The Reluctant Matchmaker

by Shobhan Bantwal

  At least Deepak was a smart, educated guy with a good job. I could have done worse.

  I never heard anything from Prajay about receiving my envelope. But on Friday afternoon I got an e-mail: Meena, thanks so much for the wonderful job. I posted a few ads right away and got loads of responses. I’m overwhelmed and don’t have the time to sort thru them. I need more help from you. Could you please stop by after work? If not today, early next week? Thanks. PN.

  I sent Prajay a reply that I could spare a few minutes before I left for the day. I had to keep my dinner date with Deepak, but I didn’t tell Prajay that.

  Once again, I had to tell Paul that I was meeting a friend after work. He gave an approving smile. “Friday night date. Good.”

  I smiled back and waved him away, then went directly upstairs, armed with my notebook and pen. Anna was just leaving when I stepped off the elevator. She looked at me curiously. “Meena, what a surprise!”

  “Hi, Anna. Is Prajay in his office? I need to go over some new ads with him,” I said, talking a bit too fast and sounding breathless in the bargain.

  “He’s on the phone,” replied Anna, shrugging into her jacket. “You can wait here if you’d like.” Her brow creased. “Paul is not attending the meeting?”

  “Paul had ... plans for this evening.”

  “Oh.” Anna pulled her purse out of her drawer and looked at me. “It’s odd that Prajay didn’t mention any meeting about ads to me.”

  I put on my most baffled expression. “He didn’t? Hmm ... must have slipped his mind.”

  “Must have.” Her gaze shifted to my feet. “How’s the ankle?”

  “Much better, thanks. Can’t wait to get rid of the sneakers,” I replied, relieved to switch subjects. I could only lie so much with a straight face.

  The sound of Prajay’s voice winding up the phone conversation reached us. “Looks like he’s off the phone. Why don’t you go in,” said Anna, and she left me standing there.

  I watched her press the elevator button as I started toward Prajay’s office. From her expression I could tell she was eager to know what I was doing here after-hours. And I knew that she knew I was here for reasons other than business.

  But what the heck could I do? I had put myself in a tight spot. I could only hope this was the last time I’d have to meet Prajay surreptitiously. I honestly didn’t know what other kind of help he wanted from me.

  This time he was standing at the window, hands in his pockets, his back to me, and seemingly deep in thought. He turned around when I knocked. “Come in, Meena. Could you close the door please?” He waited till the door was shut. “I can’t thank you enough for your assistance.”

  “You’re welcome.” I sat in one of the guest chairs. “What can I do for you?”

  He handed me a stack of printouts of e-mail messages. “Dozens, and I haven’t had a moment to glance at them. I need some serious help.”

  “These are your private messages, Prajay. I can’t do anything with them. You’ll have to find some way to deal with it.” If he was looking to me to find him a bride, he was barking up the wrong tree. I had my limits.

  He gave me a helpless look. “I realize that, Meena, but I really don’t have the time.”

  “What about Anna?”

  “Are you kidding? She’s very efficient, but this isn’t her forte. She’ll think I’m insane to run an ad for a bride. She had an arranged marriage.” He shot me another vulnerable puppy-dog look. “You’re my campaign manager, aren’t you? I’ll pay you for it. I pay my consultants seventy-five dollars an hour.” When I rolled my eyes, he gave me a beatific smile that tugged at my softer side. “Eighty? Please?”

  “All right. What exactly do you want me to do?” What the heck—I’d come this far. Might as well go all the way. And honestly, eighty dollars an hour for a clerical task sounded too good to pass up. I’d consider it my Christmas bonus.

  “Would you mind sorting through them for me? Get rid of the ridiculous replies and keep the promising ones? Pick the top two or three for my consideration.”

  I scowled at him. “How would I know which ones are best for you?”

  “You wrote the ads, Meena. They described exactly what I wanted. I’m sure you can pick what suits me.”

  “You’re a weird man, Prajay. How can you trust a stranger to pick the right woman for you?”

  He shrugged. “That’s why I’m the oddball. And I trust you to make a good choice. You’ve come to know me quite well by now, right?”

  “Not really,” I replied in a final attempt at dissuading him. But it didn’t work.

  “Just find someone who’s at least six feet tall and has a decent education and a sense of humor.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Halfway decent in the appearance department wouldn’t hurt, either.”

  “How would I—”

  “There are pictures attached to some of those messages,” he interrupted.

  “Fine, I’ll take a look at them tonight.” I rose from the chair. “What do you want me to do with the bad ones?”

  “Toss them.” He inclined his head toward the cup sitting at his elbow. “Can I get you some coffee or something?”

  “No, thanks, I have to go. I have a date.”

  “I’m sorry.” He didn’t look like he was sorry. “I hope I didn’t delay you too much.”

  “Next time, could we please talk about this someplace else? My coming to your office after-hours doesn’t look right.”

  His frown was genuinely puzzled. “But you work here.”

  “Look at this from the other employees’ perspective. We’re both young and single, and Konkanis. If they see me entering your office and meeting with you behind closed doors, what do you think their conclusion will be?”

  The frown cleared. “You’re right. What was I thinking?” He rose to his feet and ran to open the door. “I’m really sorry, Meena. Next time we talk about this, it will be somewhere ... more discreet.”

  “I’m glad you understand.” I looked around. “Can I have an envelope for this please?”

  “Sure.” He hurried to Anna’s desk and returned with a manila envelope.

  “I’ll mail the best responses to your home.” I slipped the papers into the envelope. This had to be both the easiest as well as the toughest assignment I’d ever taken on. And the most lucrative.

  “Thanks again.” He appeared a little flustered. “And ... enjoy your date.”

  He extended his hand for a handshake, and I responded. A brief tingle went up my fingers and shot through my arm, then spread all over. It was the most pleasant and exciting sensation I’d felt in a very long time.

  I glanced at Prajay’s hand as I reclaimed my own. He thrust it in his pocket immediately, so I didn’t have a chance to look at it closely. His face told me he’d felt something, too, because he looked uneasy. But he was a man, and what did men know about magnetic undercurrents and those small signs of connection between a man and a woman?

  I tucked the envelope under my arm and headed out. Prajay’s disinterested attitude toward my going out with another man was disturbing. He hadn’t shown an iota of curiosity. He’d even wished me a pleasant date.

  Well, like I’d said before, the heck with Prajay. I was going to have a good time on my date.

  Chapter 10

  When I arrived at the restaurant at six, there was no sign of Deepak. Being a Friday, the restaurant was crowded, so I decided to ask for a table for two right away instead of waiting in my car. When the waiter asked me if I’d like to order something to drink, I shook my head. I was going to give Deepak fifteen minutes. If he didn’t show up, I’d go home.

  Ten minutes later there was still no sign of him. The nerve of the guy—after he’d been asking me out for months. Was this his idea of a joke, or was it revenge for my turning him down so many times? Either way, I wasn’t laughing. If and when he did show up, I’d give him a piece of my mind.

  It was awkward sitting alone in a restaurant fi
lled with Indian people who stared at me curiously. Indian women very rarely sat alone at a restaurant table, unless they were on business and were forced to eat alone. So I pretended to be the busy businesswoman alone in town and pulled out my cell phone to call Rita. Keeping the conversation at whisper level was more likely to make it sound like business, so I kept it very low. “Hey, Rita. It’s me.”

  “Who’s me?”

  I wasn’t sure if she was being funny. Maybe she couldn’t hear me clearly.

  “It’s Meena. What are you doing? Where are you?”

  “I’m at the grocery store, in the checkout line.” She sounded like she was in a rush. “Can I call you after I get home?”

  “No, you can’t. I need to keep you engaged on the phone now.”

  “Why?” Her voice took on a tone of alarm. “Omigod! Are you ... being carjacked or something?”

  “No! I—”

  “Should I call nine-one-one?”

  “No, no, nothing like that,” I assured her quickly. “I’m at a restaurant.”

  “Are you sure?” she whispered. “If some asshole abducted you, I’ll signal the cashier to call. The police can track you if I keep you on the line.”

  “No, Rita. There’s no asshole involved. Well, there is in a way, but ... never mind. It’s a long story. I’m waiting for my date to show up.”

  “You have a date?” Rita must have yelled loudly enough for the entire supermarket to think they were under a terrorist attack.

  The sound of Rita’s excited exclamation was so ear-piercing, the folks at the table next to mine must have heard it. Their glances in my direction proved it. “Rita, keep your voice down,” I murmured urgently.

  “Okay. So tell me, who is he?”

  “Just a guy from work—an FOB.” Rita knew FOB meant fresh off the boat.

  “Hmm.” Rita went silent. She was obviously giving my reply some serious thought. Both she and I, since we had been born and raised in the U.S., had made a pact a while ago that we’d never go out with FOBs, unless we were desperate. It wasn’t like we disliked them or anything—we just felt that those men had a different outlook on life.

  Rita clearly concluded I’d reached the unenviable desperate stage. “Is he good-looking at least?”

  “Yeah. But see, there’s a problem. He was supposed to meet me here at six o’clock. Now it’s what?” I looked at my watch. “Thirteen minutes after six and no sign of him.”

  “So why are we whispering?” Rita asked, finally realizing this was a strange conversation.

  “You know how embarrassing it is to sit alone in a crowded restaurant. I’m pretending to have a serious conversation with you so everyone will think I’m from out of town, here on business and forced to eat alone.”

  “I see.” Rita was the only one in the world who’d understand my convoluted logic. Sometimes we were uncannily like twins in our thinking. Rita’s sigh was loud. “Listen, I’d love to make you look like you’re on important business, but I have to hang up. The cashier’s bagging my stuff. Got to run.”

  “I understand. Give my best to Anoop.”

  “Sure. Call me later, okay? I want to know all about the date.”

  “Yeah, right.” There might not even be a date. My temper was heating up. The time on my watch was 6:14 P.M. One more minute and I’d be gone. Deepak Iyer would soon be history as far as I was concerned. I’d never, ever been stood up before.

  Just as I shut off the phone and stuck it back in my purse, Deepak walked in the door. He stood for a moment to survey the scene before his eyes came to rest on me. He rushed over instantly. “I’m so sorry, Meena.” He pulled out a chair and sat down across from me.

  I tossed him my frostiest look. “You should be.”

  “I would have been here nearly half an hour ago, but I got stopped by a cop.” When I remained silent he added, “For careless driving.”

  “Can’t you think of a more original excuse than that?”

  He pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the moisture off his face. “I swear it’s the truth, yaar.”

  From the expression on his face and all that perspiration, I wondered if maybe, just maybe, he was telling the truth. “How serious was the violation?”

  “I went through a red light.”

  “No kidding?”

  He wiped his face once again. “That’s what I get for trying to make it to the restaurant in a hurry. I wanted to get here before six.” He pulled out a piece of paper from his breast pocket. “My ticket—in case you think I’m lying.”

  The thought had crossed my mind, but without touching the paper I knew what it was. He was telling the truth. Just as I was getting ready to vent my fury on him for nearly standing me up, he was sitting there like a lost little boy whose mommy was nowhere to be seen. I hate when that happens.

  Besides, he got into trouble with the traffic cops because he was in a hurry to meet me. How could I resent that?

  Eventually, I think it was my inherent maternal instinct that led me to break down and smile at him. “I’m sorry, Deepak. I hope it doesn’t mean major points on your license.”

  With a groan he thrust the ticket back into his pocket. “Three points. Insurance surcharge for the next three years.”

  “Oh, Deepak, I’m really sorry.” This time I sent him my most empathetic look. Insurance companies could be malicious when it came to such things. I knew that from experience. I was being much more cautious with my lead foot these days since my last speeding ticket.

  After two whole years I still fumed about that ticket, especially since I had been doing a mere seventy-six on the turnpike when the rest of the drivers were zooming past me. I was convinced that the big, burly cop had major issues with his weight and didn’t like small, thin people like me.

  I could have told the cop I had my own issues, like not being able to find sophisticated clothes in my size, like my foot not quite reaching the gas pedal, like having to look at people’s lower backs and butts in elevators, like having to put up with cute-but-derogatory nicknames like half-pint, squirt, twerp, and Lilliput. But I’d kept my mouth shut and hadn’t argued with the officer. I had been in deep enough trouble already.

  “Thanks. I can use some sympathy, yaar,” said Deepak, looking relieved that I finally believed him. He glanced up at the waiter who’d magically appeared at our side and was pouring water into our glasses. “What would you like to drink?” Deepak asked me.

  “Water’s fine, thanks,” I replied and accepted a menu from the waiter. “I’ll reserve my appetite for dinner.” I studied the menu while Deepak asked for a diet cola.

  Dinner turned out to be rather pleasant, much to my amazement. My shrimp vindaloo, with its extra hot spices cooked in vinegar, was excellent. Deepak seemed pleased with his mutton do pyaza. Goat meat and onions in a fragrant brown sauce.

  The parathas, whole wheat bread rolled out in wide circles, were hot and deliciously crisp. The cumin rice that came with our meal was excellent, too. I refused dessert, but Deepak ordered carrot halwa—grated carrot simmered in cream, butter, slivered almonds, and sugar, and delicately seasoned with cardamom. It looked colorful and sinfully rich.

  Deepak and I talked. I mean really talked. In the end I couldn’t believe I had spent well over two hours sitting there, shooting the breeze and enjoying a pleasant dinner. I realized he wasn’t such a bad guy. Rather opinionated, but not bad.

  He was bright. That wasn’t a surprise—he was a graduate of one of the Indian Institutes of Technology, known as IITs. The popular CBS magazine show, 60 Minutes, had portrayed the IITs of India as some of the world’s most highly rated and discriminating universities.

  Just getting admitted to an IIT meant Deepak was super-intelligent. He was articulate and well-spoken, too—obviously a product of one of those exclusive boarding schools in India that catered to the well-to-do.

  By the time we got up to leave it was pitch dark outside, and rain was beginning to fall. We were already into Octobe
r, and the chilly rain was a reminder that winter was creeping in. I shivered a little and shook Deepak’s hand. “That was nice, Deepak. Thank you.”

  In the glow of the outdoor lights I saw the raindrops settling like diamonds over his dark hair and his eyes take on a hopeful gleam. “So ... we can do this again sometime?”

  Dining with Deepak had been more pleasant than I’d expected, but I wasn’t exactly crazy about the man. On the other hand, I had to admit he had possibility. A few more years of living in the U.S., absorbing the culture, and losing that habit of saying yaar, could make the man acceptable.

  Pulling out my car keys, I gave him a smile. “Maybe.”

  “Works for me, yaar.” He grinned. “We better get out of here before we get soaked.”

  I got behind the wheel of my car. Brushing the moisture off my jacket and hair, I turned on the ignition. While the engine warmed, my eyes wandered over to the envelope on the front passenger seat.

  I’d have to go home and sort the pages—in the privacy of my room; I couldn’t risk Mom’s seeing them. I could only imagine her disappointment if she found out what I was doing: literally letting the perfect man slip through my fingers—helping him do it, no less.

  Driving out of the parking lot, I slowly merged into the endless traffic. Oak Tree Road in the Edison-Iselin area was always mobbed, no matter what day of the week it was.

  I kept my eyes on the traffic, but my mind strayed to that envelope. I was conflicted about those responses. I was dying to see them, and yet I didn’t want to know anything about them.

  What if Prajay Nayak’s ideal woman was buried somewhere in that stack of e-mails? Would she be a six-foot-tall model with a gorgeous body and perhaps even a fat paycheck? Even though Prajay wasn’t exactly a winner in the looks category, he was growing on me. When he smiled he looked almost ... oh, what was that word? Not handsome. Not good-looking. But ... striking. That was it.

  Prajay carried himself well, and the clothes he picked were just right for his build. Besides, his physique probably helped while doing business with men who wielded enormous power. There was something about large men that gave them the extra edge when dealing with other men. The alpha-male image. Even presidential candidates were judged on how tall they were and how imposing a figure they cut.