Page 1 of The Love Match

Chapter1

Bangladeshi weddings can be brutal.

Sure, like most South Asian ceremonies, theyseemmagical. There’s a reason why everyone from Selena Gomez to Coldplay has attempted to cop our glamour. The vibrant clothes, plentiful food, and impromptu dance numbers will take the most average wedding and turn it into something straight out of a Bollywood blockbuster.

Or, in this case, a natok.

But the ugly truth is, in or out of the movies, weddings are as treacherous as a jungle—the prime hunting ground of matchmaking aunties and uncles, who herd together in the buffet line, dressed in their peacock-bright sharis and fanjabis, munching on somosas and zilafis as they set their sights on any Bengal tiger cubs foolish enough to stray from their streaks.

Enter me: Zahra Khan. I may be a cub, but I’m hardly a fool.

Usually, I’m smart enough to avoid weddingsandbusybodies.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not immune to the occasional fairy-tale wedding fantasy. It’s hard to be when all my favorite stories are romances.Pride and Prejudice, Crazy Rich Asians, When Dimple Met Rishi, Yeh Jawaani Hai Deewani… If it involves extended eye contact, an eventual kiss, and hand holding, sign me up.

But a love story of my own is a fantasy for a future-Zahra. One with time to date and dream.Present-Zahra is only eighteen, graduated from high school less than a week ago, and has plenty on her plate already, thank-you-very-much.

Too bad I can’t get that through my mother’s stubborn skull.

Since senior year began, she’s been dropping less-than-subtle hints that a proper—read:rich—match for me would be the end of all our woes. You see, since my father’s passing two years ago, Amma and I have had to work our butts off to keep food on the table for our family of five. A well-suited match, Jane Austen–style, would certainly help pay the bills.

So here we are at yet another ritzy banquet hall as Amma scopes out potential suitors, dragging me around like a show poodle on a leash. Her eyes flit toward a boy a couple of years older than me who sat in front of me in public speaking. He lifts a hand to wave. Before I can return the gesture, my best Good Bangladeshi Daughter smile glued in place, I’m yanked unceremoniously into the buffet line.

Jerking my wrist out of my mother’s grasp, I exclaim, “Amma, that was so rude! I thought you wanted me to mingle.”

“Rude?” She frowns between me and the table, laden with heaping platters of fragrant jasmine rice and vindaloo, before responding in exasperated Bengali, “Hireh, rude is the earful I’d get from your aunties if you married Mahmud Miah’s bedisha son. Two years out of high school, and what is he doing with his life? Last I heard, he’s waiting tables and planning to go to Hollywood toact.”

Disdain drips off every word.

“I’ma waitress too,” I bite back, swallowing a lump of rising hurt. “Besides, we went to school together. He was only saying hi,notdeclaring his undying love.”

Not to mention, he’s the only person I know here, if doing his share of our group project on, ironically, dream careers counts as “knowing.” I catch glimpses of other people who live in our hometown, but it’sAmmawho knows everyone who’s anyone in Paterson. I’ve always been too busy with work and school to socialize.

When I told her I was too tired to take a bus all the way to New York City for this dawath after my shift, she claimed we simply couldn’t skip mypriocousin Anika’s wedding, but I doubt I could pick Anika Afa out of a police lineup even with the romantic slideshow of her and her fiancé flickering across the mounted television screens around us.

Oblivious to my misgivings, Amma continues darkly, “I’d let a boy like that steal my daughter across the country overmydead body. Your fufus in Bangladesh would happily finish the job for me if they found out.”

My lips press together, the reminder that I’m here as a favor to her, not to hunt for a boyfriend—much less ahusband—trapped behind them. I don’t like how often she makes light of dying, but I’ve never met a Bengali mother without a flair for the dramatic.

She ushers me forward with an impatient wave of her bangled arm. I decide to let it go, not wanting to pick a fight in public with so many onlookers. As she seeks out a table, I totter behind her in three-inch heels, the flared skirt of my glittery purple lehenga swishing around my ankles. She flings her purse onto an available chair, casting a challenging scowl at the unsuspecting woman who’d been about to take it like a tigress marking her territory. The poor lady scuttles away faster than a fleeing antelope, two empty seats in her wake.

Having attained her prize, my mother appraises the other faces staring back at us over a centerpiece strung with pearls that matches the ornamented decor of the banquet hall. “Assalamualaikum. Amar naam Zaynab Khan are oh oilo amar furi, Zahra.”

I sigh, then greet the guests as well. “Assalamualaikum, Khala, Khalu.”

Hardly giving them a chance to reply, “Walaikum salaam,” Amma begins interrogating them about where they’re from “back home.” By “home,” she means Bangladesh, of course, although our family settled in Paterson, New Jersey, on the outskirts of New York City, almost a decade ago. It’s thequestion all Bengalis of her generation ask whenever they happen upon each other.

“Afnar bari koi?” my mother inquires.

Two of them are from the same family, sisters-in-law accompanied by their respective husbands, who chat with each other while sipping steaming cups of saa, keeping an eye on a trio of toddlers in pigtails and frilly dresses playing tag. The third is a woman wearing more makeup and jewelry than the mother of the bride, perhaps the bride herself, with henna-dyed hair in such a striking hue of red, it might be visible from space.

“And where areyoufrom, Zaynab?” the bejeweled woman shoots back at Amma.

My mother takes a deep breath. “Well, Pushpita Afa—”

Here it comes. Theprincessstory.

“Sadly, I haven’t returned to my father’s bari in decades, but perhaps you’ve heard of it? The Choudhury Zamindari of Sunamganj?” She pauses dramatically as the women around the table exchange eager glances, then drives her point home. “But my husband, Allah yarhemuhu, hailed from the Khan Rajbari of Moulvibazar.”

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