The Fake Matchmaker

Chapter 1

Manisha coyly pushed his hand away from hers, her eyes sparkling with a teasing glimmer.

She surveyed the opulent banquet hall, where ruby reds and dark golds intertwined, casting beams of light dancing across the room.

Ornate floral arrangements filled with marigolds and rose petals adorned every table, while a cascade of fairy lights overhead fashioned a twinkling canopy reminiscent of the mandap in the centre of the stage.

The vibrant colours illuminated the swirling figures of the dancers, their movements perfectly synchronized to the lively strains of popular Indian wedding tracks that filled the air.

Manisha nervously shifted her gaze to the Gupta aunties at table three.

Relief filled her at the sight of the sisters much too engrossed in their chana masala and rice to notice her.

With a satisfied sigh, she turned her attention back to the man before her.

But instead of the familiar features she longed to see, the room around her dimmed, leaving only his silhouette.

A thrilling shiver danced down her spine as the mystery of him heightened her anticipation.

Who is he?

Still, she knew better than to attract the aunties’ disapproval with her flirtations.

She stood to leave when his firm grip caught her sari, wordlessly begging her to stay.

In response, Manisha playfully swept the red silk across his face.

His still-shrouded face. She bit her lip as a sudden nervousness washed over her.

Why can’t I see his face?

Why don’t I know his name?

Why is the room so dark?

She looked around the hall as the stranger lightly tugged on her heavily beaded outfit, tempting her to sit with him.

Unable to resist, she let herself melt into the scent of his cologne, a blend of juniper and bergamot that made her mouth dry with desire.

After one last coaxing pull, Manisha gracefully tumbled into his lap, her long legs swinging to one side, her red-bottom heels coming to rest atop his pristinely polished Gucci loafers.

She watched, breathless, as the hall glow reflected off the gold hardware.

Her heart was racing in her chest. She could feel the heat from his body burning through the layers of her sari.

Suddenly, the breath she’d finally found became heavier.

“Manisha…” he said softly.

Manisha’s body quivered with anticipation as her name escaped his lips again.

He was igniting within her a fire she hadn’t felt in a while…

or maybe ever. His soft lips grazed her fingertips, and waves of warmth coursed through her.

If only she knew his name, she could return the whispers.

She took a shallow, uneven breath. All she wanted to do was push aside the extravagant centrepiece from their table to make room for their passion.

“Manisha…” he breathed her name again, his voice deep and seductive as he pulled her tighter against him. The echoing “Desi Girl” lyrics fell away, his voice growing more urgent until it became a desperate cry.

A loud, piercing cry.

A loud, piercing female cry.

“Manisha!”

Abruptly, the heat surging through Manisha’s body vanished.

In its place, exasperation settled in as her waking mind placed the all-too-familiar shrill tone: her mother.

Manisha opened one eye with a reluctant sigh, only to be met with her mother’s disapproving glare.

Standing next to the bed, hands planted on her hips, Ruby Patel exuded authority and disapproval.

Manisha pulled the bedsheet over her head, desperately hoping to return to her dream and that sexy mystery man.

“I am your mother; you will need more than a chadar to protect you from me, Manisha,” her mother said.

“A bedsheet is the only thing I could reach right now, Mom,” Manisha said dryly as she pulled the cotton fabric down.

“Hurry up and get up!” her mom said loudly, voice echoing through the room. “We have things to do!”

“Moooom,” Manisha moaned.

Here she was, a grown woman whining like a little girl, but there was something about being back in her childhood bedroom and getting scolded by her mother. Whining and complaining were inevitabilities.

Her mother raised a perfectly threaded eyebrow above her thin-framed glasses and fixed her gaze on Manisha, a mix of irritation and amusement in her expression.

“Manisha, it is lunchtime. Get up and get dressed. You’re like a baby sleeping in.

We have so much to do today: go to the temple, clean up this room, and don’t forget groceries!

We need milk, butter, and I want to have a talk with you… ”

Manisha sat up in bed, her brow furrowed. “Hold on, Mom,” she said, raising her hand. “I can handle taking you to the grocery store and visiting the temple, but having a ‘talk’ feels like a scenario where not even divine intervention could help me.”

“Leave divine, div-oon out of this and get dressed,” her mother said briskly as she left the room.

Manisha groaned and buried her head back into her pillow.

The abrupt end to her dream had left her feeling unfulfilled in so many ways.

She flopped onto her side, picked up her cell phone from her nightstand, and began scrolling through photos from her brother Sanj’s wedding last weekend.

Had she encountered this mystery man there?

She studied the images, but no one stood out—just cousins and friends of her brothers whom she’d known her whole life.

Not that Manisha would’ve had the time to indulge in any secret caressing at her brother’s wedding, even if her mystery man had been there; her hands had been too full with countless tasks that realistically should have been managed by a team of California’s top wedding planners.

Yet somehow they had fallen to her, courtesy of her mother’s well-intended but overwhelming delegations.

“Have the flowers arrived, Isha?”

“Manisha, you need to pick up Uncle Junda from the airport.”

“Call the mehndi lady and find out why she’s running late!”

Manisha didn’t mind helping—not for her brother’s wedding. But now, in the afterglow of a dream that felt so real, she couldn’t help but feel a twinge of disappointment at what might have been. She may have missed out on a romantic encounter thanks to her to-do list.

Her mother appeared at the doorway again. “Why aren’t you up yet?”

“I’m exhausted, Mom,” Manisha said. “I need a few more minutes to rest, and then I’ll get to all your chauffeuring needs.”

“Rest? What do you need rest from?” her mother asked.

She looked around the room, barely hiding her disgust at the clothes and shopping bags that littered the floor.

“Oh, I know! It must be from all the shopping. Yes, yes, yes. Of course, Manisha, how tired your arms must be from going through the racks at all the designer stores!” she said.

“Swipe, swipe, swipe. Please take all my money.” Her mother gestured dramatically, mimicking swiping a credit card through a reader.

Manisha frowned at her but kept silent.

“Or maybe the ‘rest’ you need is from this collection of shoes. Your feet must be so tired from trying all these juttis.” She grabbed a red-soled stiletto from Manisha’s dresser and tossed it onto the bed.

“Mom, please! You never throw a Loubie like that,” Manisha cried, scrambling to check that it was okay.

“Looobie the bachcha.”

Manisha watched her mom navigate the chaotic room as if she were attempting to avoid triggering an explosion.

“All this money you spend on all these stupid clothes. You need to be more sensible with your money and what you buy.” Her mother gestured to her own two-piece Indian suit, an ensemble she’d had specially made in India during one of her annual trips.

Comfort was her top priority, so there was no fancy embroidery or beading—just a simple yet lovely light-green and mustard-yellow set.

“Shh, Mom! They can hear you.” Manisha clutched the stray heel to her chest protectively.

“And Loubies are worth every penny. They’re called investments.

Besides, you’re one to talk.” Manisha smirked.

Practical as she was, her mother’s dresser drawers overflowed with beautiful Indian garments that she brought back from her visits, some that never saw the light of day.

It was no wonder that Manisha had a bit of a shopping addiction—it seemed the apple didn’t fall too far from the Patel tree.

“Chup! If these Loubies are so worth it, let’s see them make you aloo parathas, instead of your father.”

“Mom, you know nothing can beat Dad’s parathas,” Manisha said, and it was the truth.

Her dad’s spiced potato-stuffed flatbreads were her ultimate favourite—if she ever faced the unimaginable situation of being on death row, they would be the dish she’d request for her final meal.

A rumble escaped her stomach at the thought of them.

“Wait,” Manisha said, perking up instantly, “does that mean you have some waiting for me downstairs?” If there was anything that would make her leave the cozy confines of her bed, it was the promise of her dad’s unparalleled parathas.

“Get up, Isha, and come downstairs,” her mother said. She surveyed Manisha’s room once again. “Why have I been cursed with a child who behaves like an animal? A pig’s style is all I see here.”

Manisha had to stifle her laughter. This familiar scene had played out countless times during her childhood.

Back then, she used to be annoyed by her mother’s theatrics and nagging.

But now that Manisha was an adult, they amused her most of the time.

Her mom could be a lot, but, more than anything right now, Manisha was grateful for the love and attention that surrounded her.

“Mom, I think you mean sty. A pigsty.”

“Chup. I know what I mean, and what I say is what I mean.”