The Reluctant Matchmaker (16 page)

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Authors: Shobhan Bantwal

BOOK: The Reluctant Matchmaker
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I'd almost run out of guesses. That left only one thing. “You're in love with a guy.” I'd never imagined either of my brothers could be gay. Why was homosexuality always considered something that occurred in other families, and never one's own? Paul and Jeremy were the only gay men I'd come to know well so far.
“Where'd you get
that
idea?” Maneel growled. “I am
not
in love with a man. I'm in love with a bona fide girl. She's ... Muslim.”
“Oh boy.” If there was one thing Mom and Dad would have a fit about, it was if one of us dated a Muslim. It had been ingrained in my parents. It wasn't anything personal, since both Mom and Dad had Pakistani and Middle Eastern colleagues whom they liked and respected. But they didn't have any Muslim friends.
My parents had grown up in India, where they'd witnessed the effects of the bitter enmity between Pakistan and India, and how the land of Islam and the land of the Hindus clashed again and again. To this day, the fighting occurred frequently, and it escalated with each passing year. The bloody war over the border state of Kashmir continued, with no end in sight.
Mom and Dad would have a rough time coming to terms with Maneel's falling in love with a Muslim woman.
I turned to my brother with a sigh. “You fooled around with so many girls of different colors and cultures—and then you went and fell for the one that Mom and Dad would dislike the most?”
He shrugged. “It just happened.”
“What were you thinking, Maneel?”
“That's the problem. I wasn't
thinking.
I didn't exactly plan to fall in love.”
I knew that. I was nursing my own heartache. Little did Maneel know that I was in the same boat as him—hopelessly in love. The difference was the object of my adoration was looking for his ideal woman. And she wasn't me.
But I knew exactly what Maneel meant: Love crept up on you when you weren't looking. In a single moment it just struck you over the head, and there was nothing you could do but slip into a conscious coma.
“So, how long has this been going on?” I asked. “Is she anyone I know?”
“You wouldn't know her. Her name's Naseem Rasul. Her parents emigrated to the U.S. from Iraq.”
“Like Mom and Dad came from India.”
Maneel nodded. “Her father was apparently a big shot in Iraq, until he had a falling out with Saddam Hussein.”
“Wouldn't that have been dangerous?” I speculated.
“They were forced to leave the country.”
I thought about it for a moment. “I'm surprised they weren't ... killed or something.” Saddam Hussein had been notorious for executing anyone who wasn't totally loyal to him.
“I don't think the matter was that serious,” said Maneel. “They were merely ordered to get out of Iraq and never come back.” He let me absorb that. “Naseem and I met eight months ago.”
“What does she do?”
“She's a lawyer. She was involved in my employer's merger with another brokerage. She works for the law firm that handled the deal.”
“So how did you guys meet?”
“In the office cafeteria.”
“Over wilted salad and greasy fries. How romantic,” I snickered.
Maneel smiled, obviously recalling the encounter. “She noticed the fried chicken on my tray and lectured me on the ill effects of eating fried and fatty foods.”
I looked at him, puzzled. “And you let her get away with it? If I'd said that to you, you'd have barked at me to mind my own damn business.”
He smiled again. “But you're my bratty sister. Naseem isn't. And she's beautiful. I couldn't help staring at her all the while she stood on her soapbox and talked down at me.”
My eyes narrowed on Maneel. “So what are you saying ... that I'm ugly?”
“Touchy, touchy.” He chuckled. “No, Mini, you're not ugly. You're ... special.”
“People call their mentally or physically challenged relatives special.” I rose from the couch for the second time. “I'm out of here. If you think I'm going to sit here and take your insults ...”
He grabbed my wrist and forced me back down on the couch. “I'm kidding. Can't you take a joke? Honestly, I think you're beautiful, too.” Seeing I was still bristling, he patted my head, a partly affectionate–partly condescending gesture. “You really
are
pretty. I see how some of the guys look at you. My friends often ask me to introduce you to them.”
“And?”
“Frankly I don't think they're good enough for you.”
“Fine.” I thawed a little—reluctantly. Besides, Maneel had protected me from the bullies in high school. “So, exactly who is good enough for me?”
He studied me for a second. “No one. But if I come across a guy with promise, I'll introduce you.” He started to pace again, his mood back to restless brooding. “Naseem's parents are even more old-fashioned than Mom and Dad. They'll kill her if they find out she has been dating a Hindu Brahmin.”
“Can't you guys just break up and forget each other?” I couldn't see any other way unless they both chose to throw caution to the winds and possibly alienate Naseem's parents forever.
“I wish it were that simple, Mini. I'm in love with Naseem. She's pretty, she's smart ... she's great. And she loves me.”
“Can't imagine why she loves you,” I murmured.
“Neither can I,” he agreed, surprising me. “We want to get married, buy a house, have kids, adopt a puppy—”
“You've got a bad case of it, you poor man.” I leaned forward, parked my elbows on my knees, and cupped my face in my hands. This was awful. Maneel was in love with a woman whose family probably wouldn't tolerate non-Muslims.
How were we going to handle this? As siblings, we were in this together. What affected one affected the other two. I'd never seen Maneel like this—emotional, uncertain, tense, even a little scared.
“Does Mahesh know?” I asked.
He shook his head. “You're the first to know.”
“Should I feel honored?” I smiled.
“Absolutely. I haven't told another soul.”
“I think we should tell Mahesh. Maybe with the two of us supporting you, you'll have a better chance of winning over Mom and Dad first, and then convincing them to join us in facing Mr. and Mrs. Rasul.”
Maneel went to the window and leaned against the frame, his arms folded across his middle, staring out at nothing in particular. I observed him standing there, a grown man facing a grown-up dilemma. This was no teenage escapade leading to a slap on the wrist, maybe even a harsh reprimand. This was a serious matter that would affect his whole life.
He was probably scared out of his wits that Naseem's parents would put an end to their relationship and he'd never be able to see her again. Maybe he was wondering if he and Naseem would be forced to elope.
My heart went out to my brother. Despite all the nasty things he'd done to me while we were growing up, he was still my brother. And he was facing a crisis. I couldn't stand to see him like this. If I could do something to help him, I'd gladly give it my all.
Silently I went up to him and slid my arm through his. “I'll help you any way I can, Maneel.”
He stood still for several more seconds. I could feel the controlled tension in his arm and shoulder, the tautness of the muscles. Then he turned and hugged me. “Thanks, Mini. You're right. I should tell Mahesh.”
I nodded and moved away. “Three against two now, and eventually five Shenoys against two Rasuls. Strength in numbers. When do you plan to tell Mahesh?”
“Right now.” He picked up his cell phone. “I'm not sure he's home, though. He's always working.” He waited till he got connected to Mahesh's voice mail. “Hey, Mahesh. This is Maneel. Give me a call. I've got something urgent to discuss with you.” He pocketed the phone and turned to me. “I need a cold beer. You want anything?”
“No, I better get home. Dad and Mom will wonder why I'm late.”
He went into his modern kitchenette and returned in a moment with a can of beer.
I pulled my car keys from my purse and headed toward the door. “Let me know when you're going to talk to Mahesh. I'd like to be there, so we can put our heads together and come up with a strategy.”
“You sound like a true manager.” He threw me a wry smile. “Appreciate the help, Mini.”
“Hey, don't think this is a free service. I'm counting on your support if I happen to need it in the future.”
“I know that. Even when you were this little,” he said, holding his hand at waist level, “you traded favors with Mahesh and me. Don't think I've forgotten the ten dollars you charged me for doing my homework. You've always been a little deal maker.”
I grinned at him. “Cheer up, and get yourself a shave and a shower, will you. If your precious Naseem sees you like this, she's likely to fall out of lust real quick.” I stopped with my hand on the doorknob and watched the amused smile soften his face. “So when do I get to meet this paragon of beauty and virtue?”
“I'll introduce her to Mahesh and you whenever Mahesh is free.”
“You do that.” I gave him a finger waggle, stepped out, and closed the door behind me.
For a long time I sat in my car, trying to think of the best way to deal with the matter of Maneel and Naseem. Fireworks were likely to explode when all this came out in the open.
No wonder Maneel had slipped away each time someone in the family had brought up the subject of marriage. My guess had been right: The devil had been having an affair all this time. What I hadn't guessed correctly was the girlfriend's faith.
I wondered about my parents' potential reaction when Maneel got around to telling them about Naseem, especially Mom's. I knew about her dreams of finding a Konkani doctor for her firstborn son. She was anxious to see Maneel settle down. She wanted grandchildren—a couple of wholesome Shenoy boys being the preference.
If Maneel married Naseem, Mom could still have her dream of seeing her son happily married, and there could be a bunch of grandchildren, too. But would Naseem's parents look at it the same way? What if they disowned her? Naseem could be destroyed by it, and consequently Maneel. It wasn't a pretty picture.
One thing was clear to me: If I thought my karma was bad, Maneel's was worse.
Chapter 15
I
watched Mom's eyebrows settle into a deep frown at Maneel's news. Dad sat in his favorite recliner with his hands in his lap. His face was expressionless. But then Dad usually processed most information that way—a typical engineer's way.
This was Friday night. The day after Maneel had dropped the bomb on me, he and I had managed to meet for a hurried brainstorming lunch with Mahesh. We'd decided the best way to tackle Mom and Dad was head-on. The longer Maneel postponed his announcement, the worse the situation could get. Besides, on Wednesday night, Mahesh had a rare night off, so he and I had been introduced to Naseem over pizza and wine in Maneel's home.
Maneel was right: She was beautiful. Her complexion reminded me of French vanilla ice cream with a hint of caramel. She had large hazel eyes with curling lashes and a charming smile. I could see why my brother was dazzled. The nicer part was her personality. She seemed bright, outgoing—perfect for Maneel.
She'd make a nice sister-in-law, too. That was a huge plus for me.
Watching Maneel and Naseem make goo-goo eyes at each other had made me ache inside. I'd never seen my brother like this. While it was wonderful to see him looking so happy, I was jealous. He was clearly head over heels in love. Anyone could see that. Naseem seemed smitten with him, too.
Why couldn't I have at least a fraction of that with someone special?
Too bad Naseem wasn't a Hindu girl, I kept thinking all the while we were talking and chomping on pizza in Maneel's kitchen. If she were, her parents would have had an easier time accepting Maneel as a son-in-law. Or vice versa: If we were a Muslim family, things would have been simpler.
We'd all decided that Friday was a good day to have a talk with Mom and Dad, when they were usually in a relaxed, weekend mood. We had stuck to our original plan of bringing Mom and Dad around first (and we were pretty optimistic about that), and then hopefully having them join the cause, and if necessary, face the Rasuls on behalf of the kids.
It was a long shot, but Maneel was all for it. Naseem's eyes had briefly filled with tears of frustration during our conversation, but Maneel and Mahesh had managed to make her laugh with their corny jokes.
The one promising element was that both sets of parents were highly educated professionals. Naseem's father was a research chemist with a PhD and worked for a major pharmaceutical company, and her mother was a high school guidance counselor. The deep hope all four of us were clinging to was that they would be tolerant enough to realize their daughter's happiness should come above religious differences.
So here we were, Mom and Dad, my brothers and I, gathered in the family room, discussing Maneel's potential future with Naseem. We had waited until dinner was over to make sure neither one of our parents lost his or her appetite at hearing the news.
The heir and the spare sat on the couch, with Mom sandwiched between them. Her beloved boys had been clever in orchestrating the seating arrangement.
Mom glowered at Maneel. “We introduced you to so many nice girls. You couldn't choose a single one of them?”
“Sorry.” Maneel shrugged.
“Shaila is a such a smart girl. And Mahima is doing a fellowship in neurology, you know.”
“I know, Mom,” said Maneel, clearly beginning to lose patience.
“What about Devika? She's charming.”
“Mom, Shaila has a mustache that could match mine any day, and Mahima isn't interested in marriage right now—she's too busy with her fellowship. And Devika ...” He sighed. “She's so damn charming that she charms her way into many guys' beds.”
Mom's eyes opened wide. “What are you saying? That a nice Konkani girl is a ... slut?”
On hearing Mom utter a vulgar word, Dad abruptly woke up from his self-imposed stupor. He didn't appreciate talk like that, especially not from his wife.
I nodded at Mom. “I know it's hard for you to understand, but despite being named for a goddess, Devika's not a ... virtuous girl. Maneel wouldn't be happy with her. And I doubt that Dad and you would have liked a daughter-in-law who cheated on your son.”
For Dad's sake I kept the words on a gracious level. Devika was not the average Indian-American girl. She was known in certain circles by far worse names than slut.
“Oh well, then,” sniffed Mom. “Even supposing that were true,” she allowed, reserving judgment, “why did you have to go and find a Muslim girl?” She held up a hand when Maneel opened his mouth. “I have a lot of respect for Islam and Muslims, but interfaith marriages are difficult. Adjustment in any marriage is hard enough.”
Again Maneel tried to explain. “Mom, please try to understand. I didn't deliberately set out to find a Muslim girl. It just happened. Naseem is a terrific person. You'll like her if you meet her.”
I vigorously supported Maneel's statement. “She's really nice, Mom. And gorgeous.” I winked at Maneel. “She's very fair-complexioned.”
“Fairer than you?” Mom asked.
“Much fairer.” That would win the prize any day with Indians. Most of them, including my mother, were obsessed with light skin.
Mahesh patted Mom's hand. He was sitting on her other side on the long couch. “Naseem's a lawyer, Mom. She works for a prestigious law firm. Her parents are highly educated, like you and Dad.”
Smelling a losing battle, Mom sent Dad a pleading look. “Ram, what do
you
think about all this?”
Dad shook his head. “Looks like Maneel has made up his mind.”
Mom gave Dad a dismayed look. She hadn't expected that from him, I figured.
“These kids are surrounded by dating and such things,” Dad rationalized. “They're bound to get silly ideas.”
“Dad, falling in love and wanting to get married is not silly,” I protested. How could he turn something sweet and sentimental into something frivolous?
“I guess I used the wrong word,” Dad said. “I was educated in a small town in India, and I didn't learn a lot of fancy English like you. What I meant was American culture has influenced you too much.”
“We were born and raised in the American culture,” Maneel reminded him dryly.
“You think attraction for a pretty face and a fine figure is love,” scoffed Dad. “What happens when beauty fades and you don't love this girl anymore?”
Mahesh stepped in at this point. “Dad, did
you
think of that when you married Mom? She has some gray hairs and wrinkles now, but have you stopped loving her because of that?”
Mom first frowned at Mahesh, and then her brow rose in question at Dad. I chuckled inwardly. This was quite entertaining. Mom obviously wanted to hear Dad's answer more than the rest of us did.
“Of course not!” snorted Dad. “What kind of ridiculous question is that? In our culture we don't get married so we can fall out of love at some point. We fall in love after marriage and stay in love all our lives.”
At seeing Mom's expression turn to amused warmth, I snickered. “Wow, Dad, that was profound. I didn't know you could voice your sentiments quite like that.”
Dad gave me his
shut your mouth, little girl
glower. I had embarrassed him. But then I hadn't realized Dad was such a romantic in his own conservative way. He'd probably never overtly expressed love to my mother in their thirty-five-plus years of marriage.
Maneel threw Dad a bland smile. “Well then, if you and Mom are still in love, why can't I say the same thing? One's wife doesn't have to be Konkani for a man to stay in love with her all his life, does she?”
“I ... suppose not,” conceded Dad. But he still didn't look convinced.
Mom patted Maneel's face. “Maybe in a few weeks you'll feel differently,
babba,
” she said, using her term of endearment reserved for him. “I've heard that sometimes these love affairs fizzle out.”
I turned to Mom. “Where'd you hear that?”
She made a vague gesture with her hand. “I think it was Dr. Ruth or Joyce Brothers or someone like that. I know it was some woman who's an authority on the subject of love and relationships.”
“Mom, I'm serious about Naseem,” interrupted Maneel, bringing our focus back to the issue in question. “I'm not going to feel differently. Face it, your son's in love with a Muslim girl and wants to marry her.”
Mom rolled her eyes, something she rarely did.
“And I need you and Dad to help me face Naseem's parents,” added Maneel. “They're conservative Muslims.”
With a resigned sigh Mom rose to her feet. “I guess it could have been worse.”
“How?” asked Dad.
“One of my colleagues recently found out his young son has been living with a middle-aged man for three years.”
“Hmm,” Dad grunted in agreement.
Mom glanced at Maneel. “Dad and I are going upstairs to discuss this. If you want our help in dealing with this girl's parents, we have to come up with a plan.” She made her way out of the room and looked over her shoulder at Dad, her silent cue.
Dad reluctantly got up and followed her.
The three of us drew a combined breath of relief.
“Well, that wasn't so bad,” I said.
“Yeah.” Maneel looked like a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. “Two down, two more to go. You think they're convinced enough to give Naseem's parents a run for their money?”
I picked up the remote control for the TV. “Mom and Dad want to see you happy. They'll do whatever they can. No one's more determined than Mom when she's on a crusade.”
“You think so?”
“I know so. Besides, we did a good job of convincing them that Naseem is the best thing this family has seen since baby Mahesh's birth.”
Ignoring my mocking remark, Mahesh asked Maneel, “For all the hard work Meena and I did on your behalf, what do we get from you?”
Maneel sank lower into the soft couch, closed his eyes, made himself more comfortable. “Name your price.”
“Dinner and a movie?” Mahesh's idea of a treat was generally modest. The poor boy was used to the pittance he was paid as an intern.
“That's too chintzy for the kind of labor we put in,” I countered. “I'd say we've earned at least a Broadway show and dinner in New York City.”
Maneel opened one eye and glared at me. “Should've known you'd come up with something big and expensive.” He closed his eyes again. “What the heck, I'm in a generous mood. I'll spring for a show and dinner. I'll ask Naseem to book tickets for all four of us on Mahesh's next weekend off.”
I beamed at Mahesh. “That's what's called
negotiating.
”

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