asked with a sneering lift of one eyebrow.

  Mahesh, the tall, skinny brother, had grinned with delight. “Mom and Dad spent all that money on your Ivy League degrees, and you are going to work for an exterminator who annihilates rats?”

  Shaking with annoyance, I’d faced my brothers. “For your information, Rathnaya is one of the most successful software companies in the Northeast. Not exactly Microsoft, but it has a great reputation in its niche market.”

  Maneel had nodded in mock comprehension. “The niche market of the mighty Rats.”

  Mahesh had grinned some more. “Mighty nerds.”

  “Stop it, you two! Don’t bug your sister.” My dad had dealt the boys a stern reprimand. It was generally my father who came to my rescue in such instances. Mom believed her cherubic boys could do no wrong. She intervened only if things got out of hand.

  Mahesh had made little nibbling motions with his mouth to emulate a rat. “See, even Dad used the word bug.”

  Mom had finally frowned at the boys. “Don’t you two have anything better to do than tease your sister?”

  “We’re only trying to get a clearer understanding of Meena’s new job,” they’d said with innocent expressions.

  “Meena has found a good job with a great company. It’s owned by two nice Indian guys, so it’s a reputable business,” Mom had announced. In Mom’s book of wisdom, anything done by an Indian was good, and if it was done by a male, it was near perfect. She belonged to the male-worshipping Indian sisterhood.

  She had told me how thrilled she and Dad had been when their firstborn had turned out to be a boy. Then I’d come along, a disappointment—although Mom denied it vehemently. And then, as if to make up for my sorry birth, Mom and Dad had had another boy, one more precious male who could carry on the Shenoy name and legacy.

  As if it weren’t stressful enough to be sandwiched between the proverbial heir and the spare, I was the one born with a fussy personality.

  Mom often mentioned that she was in labor for several hours before she gave birth to me. “For a tiny infant who weighed next to nothing, you gave me hell,” she’d said. “Maneel and Mahesh were big, but quick and easy. A few major contractions, and they were out—just like that,” she’d added.

  “It’s not my fault, is it?” I’d whined. “You and Dad planned on having kids, so you can’t complain about the resulting aches and pains.”

  Mom’s expression had softened when reminded of the plain fact that bringing children into the world was a decision made by adults. “I’m not complaining, dear. We wanted you, and we love you,” she’d declared. “But you were so fussy and colicky. You just refused to eat.”

  “Don’t forget the recurring ear infections, Mom,” Maneel had prompted.

  I’d been tempted to put my hands around Maneel’s manly neck and squeeze. He loved adding to Mom’s dramatic recollections of what an unpleasant baby I had been, although he had only been two years old at the time of my birth.

  “Well, it’s too bad I’m still here to make your life miserable, isn’t it?” I’d snapped back.

  “I didn’t mean it in a bad way.” Mom had added that conciliatory remark after one of those reflective walks down memory lane and my subsequent hurt reaction to her comments. On the other hand, she always seemed to carry sweet memories of my brothers’ early days. “Such good babies they were. Except for the usual chicken pox and the occasional cold or flu, the boys were no problem.”

  “So you’re saying you’ve forgotten the incident when Maneel drove your brand new Mercedes into the Goldmans’ pool when he was fifteen,” I’d said with a saccharine smile. “And what about the time Mahesh dropped out of ninth grade and ran away from home to join a rock band?”

  Naturally Mom had pretended not to remember any such occasions, and Maneel and Mahesh had claimed those episodes were no more than youthful indiscretions.

  “If dangerous actions as a teenager are ‘youthful indiscretions, ’ then ear infections and alleged anorexia before the age of six are not even matters for discussion, are they?” I’d countered.

  Fortunately Dad, my sole defender, had admonished the boys. Better yet, he’d clearly remembered the boys’ antics. “My auto insurance didn’t skyrocket and the police didn’t have to conduct a search-and-rescue operation because Meena had an ear infection,” he’d declared, with a final glower that shut the boys up—at least temporarily. Even Mom had quieted down for a bit.

  It had been my turn to grin in triumph. I was my dad’s favorite, and he almost always came to my rescue—my knight in shining armor. He’d apparently carried me in his arms and sung lullabies to me during my notorious sleepless, colicky days.

  I had vivid early memories of Dad reading to me when I was a toddler and soothing me in the middle of the night when I’d gone through my many childhood illnesses. More than my mother, it had been my father who’d provided me with comfort when I’d most needed it. Even now, he fussed over me when she didn’t.

  But Mom freely acknowledged that I was better looking than she. That was the one concession she made. “You were a lovely baby, Meena. You’re the image of my mother, the same fair complexion, big eyes, and perfect nose. You have her s
ilky brown hair, too.” However, the rueful clucking sound would follow. “I had hoped you’d grow taller than Amma, but you never grew beyond five feet.”

  Naturally, my brothers had grown to decent heights, but I was the midget, probably from having eschewed food in my growing years.

  Well, I had to admit things weren’t all that bad for me. At least Mom and Dad didn’t make me feel unwanted. I was given the same privileges as the boys.

  They loved me. There was no doubt about that—but that subtle difference in their approach to raising us was always present.

  The boys were investments in the future, while I was more like a hothouse plant, meant to be nurtured until they could find me a decent husband and give me a reasonable sendoff by way of marriage. But that was the Indian way, so I didn’t complain.

  Since Dad was an engineer and Mom was an obstetrician/ gynecologist with a healthy practice, I never lacked good clothes and other little luxuries. I even drove a snazzy silver Mustang on which they’d made the down payment.

  But despite all his support, Dad was still very strict with me when it came to curfews and dating and such. He couldn’t understand my choice of career either. “Marketing and public relations? What kind of occupation is that?” he had asked with a puzzled frown when I’d picked my courses at Cornell.

  “It’s the right choice for me, Dad,” I’d replied with an impatient sigh.

  “Such a waste of your talents. You’re good at math and science.”

  “But I have to struggle to do well in those subjects,” I’d explained. “The analytical part of my brain is no bigger than a peanut. But my creative side works just fine, and I’d prefer to use that.”

  “That’s nonsense. If you tried harder you could do anything.”

  In Dad’s mind there were only a handful of careers for sensible, middle-class folks like us: engineering, medicine, law, accounting, scientific research, and computer science. He’d been pleased with Mahesh’s choice of medicine as an occupation but a bit upset about Maneel’s undergrad in finance and then the MBA—until Maneel had started to rake in an above-average income. Then Maneel had started to invest Dad and Mom’s savings aggressively, and they were showing healthy gains.

  All of a sudden, Maneel was Dad’s golden boy. Dad couldn’t get enough investment advice from his smart son.

  Now I was not only the little runt, but I was also the one with a silly profession, little more than a glorified clerk. Mom of course had dismissed me as a clone of her mother, small and reasonably bright, but not motivated, and therefore good wife-and-mother material to some man who’d be astute enough to recognize my potential.

  Mom didn’t say it in so many words, but I could see the disappointment in her eyes. Her two sisters were medical doctors like her, also living in the U.S. and in successful practices. She had to have had high hopes for her kids, and yet, only one child was following in her footsteps.

  But then Maneel, although not a doctor, was a cherished male child, so he was easily forgiven. I had a feeling Mom was secretly hoping to marry him off to a doctor so Maneel’s life would become more balanced.

  “Is this Nayak fellow going to offer you a ride every day or just one day?” asked my father, interrupting my thoughts and pulling me back into the moment. A young, single man offering his daughter a ride was of obvious concern.

  “I’m not sure, Dad, but Paul seems to think the offer stands until I’m back on my feet. I’m hoping I’ll be able to drive myself in a few days.” Seeing my father’s troubled look, I added, “I have a feeling Prajay Nayak is being extra nice so I won’t think about suing him.” I didn’t want Dad worrying about what would happen to his virgin daughter—little did he know—in the hands of a young man who’d have her to himself for a few minutes in his car.

  Maneel stopped playing with the remote for a moment to offer his opinion. “A lawsuit is something to think about, Meena. Just drop a hint or two that you’ve talked to a lawyer. Any time this Nayak guy wants to fire you or get fresh with you, you can hold that over his head.”

  I threw Maneel a dark look. “All you think of is money. I’m just glad to have a job. Marketing and PR positions are rare, so I’m grateful to Prajay for doing all this for me.” I put on my most righteous expression. “I’d never hold a lawsuit over anyone’s head—especially a guy who’s going out of his way to be kind.”

  “PR jobs being rare is right,” said Dad. “That’s what happens when you choose some obscure career instead of something sensible like engineering or accounting.”

  Mom lent him her enthusiastic support. “Medicine is even better. Doctors never have to face layoffs as long as there are sick and pregnant people in the world.”

  I grimaced at Mom. “Medicine is too icky for me.”

  “Icky? It’s the noblest profession.” Mom looked thoroughly insulted.

  “Nothing personal, Mom, but not all of us are cut out to work with ovaries and uteruses,” I argued. “And then, on top of that, you get sued if a baby’s born abnormal.” My mother had been named in a lawsuit some years ago, when the parents of a malformed child had blamed her for it.

  “That’s enough,” chided my dad, visibly embarrassed. He was uncomfortable with talk about gynecological issues. Mom refrained from discussing her work in front of my dad for that very reason.

  Maneel winked at me. All three of us siblings kind of enjoyed embarrassing our prudish dad sometimes. His face looked flushed and his eyebrows wiggled when that happened.

  “Loosen up, Dad,” Maneel teased him. “You’ve been married to an obstetrician for thirty-four years.”

  “Yeah, Dad,” I added, encouraged by Maneel’s ribbing. “You and Mom had three kids together—a direct result of ... sex.”

  I regretted my words the instant they left my mouth.

  Mom blushed like I hadn’t seen her do since she’d been presented with an unexpected award for outstanding medical service to the community some years ago. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  This time Dad tossed his magazine on the floor and sprang out of the recliner. Then he simply walked away, his face looking redder than ever. The poor man was such a sweet and decent soul, and yet I had stomped all over his delicate sensibilities.

  Actually, it was admirable that he and Mom were still so devoted to each other, and so much in love in their old-fashioned, arranged-marriage way. Not only did I have deep respect for their relationship, but I hoped to have something like that in my own life someday. But whenever they reminded me of my poor choice in professions, I always ended up getting defensive, and in the process, striking back at them.

  However, today I’d gone too far. Could it be the result of all those painkillers I’d been swallowing?

  To add to my guilt, Mom picked up her letter and followed Dad out of the room. I should have apologized to both of them, but I couldn’t. It would mean alluding to the embarrassing subject of their sex life again, and that was something nobody talked about. Not in our home.

  Maneel waited till Mom’s back disappeared, then glared at me. “Good job, Miss Public Relations.”

  “You were teasing them, too.”

  “Nothing like your remarks.”

  I gave a contrite shrug. “Sorry. You know how it is when they attack my inferior choices in life.”

  “No sense saying sorry to me. It’s them you should apologize to.”

  “But they went off on my job again ... and you know how mad I get when they do that.”

  “I know how you feel. Didn’t I get the same lectures about my career in finance until I made a few good bucks? Give them a couple more years and they’ll accept it.”

  I looked at the clock and swung my feet to the floor. The sharp pain in my right foot made me wince. “Damn!”

  Maneel looked up. “You need help going upstairs?”

  I shook my head and limped to the door. “I can do it. By Monday I’m back at work anyhow. Then I’m really on my own.”

  Slowly I managed t
o make my way up the stairs, down the hall, toward my room. Everything was quiet in my parents’ room, and the door was closed. A pang of guilt sliced through me. I had to think of some way to apologize.

  As I hobbled to my room, my thoughts shifted to the coming week. Monday was going to be a challenge, with me traveling to get to work in Prajay’s car. I wondered what kind of car he drove. Was he the sports car type, the stolid, four-door sedan type, or the big, indomitable SUV type?

  I couldn’t wait to find out.

  Chapter 6

  On Monday morning, in spite of my crass remark on Friday night, Mom and Dad were surprisingly solicitous of me. In fact, by early Sunday the whole episode seemed to have vanished.

  The three of us had gone out to a nice brunch after Mom came home from delivering a set of twins. She had looked exhausted from being up most of the night with her patient, and Dad had suggested going out to eat.

  Sunday evening, I’d tried to make it up to my parents by cooking my famous pasta with mushrooms and broccoli for dinner. By then I was able to hobble around and do quite a bit by myself. The pasta was a big hit along with my spicy broiled fish and tossed salad.

  By seven o’clock, it seemed like I’d been completely forgiven. But then I always was, even after my worst mistakes. Mom and Dad didn’t hold a grudge for long. They couldn’t afford to, I suppose, after having raised three liberated and strong-willed children.

  For work today, I put on a comfortable navy pantsuit. Then came the footwear—socks and sneakers. The swelling around my ankle was minimal now, but it hurt if I tried to walk normally, so I held on to the banister and gingerly made my way downstairs to have the toast and juice Mom had promised to set out for me.

  “You’re sure you’re fit to go back to work, charda?” Dad looked at me skeptically as he put his empty cup in the sink and shrugged into his jacket.

  “I’m fine, Dad.” I chuckled at Mom’s worried frown as she rinsed the cup and placed it in the dishwasher. “Mom, stop looking like I’m going to be drafted into the military and shipped off to war. I’ll be sitting in an office chair all day, and I’m getting chauffeured by my boss.”