The Arrangement

Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

A rjun’s childhood home was smaller than he remembered. Smaller, he thought …and emptier .

He stood in the foyer, having just arrived in Iowa after the four-hour flight from San Francisco. His legs were still sore from sitting for so long, and he slipped off his shoes and left his rollaway bag near the door. “Can I fix you something to eat?” asked Sarita, who’d picked him up from the airport in her sleek silver Mercedes. “I made chana masala .”

“Sounds perfect,” said Arjun. He followed his mother into the kitchen, their footsteps echoing through the house. He traced his hand along the walls, feeling the familiar irregularities in the paint he’d discovered as a child, his fingers like radar waves probing marine depths.

The kitchen smelled faintly of masalas and other spices. It was an airy space, with a big set of windows looking out over the snow-covered backyard. Though it was April now, it was still nearly freezing in Iowa. The chana masala burbled and popped on the stove, and Sarita scooped a spoonful of chickpeas out onto a plate along with a heap of basmati rice. “Eat up,” she said.

The doorbell rang, and Sarita went to answer it. It was Dan and Erica. They shed their winter coats and draped them over the back of the couch. “That smells delicious,” Dan said, and Sarita fixed him and Erica their own plates.

“I’m so glad you two made it back out to Iowa,” Sarita said as they sat at the dining table. “It’s always such a treat to see you.”

“The pleasure is ours,” Dan said, his mouth full of food. “Where else are we going to get this kind of food?”

Sarita chuckled. “Careful, Dan. Your mother might get jealous if she hears you talking this way.”

They ate for a while, reminiscing about school dances, old teachers, the big storm that toppled a tree right through Dan’s living room. Being with his friends in San Francisco was one thing—but being here, where the memories had actually happened, made Arjun almost feel as though he were sixteen years old again, wrapped in the tight, comforting embrace of the past.

Erica checked her phone. “It looks like my parents just pulled up outside. Dan, do you want to head out?”

Dan shoveled the rest of his food into his mouth and nodded. He and Erica thanked Sarita for her hospitality, and Arjun followed them outside to chat briefly with Erica’s parents.

The kitchen was spotless when Arjun returned, red-cheeked, inside. Sarita was waiting for him with a full trash bag. “I’m going to take a shower,” said Arjun, taking the trash outside before heading upstairs. He stripped out of his plane clothes and turned on the hot water. He closed his eyes, and he was right back outside that empty storefront on Hayes Street.

Arjun hadn’t thought much about what Nisha’s lips would taste like…but now he knew. They tasted like vanilla and moonlight, like petrichor and red wine.

He looked aside as they pulled apart. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she replied, the stars gleaming in her eyes.

“That shouldn’t have happened. You’re a really good friend, Nisha. But?—”

“It’s okay,” she said. “It was only a kiss. I was just…confused.”

“You mean it?” he asked. To his surprise, he felt a little hurt. “Because I do like you, Nisha. It’s just…I really do want to get married. Soon. And you… it’s like you said, you never want to get married again.”

“Honestly, Arjun, it’s fine. Let’s just forget this ever happened, okay?”

He nodded. “Thanks.”

But, of course, he hadn’t forgotten. Despite his best efforts, that kiss had stirred something in him, as though a pile of kindling had been stacked inside his body, and Nisha was the spark. They’d parted soon after, and it had been three days since they’d seen one another (Dan and Erica having held him to his word and conscripted him into packaging wedding invitations). Still, not a moment had passed without Arjun recalling the sensation of Nisha’s lips on his—not when he was stuffing envelopes, and not even here in Iowa.

Arjun heard Sarita calling him, and he turned off the shower. Dressed in his bathrobe, he ventured back downstairs. “Mom?”

“Right here,” she said. She was in the living room, standing in front of a large, framed photograph. “Can you help me hang this?” she asked, gesturing to the white floral garland in her hand. “It keeps slipping off.”

“Of course,” he said.

The man in the photograph had Arjun’s eyes: deep-set and so brown they seemed almost black. There was a twinkle in those eyes, a spark of light captured by the camera flash, and the man was smiling as though he was looking at something amusing just beyond the frame. He had a sparse head of hair, just beginning to gray around the temples. A silver Omega Speedmaster gleamed on his wrist.

Arjun took the garland from his mother and carefully hung it on the frame. He stepped back. Sarita came up next to him and hugged his arm like a life raft. “I can’t believe it’s been ten years,” she said.

“Neither can I,” he replied. He glanced down at his watch, the very same Speedmaster that his father had worn.

She sighed. “We had such plans, you know. Traveling the world, growing old together. Now…” She trailed off. “I get lonely, Arjun. As I grow older, I feel it more.”

Arjun nodded slowly. “You don’t have to be alone,” he said cautiously. “I’m sure Dad would have wanted you to be happy.”

Sarita sighed. “We talked about it. You know, one of those ‘what-if’ conversations. He always said I should remarry if he died first. It’s been such a long time…but I don’t think I’ll ever find that kind of love again.”

Arjun hugged his mother tighter. “I’m here for you, Mom.”

“I know,” she replied. “Helping you to find a wife has been good for me, actually. It reminds me of my courtship with Ravi.”

“What was he like?” asked Arjun. “Back then, I mean.”

His mother smiled wistfully. “He was very sweet,” she said. “Arranged marriages were different back then. There was only the initial meeting between our families. It lasted all of fifteen minutes, and afterward, we went our separate ways. I didn’t see him again until the wedding, but he made sure I knew he was thinking of me. He wrote me letters, you know. Love letters.”

Arjun raised an eyebrow. “Dad wrote love letters?” he asked, delighted. His father had been an engineer; Arjun had never known him to be the sappy type.

Sarita laughed. “Oh, yes,” she said. “He wrote beautifully, almost like poetry. And he never stopped, either. Whenever we were apart, even for a day, he would send me a letter.”

“Do you still have them?”

“Somewhere. I tried to read them again when he died, but it was too much for me to bear. Even now, I can’t bring myself to do it.” She sniffled. “I want that for you. That sort of love. And if I’m pushing you toward marriage—it’s only because it was the source of my happiness for so many years.”

Arjun was in his bedroom watching television when the doorbell rang a few hours later. Sarita burst into his bedroom, a panicked expression on her face. “They’re not supposed to be here for another hour!” she exclaimed. She noted Arjun’s kurta and frowned. “And you should wear the red one, instead. It will make you look much more virile, don’t you think?”

“Gross, Mom,” replied Arjun—but he went to his closet and picked out the red kurta , anyway. He pulled it over his head, and Sarita came by to adjust the collar. She rubbed her hands through his hair, trying to tame any unruly strands. “ Mom ,” protested Arjun as she brought out a bottle of coconut oil. “I don’t want to smell like an Almond Joy.”

“Fine,” Sarita said, relenting. “It’s just your future wife. What do I care?”

He followed her downstairs. He could see people outside the front door, their figures hazy through the frosted glass windows. “Are you ready?” Sarita asked. Arjun nodded, and she opened the door.

Arjun’s match, Devi, was twenty-nine years old, with short, wavy hair and a small lotus tattoo in the crook of her elbow. Neither of the two women standing outside the door was twenty-nine, and there were no tattoos in sight. “Revathi,” said Sarita, sounding a bit confused. “Oh, and Manjula is here, too.”

“Hello, bhabi, ” said Revathi, the older of the two women. She was tall and fair-skinned, with a streak of gray running through her coarse black hair.

Manjula, short and round and draped in a peacock-green sari , sashayed past Sarita and into the house. “It is so cold in this state,” she said. “Honestly, bhabi, I don’t know how you can stand to live here.”

“Neither can I,” said Revathi, closing the door behind her. “My invitation is always open, if you want to come stay with me in Milwaukee.”

Manjula shook her head. “That place is no warmer than it is here!” she proclaimed. “Now, Florida , on the other hand…”

“I am perfectly happy exactly where I am,” Sarita interjected. “My question is: what are the both of you doing here?”

“Arjun is getting married,” said Revathi. “And these things are a family affair, aren’t they?”

Sarita looked momentarily lost for words. “Yes,” she said. “ Our family. Me and Arjun.”

“You’re forgetting someone, no?” said Manjula. “And, since Ravi can’t be here, who better than his sisters to stand in his place? Arjun, beta , what do you think?”

Truthfully, the last thing Arjun wanted was for his aunts to barge in on his meeting—but he was powerless against decorum. “It’s a very nice surprise,” he said, putting the emphasis on surprise . “Are you hungry?”

“I could eat,” said Manjula.

“As long as it’s not the matar paneer we had last time,” added Revathi. “Do you remember those peas, Manju? Hard as rocks!”

Manjula snickered. Arjun glanced at his mother, who had a pained expression on her face, as though she would like nothing more than to find an actual rock and smash in her sister-in-law’s face. Instead, Sarita said, “You’re in luck. I have some leftover chana masala that I’m sure will live up to your standards.”

Arjun led his aunts to the couches in the living room while his mother went off to prepare the food. The two women sat beside one another, their proximity highlighting their differences: Revathi lean and severe as a jungle cat, Manjula plump and bubbly as a domestic tabby. Still, they were more alike than not: the same deep-set eyes, the same thin lips—even the hands, with spindly and delicate fingers like one might find on a concert pianist. Arjun’s father had possessed these traits, too, and seeing them so clearly in his sisters made his absence seem even more pronounced.

“I must say, Arjun, I was so happy when I heard that you were getting an arranged marriage,” said Manjula.

“And how did you hear, exactly?” he asked. He’d sworn Sarita to secrecy. Of course, the truth would have come out eventually—but he would have preferred that “eventually” arrive when the save-the-dates were sent.

“Dhanya Agarwal is a dear friend of mine,” Manjula explained. “And besides, she posts all of her clients’ biodatas on Facebook.”

Arjun made a mental note to tell Dhanya that she was under no circumstances to discuss him with any prying relatives—or put anything about him on the internet. There’s doctor-patient confidentiality, he mused. Surely, matchmaker-suitor confidentiality must exist, too.

Sarita arrived with the food. “Please, eat quickly,” she said, handing each woman a steaming plate and some fresh roti . “We’re expecting them any minute now.”

Revathi scooped up some chickpeas with her roti and took a bite. She made no comment, which meant that the curry was excellent. “We were just discussing Arjun’s decision to marry,” she said, covering her mouth daintily with one hand. “At least, to marry traditionally.”

“Yes,” said Sarita, sitting on the couch next to Arjun. “It was a weighty decision, but the right one.”

“The right one, indeed!” said Revathi. “It is so good to see a nice boy like you staying true to his culture. We were worried about you for a long while, you know.”

Arjun frowned. “Worried? Why?”

“Well, you were running around with that Chinese girl for so long,” Revathi said. “And cohabitating with her, even.” She huffed. “Only our brother could be so permissive,” she muttered just loudly enough for Arjun to hear.

Arjun could feel anger boiling underneath his skin. His mother seemed to sense it, too, and she put a hand on his knee before he could explode at his aunt. “Vicky was a nice girl,” Sarita said diplomatically. “She helped Arjun a lot after Ravi’s passing.”

“If you say so,” said Revathi. “But, at the end of the day, that relationship did not start properly.”

Arjun frowned. “And what is that supposed to mean?” he asked, his voice rigid with indignation.

Manjula cut in. “Your bhua did not mean to offend you, Arjun,” she said. “I can speak from firsthand experience. My Divya married for love: her husband, Tom. At first, I was hesitant because, ever since my daughter was born, I imagined her with a handsome Indian groom—a groom that I had helped her to choose. But, I thought: He makes her happy . Who am I to stand in the way? ”

Manjula shook her head sorrowfully. “Neither of you know this yet, but Tom and Divya are getting a divorce.”

Arjun felt a pang of sadness. He’d always liked his cousin Divya, though they only spoke at family gatherings once or twice a year. And Tom was nice enough, if a bit awkward. “I’m very sorry to hear that,” he said.

“It was about culture and values, at the end of the day,” Manjula said. “Now, of course, it’s possible for people from different backgrounds to be happy together. But it’s much easier if they start with a common foundation.”

Revathi was nodding. “You don’t want to ruin your future, Arjun,” she said. “Divya is a nice girl—but it’ll be more difficult for her to remarry now, even if she chooses to get an arranged marriage this time. After all, what mother would let her son be with a divorcée?”

Arjun’s cheeks were growing warm. What is this, the eighteenth century? he wanted to shout. How could you talk like this about your niece—your daughter?

Before he could verbalize his thoughts, cooler heads prevailed. Chewing out his aunts would do him no good. “Mom, I’d like to try some of your chana ,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Of course,” replied Sarita, and together, they walked to the kitchen to commiserate over their uninvited guests.

Devi’s family arrived soon after. Arjun went to answer the door this time. He gave himself a once-over in the foyer mirror, re-doing a button on his kurta that had slipped from its hold. Then, he opened the door.

Devi stood on the stoop. While Simran had brought what seemed like her entire extended family, Devi was accompanied only by her parents. She was dressed in a simple blue sari blouse, which she wore over white denim pants.

Arjun folded his hands in a namaste greeting and ushered the family inside. He gamely made small talk, asking them how their flight from Pennsylvania had been and thanking them for traveling such a long way to meet him. Devi’s father, a thin man with a pencil mustache, was certainly less intimidating than Malini’s or Simran’s fathers had been, and he smiled and nodded at Arjun as they spoke.

They arrived at the living room, and Arjun introduced the family to his aunts and bade them sit on one of the couches. Sarita emerged from the kitchen with a tray of biscuits and a steaming kettle of chai. Devi’s father took a Parle G biscuit from the tray, nibbling away at the corner like a mouse.

The standard questions followed: how much Arjun made, what he did for fun, whether he had ever committed any serious crimes (“I got a speeding ticket in high school, but that’s about it,” Arjun had replied; his aunts exchanged a disapproving glance).

Arjun made it a priority to speak more to Devi than to her parents, and mercifully, her mother and father were happy to oblige. He asked her about her job as an actuary and her time at Penn State (to his surprise, Devi had played Division I hockey).

“That’s all very impressive,” Revathi said. “But, tell me: do you cook?”

Devi frowned.

“I can hold my own in the kitchen,” Arjun interjected. “I don’t expect my partner to make my meals for me.”

Devi’s parents nodded in approval. Devi seemed impressed by the answer, her frown shifting into a slight smile.

Finally, Arjun asked whether Devi would be open to moving to San Francisco. She smiled. “Of course.”

Arjun had planned dinner at Il Casaro, an Italian restaurant he’d frequented as a child. It had been the site of most of his birthdays and a celebration place after special occasions like his high school graduation or his victory in the local spelling bee.

He’d reserved a table beside the window, which overlooked the darkened street. The table was set with a white tablecloth, and a flickering candle cast a dramatic light over Devi’s delicate features. Arjun tried his best to be open and charming, though all of his questions were suffused with the knowledge that he might be sitting across the table from his future wife. Can I see it with her? he wondered, sipping a glass of rich red wine and realizing that Devi was likely conducting a similar calculus on him. Devi was dark-eyed and beautiful, and she seemed intelligent, but something about her gave Arjun pause. What is it? he asked himself, parsing her every word and expression.

He pulled out his phone, wanting to find something new to talk about. “This is my dog,” he said, showing Devi a photo of Sally. “I got her a few months ago.”

Devi nodded, munching on a piece of garlic bread. “She’s very pretty,” she said. “Why’d you name her ‘Sally’?”

“After a character from a movie,” he replied. “Do you like dogs?”

She nodded. “I love dogs.”

He smiled. Finally, something we have in common. “I’m really glad to hear that. All dog lovers, I think, are good people.”

“Well,” said Devi, “Hitler loved dogs.”

Arjun didn’t know how to respond to that.

The appetizer course ended, and the waiter brought out the entrees. “So, what does the rest of your life look like?” Arjun asked, twirling fettuccine around his fork.

Devi speared a piece of ravioli. “The rest of my life?” she repeated. “Like, after I go back home to Pennsylvania?”

“Sure,” said Arjun. “But I was thinking more long-term. Where do you see yourself in thirty years?”

She raised an eyebrow. “That’s a long time from now. Does anybody know what their life will look like in thirty years? I mean, is that something that you think about?”

He nodded. “Yes, it is,” he said. “I have a house in San Francisco: an old Victorian, right in the middle of the city. I have two or three kids, and they’re just starting families of their own. My wife and I spend our time traveling the world, and, at night, we sit in our bed, reading books side-by-side until we fall asleep.”

Devi didn’t say anything for a moment. “That’s…a lot,” she replied at last, shrinking back in her chair as though intimidated by his grand plan. “You’re only thirty, you know. Isn’t it a little weird to plan things in that amount of detail?”

“Maybe,” he admitted. “But that’s what I do. You really never think about these kinds of things?”

She shook her head. “I’ve been trying to live in the present. You know, take things as they come. I think we spend too much time worrying about what the future will bring.”

“So, why did you decide to pursue an arranged marriage?” Arjun asked. “Isn’t that a pretty forward-thinking pursuit?”

She shrugged. “Getting married is just what people do at this age, I guess.”

“Yeah, but why an arranged marriage?”

“I don’t know. The path of least resistance, maybe? If I’m being honest, I’m still not totally sure I’ll go through with it in the end.”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I’m still young,” she said. “Like, yeah, there’s society’s expectations of me. And, of course, my parents’ expectations, too. But I still have plenty of time. Tell me: if something totally wonderful and serendipitous happened—you met your soulmate on the street, say—you really wouldn’t drop this whole thing?”

The waiter came by to refill their glasses. Arjun stared out at the darkened street, considering what Devi had just said. Just a few months ago, the idea of pursuing an arranged marriage had been unfathomable to him.

And yet… here he was.

“I think you and I are really similar,” he said. “We’re in this process—but we’re not really in it. I think some small part of us is still hoping that someone will come and bail us out. But it’s time for us to commit, Devi. At least, it’s time for me to commit. To the process, I mean,” he added.

Devi smiled at him, the kind of smile that was half pity and half Oh my God, I’m sitting across from a crazy person. “This has been…interesting,” she said. “I think you’re really nice, Arjun, but I don’t think we’re a match.”

Before he could reply, there was a sudden, insistent knock on the window. Arjun and Devi jumped in their seats. He turned to see two people, a man and a woman, standing in coats and hats just outside. The man grinned widely, but the woman wore a confused expression that Arjun knew well.

Arjun felt the color drain from his face. What the hell are they doing here? he wondered.

“Do you know them?” Devi asked, still looking a bit perturbed. She gave a slight wave to the people outside.

“Yeah,” said Arjun, burying his face in his napkin. “They’re my best friends.”

After dropping Devi off at her hotel (and exchanging the world’s most awkward hug), Arjun checked his phone to see a flurry of text messages from Dan. He sighed. Let’s go on a drive, he replied, feeling a pit yawn open in his stomach.

Dan’s house was on the other side of town, and he drove there straight from the hotel. He rang the doorbell, and Dan and Erica emerged. “Hey, guys,” Arjun said sheepishly. “We can talk about it, just…later, okay?”

They exchanged a look. “Okay,” they said in unison.

The three of them got into the car. Erica sat in the passenger seat beside Arjun, and Dan sat in the middle seat just behind. Arjun backed out of the driveway and onto the road. “Where are we going?” asked Dan.

“Same place as always,” Arjun replied, glancing into the rearview mirror.

It was a short drive to SuperAmerica. The gas station shone like a beacon in the darkness, the fluorescent red, white, and blue sign as bright as the midday sun. Arjun pulled his car up beside one of the pumps and got out, opening the door for Dan. He heard the passenger door close. “Oh, man,” said Erica, staring up at the sign. “How long has it been?”

Arjun squinted in the light. “Ten years, give or take?”

She smiled. “Too long.”

Dan shook his head. “Guys, we were here last Christmas.”

Arjun laughed. “Right.”

They went into the mini-mart, which was open 24/7. They made a beeline to the back of the store. Thankfully, it was still there: an ancient Icee machine, groaning and wheezing like an old man as it churned up tubs of vibrant cherry and blue raspberry slushies.

Arjun pulled on the handle and poured himself a cup of blue raspberry. Dan picked the same flavor, and Erica got a cherry Icee for herself. They paid and walked back to the car. Arjun drove out of the parking lot and parked beneath a streetlamp a few blocks away.

“That hits the spot,” he said contentedly, sucking the Icee through the extra-wide straw. “Do you remember cutting class to get these? Oh, and those little snack cakes Erica liked—what were they called, again?”

“Ho-Hos,” said Erica, looking vampiric with her lips stained bloodred by syrup. She sighed. “Look, Arjun, this is nice—but you didn’t bring us out here just to get slushies, did you?”

For a moment, he contemplated lying. After all, he’d made it this far without telling Dan and Erica about his decision. No more hiding, he decided. It’s time to commit.

“No,” he said. “That’s not the only reason.”

“The girl we saw you with,” Dan guessed. “Don’t tell us: you have a long-lost sister? Or are you secretly a spy, and she’s your handler?”

Arjun laughed. “Dan, I love you—but you are the world’s worst guesser.”

Dan rolled his eyes. “Well, if it’s not that, what is it?”

Arjun sighed. He felt like a steam engine, the pressure building up inside him. It was just a few words, wasn’t it? Then why were they so hard to say?

He cleared his throat. “I’m getting an arranged marriage,” he said, the words streaming out of his mouth as though he’d just flicked a release valve. “That woman you saw—Devi—she was one of my matches.”

From the rearview mirror, Arjun saw Dan’s mouth gape open. “You mean…” He faltered for words. “You’re going to marry her?”

“No,” said Arjun. “Not Devi. But, the point is, I’m going to marry someone . I’m going to be married by the end of the year.”

Silence followed. Then, Erica spoke. “But why?” she asked. “As long as we’ve known you, you’ve always wanted to pursue your own great love story. Why would you throw all of that away for an arranged marriage with someone you barely know?”

Arjun shook his head. “Guys, you know that I want to be married more than anything. But it hasn’t worked out. And the one time that I thought I’d found my soulmate, with Vicky…well, you know how that ended. I’m just done with it. I’m sick of searching for love and failing. And arranged marriages have worked for millions of people. Billions, maybe. Why not me?”

Dan and Erica said nothing. “It’s really not a big deal, you guys,” said Arjun, his face growing hot despite his cold drink. “I’ve made my peace with this decision. I need you to be okay with this, too.”

His friends exchanged a glance through the mirror. “Okay,” Erica said finally, squeezing his forearm. “We support you.”

Their flight to San Francisco left the following afternoon. Arjun sat at the gate while Dan and Erica went off to buy snacks at one of the nearby newsstands. His phone buzzed; it was a text from Nisha. How’d it go? the message said.

I’ll tell you all about it when I get back , he replied.

That bad?

No . Just wasn’t what I was looking for . Can I pick up Sally tomorrow morning?

Of course . By the way, I have something to show you.

What is it?

Arjun’s phone buzzed again. Nisha had sent him a picture this time. It was a selfie: her in a white t-shirt, clutching a notebook to her chest. I wrote something today. The first thing I’ve written in months.

He smiled. Can I read it?

A few dots appeared on his screen; Nisha was clearly typing and re-typing her answer. It’s private…for now .

More dots. Arjun waited for the next text—and, when it came, he felt his heart start to race.

When are you back in SF? I miss you .

Arjun sat back in the chair and let out a long exhale. He thought about the last three words of Nisha’s text. Had she meant what he thought she’d meant? What he secretly hoped she’d meant? He wondered if she’d typed the letters out and deleted them once, twice, three times. If she’d paced around the room, trying to come up with the perfect thing to send him. If she’d agonized over the text the way he’d agonized over her since they’d kissed outside the abandoned storefront. Part of him hoped she had.

Why bother wondering, though? he asked himself. It’s like she said, it didn’t matter.

But perhaps it did matter. For, at that very moment, Nisha Nandan was sitting on the edge of her mattress, her phone gripped tightly between her fingers, waiting for his response.