Page 1 of Arranging Ayra
PROLOGUE
Ayra
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The Lion’s Head Pub in the heart of London, England was quiet.Only a few patrons sat sipping their ale as they went over the hardships of their workday.
I sipped what remained of my second lager and wondered how much longer I would have to wait. I’d already been sitting here for nearly an hour, looking out the window and checking the door every two minutes. I was growing impatient.
“Can I bring you another pint?,” the server asked as he wiped the corner of my table with his white cloth.
“I’m good. Thank you,” I said.
“Waiting for someone?”
I pressed a tight smile but said nothing.
As he walked away, I pulled out the tattered photo that my mother had given me for the purpose of this night.
“He’s a good boy from a good family,” she had said, pressing the photo into my palm. “Do try to make a good impression.”
Oh, Mother. What have you gotten me into this time?
I hated... no I absolutely loathed blind dates. And yet, there I was sitting and waiting to meet some pimply-faced string bean of a guy named Devi.
Really, Mother? I thought as I looked closely at the photo. The scrawny boy looked back at me through incredibly thick glasses. His smile was marred by the glint of braces and his unruly hair sat atop his head like a thick, black mop.
I sighed and tried to look at the bright side. Despite the braces, his smile was warm, if not a little awkward. And through his thick glasses I clearly detected an intelligent being somewhere in there.
Reva, my mother, had long tired of my single status and had taken it upon herself to remedy the situation... so there I sat, waiting.
“Great. Really, really great,” I muttered under my breath.
I looked once again at the photo and determined that it had been taken a number of years earlier. I could only hope that he had blossomed since then.
Please, oh Lord... let me meet a man that will take my breath away.
Movement at the door caught my attention, and I once again checked to see who was entering; just an old man who headed to the far table to join his buddies.
“Do something nice with your hair,” my mother had said.
Sighing, I absentmindedly fiddled with the long, black braid that trailed over my right shoulder. I looked down at my attire, black leggings with a snug red button down shirt. Casual/chic... or so I hoped.
“Put on a pretty dress,” she added. I felt certain she had held back the urge to go through my closet and pick out something appropriate.
“Why not? Why not go through my closet?” I quietly grunted. After all, shewastrying to pick out my future husband.Why not just take full control of my life, Mother?
Though proud to be of Indian heritage, my parents had left India before my birth and brought me to life in the land of the free. My mother had been surrounded by women of accomplishment, successful careers, and who walked independent paths. I, too, sought to find fulfillment in my work... not a husband.
“That’s all good and well,” Mother said. “But you’re no spring chicken. You need to find a good man before it’s too late. All of this frivolous dating is fine when you’re eighteen, but now, you’re a mature woman. Act like it!”
“Mother, please.”
“My darling daughter. Listen to your old and wise mother. Naya was a Bollywood star... a beautiful woman... striking, intelligent, strong and married to a good man, a Scottish man. She was my childhood friend in India. Their son, Devi, is a little older than you. Still single. While married to a man in Scotland, she misses the old ways and says she wants her son to find a woman like the ones from our village. Someone from his homeland.”
“But India isn’t my homeland, Mother. America is.”
“Go on the date,” she’d pressed. “Meet the boy. Get to know him. Impress him. And then make me a dozen grandkids.”
