Chapter One
Liya
My mom absolutely loved the crap out of WhatsApp. She didn’t know how to text, but she could do anything on WhatsApp—including sending me a half dozen pictures of the guy she and my dad had chosen for me. And by chosen, I meant the one guy who had even agreed to meet me. Which was a feat in itself, to be honest. He must not have heard about me.
Now my parents were convinced that he was the one, because he’d been the only one to not turn and run from the mere whisper of the name Liya Thakkar.
I had absolutely zero interest in allowing my father to arrange my marriage to anyone. While my friends may have ended up in perfectly content matches, I couldn’t give in to the archaic practice of this whole arranged marriage business. Or marriage in general. Or commitment, for that matter. No. Freaking. Thank. You.
If I wanted to answer to a man for the rest of my life, I’d just live with my father. Thanks to a culture where our twenties meant draconian aunties swooping in to play matchmaker, I had to battle the nauseating notion of lifelong commitment.
Speaking of the devil from whose loins I came, Dad’s name flashed across my cell phone screen for the twentieth time this week, but I muted the ringer. This was likely another demand that I meet this suitor he’d so precisely picked. After all, as one of his multiple voicemails pointed out, finding a qualified man who would even consider me had been a strenuous five-year hunt. Given my reputation and all. We had to act fast to secure this guy before another woman lured him away. I mean, hell, let her drag him away. It would make my life that much easier.
Yet…here I was, at my parents’ house because Momma promised this was just an ordinary dinner, just the three of us, and nothing more.
I checked the rearview mirror of my gray Lexus as I drove to their house in the Woodlands on the outskirts of Houston. The car had been a gift to myself, a reminder of how far I’d come and all that I’d accomplished, including my recent promotion. Also, it was physical proof that I didn’t need a man to take care of me.
The sun was out, but the towering tree canopy shaded almost every inch of my parents’ charming street. When the houses were built years ago, the developer made a point to cut down as few trees as possible, thus pairing fairly contemporary homes with as much untouched nature as possible.
Even though I hadn’t always enjoyed spending time with my parents growing up, I loved the neighborhood, and the nostalgia thrust me back to all those mornings running with other kids—the wind in my hair, the faint smell of cedar and cypress trees, and the giggles of girls.
Nostalgia was the past. The present held a different meaning, as was apparent when I parked on the street, providing plenty of room to escape. Why? Because Dad and I had our differences. So I drew a breath, in and out, and reminded myself that Momma was my sole purpose for coming today. She was the calming one, the nurturing one, the only person in my family worth spending time with, and the source of my unconditional love.
The walk up the pebbled concrete driveway was much too short. Leaves crunched beneath my brown Prada riding boots, and the breeze offered a hint of iciness, almost like a foreboding chill telling me to turn around.
I shivered, adjusted the scarf around my neck, and knocked.
Momma swung open the newly polished oak wood door. The woman barely reached my chin, yet she threw her hands around my shoulders and forced me to lean down. My back gladly bent to her command and my senses lit up with pure joy from the smell of her coconut hair oil and rosewater perfume. She smelled like home.
We hugged a few seconds longer. It always hurt to let her go, like maybe she’d wither away. Hugging her was the only way I felt like I could protect her.
She pulled back and swatted the air, her eyes moist. “Why do you always knock? You have a key.”
I removed my boots outside the door and followed her inside, the decorated tiles cold beneath my socks. “I know, but it’s your house, your privacy.”
“We knew you were coming. What were you going to interrupt, huh?” She smiled that genuine, heartfelt smile of hers, the one that made my heart ache because it had become a rare sight over the years.
The spicy aromas of curried vegetables and buttery roti wafted from the kitchen, rolled through the hallway, and greeted me in the foyer. My mouth instantly watered. Who didn’t melt a little when they smelled their mother’s home cooking?
As I made my way down the hall, I saw Dad sitting on the couch in the family room across from the kitchen. His khaki-covered legs were crossed, and a newspaper was in his hand. The gentle swish of turning pages filled the silence as I waited for his acknowledgment, but after a few cold seconds, I said, “Hey, Dad.”
“Liya,” he stated in that impassive, flat tone of his.
Nice. Not even a smile or eye contact. Something in that shuffling newspaper must’ve been pretty important.
I walked to the stove and peered into pots and pans, my nostrils greedily inhaling many wonderful scents. Momma pulled down plates and cups from the cabinets and set the table. We didn’t usually eat at the table, which should’ve been my first clue.
“You outdid yourself,” I said, popping a seasoned slice of radish into my mouth. A pinch of salt hit my tongue. Curried vegetables in muted hues of green and orange were piled high in a bowl. Spicy dhal with a swirl of paprika-induced red glistening on the surface simmered in a pot next to a platter of saffron-infused yellow rice. On the granite countertop, crispy papad with hot spots of fennel were stacked on a metal dish beside an open container of creamy raita with bright pieces of mint leaves. My stomach growled something fierce.
“Just the everyday.”
“I can’t believe you cook like this twice a day, every day.” I dipped a piece of cucumber into the raita and relished the taste. There was something calming about the refreshing crunch mixed with the tangy yogurt.
“You should spend more time in the kitchen with your mother and learn how to cook,” Dad said, his eyes glued to the paper. “What will you feed your husband and children?”
“Food,” I replied as I grabbed a spoon, dipped it into the piping hot dhal, and took a tentative sip of the tomato-heavy sweet-and-sour soup.
He scoffed. “Takeout, you mean? A woman should be able to cook three fresh meals a day. You don’t want your husband to starve.”
“I’m sure if it came down to starvation, he could figure things out,” I said, annoyed that his comments took me away from the beauty of Momma’s cuisine.
“He would be too tired after a long day of work. The least you can do is have a hot meal ready when he steps through the door to show your appreciation.”
“You do remember that I have an MBA and was recently promoted to lead in my department, don’t you? Which means I work long days. Maybe he should have dinner ready for me.”
“Absurd. The plight of a woman is to work in order to make money, but the purpose of a woman is to help her husband by taking care of the home and his needs…” he said in that condescending voice.
I tuned out the rest of his rant about the proper place for women, but unfortunately, my ears wandered back to his babbling when he asked, “Do you even care that people give us such a hard time at mandir about my unmarried daughter residing on her own?”