I was only going to have one bite, but there is nothing like the first spoonful of biryani to make you realize how hungry you are. Hoisting the entire steel pot onto the dining table, I began shoveling food into my mouth as fast as I could.
That was how Bisma Akram saw me for the first time.
“Hi,” she said.
I cleared my throat and wiped at my mouth with the back of my hand. “Hello.”
“Bisma.”
“Danyal Biryani. I mean, Jilani. Danyal Jilani.”
She smiled.
Bisma was one of those people who, but for one defining feature, would’ve been unremarkable to look at. In her case, it was her swift smile. It caused her nose to wrinkle a bit, and her cheeks dimpled. She didn’t have anything remotely like Kaval’s scorched earth beauty, and she didn’t have the figure to make everything she wore look a little tight. Bisma was willowy—no, that makes people think of movie stars and models. Wrong plant. Bisma was...palmy.
Was it weird that I was so focused on her looks? A little, I guess, but that’s the reality of the arranged marriage process. Normally, our parents would have exchanged photos and biographical information before any of this happened—it was the old brown people version of trading baseball cards—and the picture alone would’ve determined whether or not we even met each other.
So don’t judge me for being shallow. Judge all desis.
Anyway, my mom was right. Bisma wasn’t hot.
There was, however, something undeniably attractive about her. Her vibe was very geek-California. She had on a pair of retro square eyeglasses that were slightly big for her face. Her long, light brown hair hung in loose waves. In white jeans and a baby-blue T-shirt with Spider-Man’s face in the shape of a heart, she obviously didn’t care enough about being set up with me to dress up. I liked that.
“Do you want me to twirl around or are you good?”
Crap. I’d stared too long. I could feel my face get hot. That was probably the first time in my life a girl had made me blush.
“Sure,” I joked. “Go ahead.”
She blinked, obviously a little taken aback, then shrugged her narrow shoulders and spun around.
I hadn’t expected her to actually do that.
“Well?” Bisma asked, hands on her hips.
I knew I should say something nice.
“Nice,” I said.
She let out an exaggerated sigh of relief. “Thank God. I feel super validated.”
Bisma laughed then, and I couldn’t help but join in.
“Hear that?” I heard my mother say from the other room. It was practically a squeal. “They’re getting along. I think now is a good time to send them out for coffee, don’t you?”
Going out for coffee was actually kind of a rare event in my limited arranged-marriage-process experience. Most parents don’t let their girls go out with a “prospect,” even for half an hour, without a chaperone. The Akrams were being rather liberal, and I suppose I should’ve been grateful. I was, however, too busy being mortified by the way Bisma raised her eyebrows when she saw my minivan.
“Sexy,” she said as she got in.
I felt myself blush again. What was it about this girl that made my face do that? “Makes it easier to move gui
tars and speakers and stuff.”
“You play?”
I nodded.
“Are you good?”
“I’m very good.”
Bisma chuckled. “Well, you don’t have any self-esteem issues.”
“Groundless confidence is one of my special skills.” I turned the ignition, and the old engine coughed itself to life. “Where to?”
“Anywhere.”
We drove in silence for a few minutes. Finally, she said, “You’re nineteen, right?”
“Yeah. You?”
“Yup. So how come you’re still in high school?”
I bit back a sigh. Desi uncles and aunties had been asking me that question for years. I hated it. I was pretty sure that by now my family’s entire acquaintance knew I’d been held back a grade in middle school, and they only pretended to be ignorant to feel superior about their own spawn. Jerks.
I guess it was a fair question, though, coming from a girl your parents were setting you up to potentially marry. I projected my best devil-may-care attitude. “I’m not very bright.”
Bisma laughed, but not unkindly. “I doubt that’s true.”
“What about you?”
“I’m actually very bright.”
I smiled. “I mean, where do you go to school?”
“Berkeley,” she said. “For microbiology.”
I glanced over at her. Berkeley? Wow. She was bright. What the hell was her family doing trying to set her up with someone like me?
“What?” Bisma asked when I didn’t say anything.
“That’s a good school.”
“It’s got something of a reputation, sure.”
“I mean, that’s something that desi parents would approve of.”
She nodded.
“So...what’s wrong with you?”
Bisma frowned. “What?”
“You’re smart. And you’re okay to look at.” I winced as soon as I said it. “Sorry. I don’t know what is going on today. I’m usually much better at giving compliments. Anyway, what I’m saying is, given everything that you’ve got going on, why are your parents shopping for a husband in the bargain bin?”
“Wow. I was wrong about you not having self-esteem issues, wasn’t I?”
“This isn’t about what I think of myself.” I sounded defensive, but...well, Bisma knew what I was trying to say. Why was she making me explain? “It’s about how uncles and aunties value people. I mean, I don’t care, really, but I know what my worth is on the market.”
“If I were an English major, our parents putting us together would make more sense to you?”
“Yeah. I’m not saying that’s the way it should be. I’m just saying no desi parent wants their daughter to marry a guy planning to attend a culinary institute.”
She didn’t say anything for a while. Just looked out her window at the quintessential suburbia that was my hometown. Finally she said, “This is a waste of time. I’m sorry. I can’t get my mother to stop setting these meetings up.”
I sighed. I’d been too rude. Too direct. Or maybe she hadn’t known about the wanting-to-be-a-chef thing. Whatever. It wasn’t like I was trying to impress her anyway.
We drove in silence for another moment or two. Then Bisma said, “Let’s just go back.”
Except she didn’t say it like it was something she wanted to do. She said it like it was something she was agreeing to, like I was the one who wanted to bail. It bothered me. What was her deal?
“Did you kill someone?”
Bisma chuckled. “I think my family would prefer it if I had.”
“Are you a cyberterrorist or something?”
“Worse.”
We pulled up to a stoplight, and I had the chance to look at her. She was staring at her hands and had slunk further into her seat, as if she was trying to disappear into it. Then it hit me.
What was worse than being a terrorist when it came to an arranged marriage?