Page 16

A Hard Truth

Padma was incensed at the irony of it all.

Sixty percent.

If her mother knew Padma’s university papers routinely achieved only sixty percent, she would have been apoplectic. Yet now her mother was agreeing with The Matchmaker that Padma should be satisfied to have her future husband meet only sixty percent of her criteria.

Sixty percent.

She may as well marry a corpse.

Padma kept her smile pasted across her face while her mother and The Matchmaker lectured her from side-by-side boxes on her computer monitor. She had humored her mother and agreed to a scheduled call, confident she could dodge any actual matchmaking. And she had to admit, she did enjoy listening to the cadence of the older women’s voices. Like her mother, The Matchmaker’s first language was Hindi, and the familiar rat-a-tat-tat of their accented English, similar to the drummer of a marching band, brought her back to the rosy memories of her childhood—before she became her mother’s biggest disappointment. She snuck a look at the time. It was eleven a.m. here, so nine thirty p.m. in Mumbai. Surely these old gals would be tiring and the call would soon be over.

The Matchmaker said, “You cannot have everything, my dear. That is not how this life works. You must arrange your priorities. And your priorities should be that you find an educated man from a suitable family, of whom your mother approves.”

That word again. Suitable.

And then, “You must compromise.”

Another irksome word. Padma waited to hear agreeable.

“You must be agreeable to make adjustments in your own life. You cannot be picky. If you are picky, you will never be happy.”

Her mother piped in. “Padma is in no position to be picky.”

Padma silently chanted to herself, I am enough. I am enough. How did her mother do that? Effortlessly make Padma feel like she was fourteen and inferior all over again? She had to get off this call. She focused on The Matchmaker’s red nail polish and hefty emerald ring.

The Matchmaker continued, “I have sent you three excellent candidates for your consideration. Please, have a look at their bio datas.”

Padma shuffled the papers. The Matchmaker had emailed the zip file and instructed Padma to print them before their Zoom call. On her glass-topped desk, Padma stacked the dossiers side by side. They were each five pages thick, with four-inch-square headshots in the top left corner of the first page.

“Now,”

The Matchmaker said, “which of those photographs before you do you find the most pleasing?”

Pleasing? There was nothing pleasing about this process. Padma didn’t want this old lady and her mother to ship her a husband. Padma wanted to stumble across her Prince Charming in an organic meet-cute like in a rom-com. She took her time in coffee shops, scanning the tables for eligible men, ready to knock their coffees into their lap. But the good-looking guys seemed more interested in the free Wi-Fi than her. Her mother was dissatisfied with her progress and had started the call by reminding The Matchmaker that she intended to host a lavish three-day wedding ceremony in seventeen and a half months. Earlier would be better.

Her mother, pragmatic on many fronts, ignored Padma’s argument that normal couples don’t set wedding dates before they’ve met. Period. Her mother had countered that one needed to be proactive in life—especially if one were short and frumpy. The Matchmaker had smiled during this exchange, and Padma was afraid to probe too deeply into her mother’s plans lest she discover she’d already booked the honeymoon.

“Padma! Aunty is talking to you.”

Her mother brought her attention back to the call, referring to The Matchmaker with the familiar term of respect. “And sit straight. You’re frumpier when you slouch like that. It’s a hard truth.”

A hard truth. Right. Her mother wanted her to be the best version of herself, and if she didn’t point out Padma’s hard truths, who would? So she had said repeatedly over the years. But Padma had read the books and done the therapy, so she knew there should have been some compliments sprinkled in among her mother’s hard truths. She also knew not to waste her time waiting for them. Time. That was it. Padma needed to buy herself some time. A few weeks could turn into a few months and then, hopefully, never. She looked up from the photos. “I can’t decide. Let me think about them and get back to you.”

The Matchmaker sighed. “If you can’t decide, we could always decide for you.”

Padma’s heart plummeted at the suggestion, while her mother seemed to be considering it. Padma rushed to cut off that thought. “My apologies, Aunty. I was just admiring the photos and got caught up in the moment. Let me take a closer look.”

Padma straightened the pages.

Only one of The Matchmaker’s prospective grooms provided any peek at a smile. The second looked like a prison mugshot—a beefy man with no neck and a menacing scowl. And the third was completely bald. Of course, he was the scion of India’s preeminent bedding manufacturer, and apparently, her mother’s frontrunner. She sent Padma a text: His business is secure. People will always need sheets.

The Matchmaker’s rat-a-tat-tat resumed. “I need to ring off in a moment. I need your decision on whom you would like to see in person, and he will fly over to meet you. We do need to move quickly. As your mother has said, you are not getting any younger, my dear. Tell me which one. Yes?”

Padma held up the mugshot. “I’m sorry, Aunty, but you’re sending me sixes. Look at me. I’m a ten.”

Her mother interjected. “On a remote desert island of shipwrecked men, perhaps. Padma, my dear, regrettably, you are not a ten. You need to be happy with a six. If you can get that. It’s a hard truth.”

Padma bit her tongue and thought to herself again, I am enough. I am fucking awesome. Her fingers flipped through the casino chips stacked on her desk until she found the one stamped with $10,000. She squeezed it in her palm, hoping the value would seep into her as though through osmosis. “I am enough,”

she whispered to herself.

Padma’s mother continued, “Aunty? Let’s have Padma meet the three men you have selected so far. Hopefully one of them may find her not so unattractive.”

Great. As if a main dish wasn’t bad enough, now her mother was ordering the buffet. But she could tell by The Matchmaker’s silence that she didn’t like the idea. Padma sat back while the woman tried to diplomatically decline her mother’s suggestion. She returned the casino chips to their small tray and absentmindedly flipped through them, one by one. This would be interesting. No one refused her mother.

The Matchmaker sat taller in the screen. “In my experience, madam, too many selections are distracting for the young people. I like to offer one candidate at a time. And then we move on to the next.”

She folded her red-tipped fingers in front of her.

“Yes. I understand,”

her mother rebutted. “But Padma is desperate.”

Padma’s head snapped up. Her internal mantra restarted: I am enough. I am fucking awesome.

Her mother continued, “We have a tight timeline.”

Timeline. Her mother had reduced her love life to a timeline. Well, at least if The Matchmaker sent all three at once, she’d be out of this matchmaking misery sooner. And she had to give her mother credit—Padma had logged into this call intending to flatly refuse to meet any prospective groom, and now she’d be seeing three. And soon. Her mother had changed the playing field, and Padma had barely noticed.

The Matchmaker said, “All right. I will agree if Miss Padma is agreeable.”

Padma wanted to ring off. She had to pee. She glanced at her watch again. Hank would be here any minute with her morning tea, and she didn’t want him to catch her being bossed around by her mother. She threw in the towel. “Yes. Send the men from Mumbai. Let them come. All three.”

Padma looked at the bio datas in front of her. “The big, bald one—”

“And the banker?”

The Matchmaker asked.

Padma ran her finger down his bio notes. “Yes, the second one is a banker. I said, all three of them.”

Padma squeezed her legs together. “Send your men and let them take their best shot.” She looked at her calendar. “When can they get here?”

The Matchmaker tapped her pen. “You can expect them to arrive in two days.”

“Okay. Two days. Fine. I’ll expect to start hearing from them on Saturday. I’m sorry. I really have to go.”

Padma rushed off the Zoom call. She would date these men to satisfy her mother, but no one could make her marry them. She hurried to open her door, almost colliding with Hank, holding her tea.

“I’ll be right back, just have to go to the restroom.”

When she returned a few moments later, Hank was sitting in the chair opposite her desk, texting. His forehead glistened with perspiration and his knee bounced.

She opened her mouth to apologize for keeping him waiting, then remembered what her mother told her: Make sure people know they work for you. She slid into her chair and was elated to see her hot drink on her desk. She stopped herself from thanking him. But when she looked up, she had to ask, “Are you okay? You look pale.”

Hank straightened, exhaled, and tucked his phone away. But his eyes looked wild. “Yeah. Yeah. I’m fine. How about you?”

Could he be doing drugs? She’d seen movies where addicts were sweaty. Maybe that’s where he went every morning: to meet with his dealer. No doubt about it, it was odd that Hank routinely left the casino every morning, seemingly on the pretense of picking up their package deliveries and her tea. Surely there were better things the boob could do with his time, but Padma got the highest mark of her MBA, a C+, in a Human Resources course, and knew not to micromanage. If running errands for thirty minutes in the morning was how Hank needed to do things—so be it. There were worse things he could be doing.

As Padma reached for her cup, she spotted the bio datas on her desk.

An itchy blotch popped up on her neck.

She glanced at Hank.

He frowned as he studied the surveillance monitors.

She hoped he hadn’t noticed the dossiers.

It was one thing to succumb to her mother’s pressure, but it was another for her subordinate to think that a woman as attractive as she was needed a matchmaker.

To distract him, she asked, “How did the hiring go?”

She slid the incriminating pages under a file folder.

“Good. All done. Even the new director of security. Everything is with HR. The new hires start next week.”

Padma took a sip of her tea, and it slipped out. “Thanks for this, Hank. I don’t know what I’d do without this tea every morning.”

Hank stood. “No worries, Padma. It’s the least I can do.”

He held her eyes for a moment, then headed for the door.

Maybe he wasn’t such a boob. She glanced at the stack of bio datas, hidden under the folder. “Hank?”

He paused and turned, his hand on the doorknob.

“How did you meet your wife?”

His shoulders relaxed, and a corner of his mouth turned up. “My mom arranged it.”

Ugh.

“Our moms belonged to the same book club. They compared notes and thought Pam and I should meet, so they planned a party and, unbeknownst to us, arranged for us to bartend together. We spent the evening doling out cheap wine to a bunch of old people and sneaking shots.”

He smiled, but Padma thought his eyes seemed sad.

Padma was curious. “Was it love at first sight?”

Hank looked at the monitors. “Maybe not first sight.”

His smile spread. “But within the hour. Thanks again, Padma. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. I really do.” He held her eyes.

Padma watched him close the door behind him. She took another sip of her tea and wondered what that was about.