The Arrangement

Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

“H oly shit,” Arjun said, walking briskly out of the building with Kevin. “Did we really just do that?”

Kevin grinned back at him. “Yes, we did.”

Arjun clapped him on the back. “This calls for some champagne at the hotel. It’s on me.”

“We don’t have to wait that long,” said Kevin. He kneeled on the sidewalk and opened his briefcase. There was a small champagne bottle inside, nestled between candy bars and bags of chips. He pulled out the bottle and handed it to Arjun. “Like I said, I like to be prepared. Here’s to you, Arjun.”

He laughed in delight. “Here’s to us ,” he said. He uncorked the bottle, and champagne spurted all over the sidewalk.

The celebrations did not end there. Arjun felt invincible, as though all of his blood had been replaced by divine ichor. He basked in the glow of his victory on the long cab ride back to the hotel, and he did his best to appear humble when Adam D’Antonio called him and promised him a commission check “so big it’ll make your eyes bleed” (he hoped that last part was figurative).

They stepped into the lobby of the Taj Krishna, greeted by the cool breeze from the AC. “Do you want to get dinner here tonight?” Arjun asked. “The food is supposed to be the best in Hyderabad.”

“Actually,” Kevin replied, “I had something else in mind. Have you ever heard of Gokul Rathore?”

Arjun shook his head, unsure whether that was a person, place, or something else entirely.

“He’s a chef,” Kevin explained. “He runs a restaurant here in Hyderabad. It’s nothing as fancy as the Taj Krishna, but it’s the essence of South Indian cooking. I’ve watched videos about Gokul, and the way he uses ingredients—the creativity, the economy—it’s not like anything I’ve seen before.”

Arjun smiled. “Kevin, I didn’t know you were such a foodie!” he replied, pleasantly surprised.

Kevin shrugged. “I’ve always loved food. If I weren’t a software engineer, I’d probably be a cook. Anyway, do you want to check out the restaurant?”

“I’d love to,” Arjun said.

Gokul Rathore’s restaurant was not really a restaurant at all. It was in an outdoor food hall, a rambling assembly of small stalls with corrugated tin roofs supported by thin wooden poles and bolts of cloth separating each stall. Arjun followed Kevin through the maze, weaving through people and ducking beneath the colorful cotton fabric hung overhead to block out the sun. The smells wafted through the narrow alleyway, each one of them torturously delicious: here, the hiss of vadas being deep-fried, the sizzle of a dosa on the griddle; just beside the honey-sweet smell of gulab jamun , the burble of richly spiced rasam .

Homesickness tugged at Arjun, like a pinch behind the navel—not for a place, but for a time. The smells brought Arjun back to his childhood, to those Sunday mornings when the snow fell thick and white outside and the windows grew translucent with frost. Arjun’s mother would wake him up with a hot bowl of pongal and sambar, and they would eat together in the kitchen. Back when there were three of us , Arjun thought wistfully, thinking of how his father always wolfed down his first bowl and waited for Sarita’s approval to get seconds.

Gokul’s stall was in the back corner, beneath a span of teal fabric emblazoned with a golden lotus. There was a folding table, beyond which Arjun could see huge pots of bubbling oil and a tawa that looked to be four feet across. It was blazing hot inside the kitchen, and Arjun could already feel sweat trickling down his forehead. A man—thin, twenties, with a scimitar nose—was elbow-deep in a tandoor. “Gokul!” Kevin called, sliding past the table. Arjun followed.

“Kevin McPherson, yes?” Gokul replied, extricating his arm from the oven and not even bothering to look in their direction.

“That’s right,” said Kevin. “This is my colleague, Arjun.” Arjun folded his hands, and Gokul gave him a cursory once-over. “I want to thank you for getting back to me.”

“You were very persistent. How many emails did you send to me? Twenty?”

“Something like that.”

“Well, you made it all the way here,” Gokul said. “And you didn’t come just to be fed, I take it?”

Kevin shook his head. “I was hoping you could teach me how to make your dum aloo? ”

“Ah,” said Gokul. “Of course. You saw the video on YouTube, did you? And now, you want to learn how to cook my most famous dish.”

Kevin nodded.

“Very well,” sighed Gokul. “You can start by dicing some onions.” Gokul turned to Arjun. “And what about you? Can you be of use in a kitchen?”

“Um…I’d like to think so,” Arjun said.

“We’ll see,” Gokul replied. He gestured to a sack of potatoes resting against the leg of the folding table. “Peel them and cut them into quarters.”

Arjun nodded. Gokul handed him a small knife, and Arjun got to work. He’d only ever used a vegetable peeler to remove potato skins, and it was slow going with a knife. Once he’d peeled three potatoes, Gokul had evidently seen enough. He snatched the knife from Arjun and made quick work of the rest of the potatoes, removing each skin with one fluid twist of the blade.

Kevin had finished with the onions, and Gokul dumped the quartered potatoes into a pot of boiling water. “We can prepare the gravy in the meantime,” he said. There was a large metal tin nearby, and when he opened it, Arjun could see that it was full of colorful spices. Gokul selected bay leaves, cardamom, ginger root, and a head of garlic. He handed the ginger and garlic to Kevin, with instructions to peel both. “There are tomatoes there,” he told Arjun. Arjun handed them over, and Gokul dumped them into a huge mortar resting on the ground, along with a handful of cashews and the chopped onions. “Crush them,” he told Arjun, giving him a meter-long wooden dowel to use as a pestle. In the meantime, Gokul went off to fry the spices on the tawa .

Arjun mashed the tomatoes until his arms ached, and all that was left in the mortar was a thick, gray-white paste. Gokul came over to inspect his work. “Good,” he said, adding the paste to the tawa . “Make sure this doesn’t burn,” he told Kevin. The potatoes had finished boiling, and Arjun helped Gokul drain them before placing them on the tawa to fry lightly. Gokul went back to the spice tin and returned with a painter’s palette of spices: yellow turmeric, bright-red chili powder, green coriander powder, and a half dozen others. He mixed the spices in with the paste, and Arjun watched the whole mixture turn a vibrant, sunset-colored orange.

Gokul tasted the gravy with a spoon, then frowned. He added salt, then some more garam masala. He tasted it again, then added a squeeze of lemon. Another taste, and he nodded, pleased. He mixed the potatoes with the gravy. “It’s done,” he said, scooping up a potato with the spoon; covered in sauce, the morsel glistened like a jewel. “Try this,” he said, giving the spoon to Arjun.

The potato was the best that Arjun had ever eaten. Or was that even a potato? Arjun thought—because, surely, this couldn’t be the same humble root vegetable he’d eaten thousands of times. He’d never tasted anything like it: so richly flavored, the flavors cascading over one another like notes in a symphony. “This is amazing,” he said to Gokul as the chef fed Kevin. “Is it this good every time?”

Gokul smiled. “Every time.”

“Can you give me the recipe?” Arjun ventured.

Gokul shook his head. “There’s no recipe,” he said, as though that were the silliest question in the world.

“What do you mean?” asked Arjun. “Surely, you’ve written something down somewhere . How else would you know what to add and when?”

Gokul chuckled. “Cooking is not like computer science, my friend. There’s no algorithm that you can follow. The best food is made from the heart —and knowing something is good comes from tasting it along the way. Ask yourself: how does it make you feel as you make it?”

Arjun nodded. What Gokul said actually made sense. “Fine, no recipe,” Arjun said. “Can I have another potato?”

Arjun spent the cab ride back to the hotel half-asleep, in the clutches of a wicked food coma. He’d inhaled a whole tureen of dum aloo , several laccha parathas, and a heaping plate of hakka noodles. Beside him in the backseat, Kevin McPherson appeared to have been similarly affected. “Thanks for taking me today,” Arjun told Kevin. “I really enjoyed meeting Gokul.”

Kevin shrugged. “Don’t mention it. He’s a genius, isn’t he? His food was the best I’ve ever had.”

Arjun laughed. “No arguments here. And, again, you were amazing today. Really amazing. You practically had Wellstone eating out of your hand.”

“Thanks,” Kevin replied. “You know, it’s almost surprising to hear this from you. I don’t know; I guess I always got the sense that you didn’t like me.”

“I like you,” said Arjun. Kevin gave him a dubious look. “Well, okay,” he admitted. “It was hard to look past the Birkenstocks. And the Hawaiian shirts! Why do you own so many of them?”

Kevin shrugged. “They’re comfortable and stylish. Am I wrong?”

“Yes, but…well, that’s not the point. What I’m trying to say is that I misjudged you, Kevin. I’m sorry.”

Kevin smiled. “I appreciate that.”

Arjun leaned back and sighed. “You know, as good as making that sale felt, cooking with Gokul felt better . My dad used to tell me that feeding people was the closest we could come to godliness. I’ve never been particularly religious, but I felt something today.”

“Maybe feeding people is something you should pursue more seriously,” Kevin said. “I’m sure you could figure it out, if that’s what you really want.”

“I’ve actually been thinking about opening a restaurant of my own,” Arjun replied. “But that’s always been my problem: thinking . Too much thinking and not enough doing.”

“Maybe that’s because it’s just been your dream,” Kevin said. “You’re more okay letting yourself down than you are letting other people down. Have you ever thought about bringing on a partner?”

An idea popped into Arjun’s head. “What about you?” he asked. “You clearly know your way around a kitchen. I’m developing a menu. Is that something you’d be interested in helping me with?”

Kevin grinned. “When can I start?” he asked.

Arjun woke the next day to a loud knocking on his door. When he glanced at the alarm clock beside the bed, he saw it was past noon. He opened the door to find a valet carrying a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label. The whiskey was courtesy of Ed Wellstone, who’d also enclosed a note: I’m hosting a small get-together in the office tonight . I’d love it if you could attend. Details are provided below.

Arjun set the note on his dresser and went to go shower. It would have been nice to linger on the events of the previous day—the pitch with Wellstone, the meal with Gokul Rathore—but, for the moment, he had more pressing things on his mind.

Today, he was meeting his first prospective match.

Malini Arora was twenty-six years old, slim, and fair-skinned, with long hair that fell past her waist. She’d attended Osmania University and worked as a software engineer at Microsoft. Under the biodata section titled “Expectations for Marriage,” she’d written: “I am looking for a true partner, to be supportive in all things: family, career, and life.”

Arjun had given up on his own “Expectations” section, and he’d written something similarly banal. Still, Malini was the perfect match—at least, on paper. Like Arjun, she wanted two children. She was close with her parents, loved reading old novels, and played tennis. She was a concert pianist, and she spent her weekends at a local food bank.

Arjun had texted Dhanya around ten o’clock the previous night. To his surprise, she’d responded immediately, and gave him a time and place to meet Malini for lunch.

Arjun changed into a tailored suit and caught a cab downstairs, giving the address to the driver as he ducked into the backseat. “Jubilee Hills. Fancy place,” the driver said in Hindi as the car bumped along the roads.

It occurred to Arjun that he should not arrive empty-handed. He had the driver stop by a roadside stand. Does Malini prefer roses? he wondered, staring at the bouquets set in buckets full of water. Or would lilies be better? Arjun settled for a large bunch of red roses, paid the man running the stand, and got back into the car.

Arjun was unfamiliar with Hyderabad’s various neighborhoods, and he’d thought the address would lead him to a restaurant. Instead, the car turned into a clearly opulent neighborhood. Large houses presided over the street, many constructed in the modern style that would not have been out of place in Westwood or Seattle. Sidewalks crisscrossed lush parks, and people walked golden retrievers and German shepherds. In the distance, Arjun could see the downtown, the gleaming skyscrapers shrouded in haze.

The car stopped in front of a heavy black gate framed by shrubbery. The driver reached out the window and pressed the intercom button. He glanced back at Arjun, clearly meaning for him to speak. “Arjun Chowdhury, here to see Malini,” he said, his voice creaky with nervous anticipation.

The gate swung open.

Arjun exited the car in front of the house and knocked on the driver’s window. He rolled it down, and Arjun leaned over. “Wait here,” he said quietly, handing the driver several hundred-rupee notes. He was in an unfamiliar place, and he didn’t know how this meeting would go. He would rather not be stuck on the family’s lawn, waiting for a cab if it went badly.

He turned and walked up the front steps. This is it, he thought, smoothing the creases on his jacket. In thirty seconds, you could be meeting your wife.

He rang the doorbell.

A lock turned, and a man stood in the doorway. He was short and thin, with a graying mustache; Arjun surmised that this was Malini’s father. What’s the etiquette here? he wondered, beginning to panic. Should I bow? he thought, before dismissing the idea. He’s not a king.

“ Namaste , Arora sahib ,” Arjun decided, folding his hands in front of his chest and inclining his head slightly. You look like a complete ass, he thought, picturing one of those bobbleheads that sat on a dashboard, their expressions vacant as their heads wiggled idiotically.

The man smirked. “I’m Shomu, the servant,” he replied in Hindi. “Arora sahib is in the living room, with the rest of the family.”

I forgot that they have servants here, thought Arjun, slightly relieved that he hadn’t made a fool of himself in front of his prospective father-in-law. But I don’t know what he’s being so smug about.

He followed Shomu through the foyer, which was hung with ornate tapestries and paintings depicting Hindu myths: blue-skinned Krishna, recumbent, lay surrounded by attendants and wives; the goddess of death, Kali, planted a foot atop a vanquished enemy, her tongue lolling from her mouth.

A group of people sat on the set of posh black leather couches in the living room. The entire family had assembled: Malini’s parents and grandparents, her brothers and sisters, and at least two babies (though, hopefully, not Malini’s—what a thing to leave off a biodata!).

Arjun felt his stomach tighten as his gaze fell upon Malini herself. She looked a bit different than she had in her photograph—but, of course, her photo had just been a headshot a few inches wide. Malini had wide eyes fringed by heavy lashes, with a small purple bindi on her forehead. Her hair was pleated, intertwined with jasmine buds whose scent wafted across the living room. She wore a green sari, and her golden bangles jingled like wind chimes when she stood.

Arjun’s mouth went dry. How do I introduce myself? he wondered again, knowing that he would be addressing the whole family. Would a simple “Hello” suffice? Surely, he couldn’t say the truth: “My name is Arjun, and I’m here because, in a few months, I’d like to marry your daughter and whisk her off to America.”

He cleared his throat. “ Namaste ,” he said instead, awkwardly balancing the flowers in the crook of his arm as he folded his hands.

A large man rose from the group, huffing with effort as he stood. He wore thick glasses and a gold chain that would’ve put most American rappers to shame. “ Namaste ,” he replied, his small eyes looking Arjun up and down. Arjun knew what he was thinking: So, this is the man who’s come to marry my daughter.

Arjun introduced himself to the rest of the family members, kneeling to touch the feet of the elders, as was customary. Finally, he arrived at Malini herself. “These are for you,” he said, handing her the flowers.

“Thank you,” she replied, accepting the bouquet. She spoke softly and kept her eyes low. Arjun saw Malini’s grandmothers whispering and glancing towards the kitchen. He looked, too, and saw a vase brimming with dozens of perfect, plump roses. Damn it , he thought.

Arjun took the place offered to him, a round ottoman so low that his knees came halfway up his shoulders when he sat. “So, Malini—” he began.

Her father cut in instead. “You are a long way from home,” he said in thickly accented English. “You came all this way just to meet Malini?”

Arjun tried to steady his nerves. “Of course,” he said, smiling as broadly as he dared.

Malini’s father laughed, a big booming guffaw that seemed to shake the room. “Good boy,” he said. “So, how much do you make?”

Arjun raised an eyebrow. He’d answered this question on the biodata—but to have it be asked so bluntly, not two minutes after meeting this man, was like a splash of cold water to the face. “Three hundred thousand dollars,” he said hesitantly. “That’s not counting bonuses. And I have stock options that just vested, too. Those are worth a lot more.”

Malini’s father nodded, clearly impressed. “So much money for such a young man.”

“Not young,” corrected Malini’s mother, a heavyset woman in dark eyeliner. “You’re thirty, aren’t you, Arjun? Most boys your age are already married.”

That was not a question. Shake it off , he told himself. “I wanted to establish myself before marriage,” he said, trying to project confidence. “It was important to me to make sure I could support myself and my wife when the time came.”

Malini’s mother nodded. Arjun sensed that she was warming quickly to him—but he sensed wrong. “Is that the only thing, then?” she said, her tone suddenly mocking. “Money?”

He frowned. “I’m sorry, I’m not following.” He glanced at Malini, hoping she would finally speak up and say something. Instead, she stared down at her hands folded in her lap.

“There are other things that go into one’s readiness for marriage besides money,” Malini’s mother continued. “Why do you feel that you’re ready to be married?”

Arjun knew the answer immediately, this time. “My own father was married around this age,” he said. “I think he would have wanted me to be, too.”

The hour that followed was among the most agonizing of Arjun’s life. He felt like a criminal defendant in front of a panel of lawyers, taking questions on everything from his career goals to his ideal family size to whether or not he snored (or if he minded that Malini did). All the while, his eyes made silent entreaties to Malini, begging her to speak up and stop the interrogation. It didn’t work; she remained as mute as a figure in one of the tapestries hanging above.

Finally, Malini’s father rose. “Thank you for coming,” he said to Arjun, clapping him a bit too hard on the shoulder. “We’ll let you know if we’d like another meeting.”

That was all that Arjun needed to hear. He practically shot to his feet. “It was nice to meet you, Malini,” he said—though, in truth, he didn’t feel like he’d met her at all.

“You, as well,” she replied. Arjun realized that this was the longest sentence she’d uttered all afternoon.

He bade a hurried farewell to Malini’s family, and he walked as quickly as he dared to the door. There was a strange queasy feeling in his stomach that only amplified when he shut the car door behind him. That was awful , he thought with a huge exhale as he threw his head back against the headrest. The whole thing had felt oddly like a job interview—but was that normal? After all, it had started with a biodata, which was basically a glorified resume.

And I barely talked to Malini , he thought. Was she just shy? Or did the women usually let their families take the lead in these initial meetings?

Oh, and there was also that thing that Malini’s father had said: “… if we’d like another meeting.”

Arjun wondered if he’d made a bad impression. The roses were stupid , he decided. Sitting with all these thoughts buzzing around his head, the journey back to the Taj Krishna felt interminable.

When he arrived at the hotel again, he realized that the solution to all of his problems was staring him in the face. It’s so simple, he thought, walking towards the bar. A few glasses of whiskey, and this would all be just a bad memory. But, to his surprise, he found Kevin waiting in the lobby, dressed in a blazer and khaki pants. “You look sharp,” Arjun said, pleasantly surprised. “What’s the occasion?”

Kevin raised an eyebrow. “You got a bottle from Wellstone, too, right? Did you see the note about the mixer?”

Arjun groaned. Damn it, he thought. He glanced at his watch, wondering if there was time to head upstairs for a shower. You’re already wearing a suit, he mused. “All right,” he said to Kevin. “I’m ready if you’re ready.”

Arjun’s first thought upon arriving was that Wellstone had dramatically undersold his “small get-together.” The Peacock building was lit up like a Christmas tree, with colored lights dancing on the sleek glass fa?ade. A row of cars lined up at the entrance: Porsches and Mercedes, Audis and Maseratis, and even a Lamborghini or two. The people exiting the cars were dressed in glittering dresses and fashionable tuxedos. “What’s going on here?” Kevin asked, leaning over to Arjun as they stepped out into the humid night.

“That,” he replied, pointing. Someone had placed a large sign just before the sliding doors: a constellation of red and yellow mums was pinned to a large foam display board, forming the words HYDERABAD EDUCATION GALA. “I guess it’s a charity event.”

Kevin laughed. “Well, it looks like the two of us are a little underdressed. I hope you brought your wallet.”

Arjun smiled. He and Kevin went inside together.

The giant lobby had been transformed into a reception hall, with tables dotting the floor and a stage at the far end opposite the koi pond. A band was playing Michael Jackson covers interspersed with Bollywood hits from standards like Main Hoon Na and Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham . After signing in and receiving nametags, Arjun and Kevin watched the band play for a little while. “They’re pretty good!” Kevin said, clapping as the band wrapped up a rendition of “Billie Jean” (sung partially in Hindi).

“We should find Wellstone,” Arjun replied.

“Go ahead,” Kevin said, shouting over the music as another song began. “I’m going to hang out here for a bit. Maybe try to get closer to the band.”

Walking away from the crowd assembled near the stage, Arjun left Kevin to listen to a mashup of “Man in the Mirror” and “Maahi Ve”. He milled around the lobby for a while, nodding at the people who passed him but not making conversation. After that afternoon’s meeting with Malini, he was in no mood to socialize. He wanted to find Wellstone, say hello, and sneak out into the night.

Wellstone, evidently, had other plans. Arjun circled the entire lobby twice, but the bespectacled Bostonian was nowhere to be found. Maybe the bartender has seen him , he thought. And it’d be a good excuse to finally get that drink.

He walked over to the bar, which had been set up by the elevator bank. He asked the bartender if he’d seen Wellstone. “Tall guy?” Arjun asked. “ White guy,” he elaborated, hoping that would clear things up.

The bartender only shook his head. Arjun sighed and ordered a whiskey, rocks. “He never comes to these things,” said a man standing nearby.

“Of course, he doesn’t,” Arjun muttered.

He felt his phone buzz in his pocket; it was a call from Dhanya. Arjun set his drink down and made for the men’s room, where he could speak to her privately. Thankfully, the bathroom was empty, and he picked up the phone. “Hi, Dhanya Auntie,” he said, his voice echoing off the white tile walls. “What can I do for you?”

Dhanya laughed. “You’re just like my other American clients,” she said. “Straight to business. I wanted to congratulate you, beta . Malini’s family really liked you. They’re wondering if you’d like to meet her again before you leave.”

That was news to Arjun. “They would?”

“You sound surprised.”

“Well, I didn’t really get to know Malini very well,” he replied. “That’s an understatement, actually. I spent the entire meeting talking to her parents while she just sat there, mute. Is that normal?”

Arjun heard Dhanya make an approving noise at the other end of the line. “What is it you say in the States? ‘Different strokes for different folks.’ Sometimes, the parents lead the discussion; other times, it’s up to the children. What did you think of Malini?”

Arjun was surprised at how quickly he came up with an answer. “Please thank her family for their hospitality…but I don’t think I’ll see her again.”

Dhanya was silent for a moment. “That’s perfectly fine,” she replied. “Would you tell me why not? It will help me to find a better match for you next time.”

“She was too timid,” Arjun decided after a moment. “I want my wife to be confident enough to take the lead in an intimidating situation. To say what she really thinks. And, even though I only met her once, I don’t think Malini is that kind of woman.”

“Very well,” Dhanya said. “I’ll look over my database, then. Hopefully, I can find another meeting for you while you’re still in India. I’ll talk to you soon, Arjun.”

Arjun said goodbye and hung up.

He leaned against the wall and gave a long sigh, like the air being let out of a football. He hadn’t said this to Dhanya, but he dreaded the prospect of another meeting. This afternoon was so painfully awkward that he wondered whether he could subject himself to the same thing again. “Maybe you should let it go, Arjun,” he told himself, staring at his reflection in the mirror. “Maybe an arranged marriage just isn’t for you.”

He heard a toilet flush. A latch clicked, and one of the stall doors swung open. An elegant woman in a red dress walked out, smiling faintly. She washed her hands, casting a sideways smirk at Arjun. “This is the men’s room,” Arjun stammered, pointing to the urinal.

“The women’s line is always too long,” she replied, chuckling softly. She reached into her purse and drew out a small silver box. She opened it and pulled out a cigarette. “Who’d have thought I’d find juicier gossip in the men’s room, though?” She set the cigarette between her lips and sucked in, then exhaled the smoke in a thin, continuous stream.

“That was my friend,” said Arjun, stumbling over the lie. “He’s having a rough day.”

“His name is Arjun, too?” She pointed to his nametag with the tip of her glowing cigarette, and Arjun felt himself turn as red as her dress. “It’s all right,” she said, chuckling. “Is this the first meeting you’ve had?”

There was no point in continuing the charade now. “That was the first,” he replied. “But I’m thinking that it might be the last.”

“Because of her parents?”

“That was part of it. I don’t think our personalities were a match, though. I want someone more…”

“Domineering?” she supplied.

He shook his head. “Someone more outgoing.”

“Well, that doesn’t mean the whole process is a bust. Maybe the next girl you meet will have the personality you’re looking for.”

“It’s not that,” Arjun said. “I’m getting an arranged marriage because I’ve been told that compatibility from the outset is the most important foundation for a lasting relationship. And compatibility isn’t just what you do for a living or whether you sleep with the fan on. Chemistry is just as important—and, if I can’t guarantee that, what’s the point of going through the whole song and dance?”

The woman took another drag; smoke spiraled from the tip of her cigarette. “Let me ask you a question. What do you think is more romantic: an arranged marriage or a love marriage?”

Arjun knew the answer immediately, but he felt guilty saying it. “A love marriage.”

She tutted. “Let me ask again, a different way. Which idea is more beautiful: that one is destined to find enduring love with only one person? Or that he can build a lasting love with anyone?”

Arjun had to think about that. “I don’t know,” he said, genuinely unsure. “Neither idea is more beautiful than the other. They’re just…different.”

“Ah,” she replied, waggling the cigarette between her fingers. “Now you see. All your life, you’ve been used to thinking of love one way. Now, you must think in the other way. Not better, not worse—but, as you say, different. It takes some getting used to.”

It occurred to Arjun that he was having the biggest philosophical debate of his life in a men’s room. “So, what do I do now? I don’t want another meeting like the one I just had.”

The woman shrugged. “Set yourself up for success,” she said. “You know, geography isn’t as trivial as we’d like to think it is. Maybe you’ll hit it off better with an ABCD, like you. You know: American-born confused?—”

“ Desi ,” Arjun finished, chuckling. “I know what it means.”

The woman smiled, dropped the cigarette into the sink, and let out a jet of water to extinguish it. “Best of luck, Arjun,” she said, opening the bathroom door. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”