I woke up early the next morning. I usually slept in the day after my birthday, but I was too restless to stay in bed, so I threw a cardigan over my pajamas and padded downstairs.
My friends and sisters had gone back to the city last night, and my parents were still sleeping. The house was eerily quiet. All traces of last night’s party were gone; I didn’t spot a single feather or piece of glitter on my way to the kitchen.
My grandmother and Diya were already seated at the tiled island when I entered. They were chatting over a plate of crispy dosas and steaming mugs of chai, but they stopped when I entered the room.
“Good morning, Diya. Good morning, Nani,” I said. I took the stool next to my grandmother and yawned.
“Good morning.” Diya sprang into action. “What would you like for breakfast? We have more dosas, plus yogurt, cereal, and fruit. I can also make you eggs, pancakes, or anything else you want.”
The usually stern housekeeper doted on me exactly once a year, during my birthday week. I took as much advantage as I could because she’d never let me slide on anything during theother fifty-one weeks.
“I’d like the dosas with some eggs and strawberries, please. And maybe a bit of cake?” I gave her my biggest smile.
She frowned and tutted under her breath, but she didn’t say no.
While she prepared breakfast, my grandmother calmly sipped her tea and observed me. She wore a loose linen shirt, matching pants, and her “gardening jewels,” aka a pair of rose-shaped ruby earrings and her favorite gold necklace. Her floral gardening hat sat on the island next to her plate.
“Here you go.” Diya placed the dosas and strawberries in front of me, along with a slice of leftover chocolate cake from last night. “I’ll make your eggs next. Don’t start with—”
I dug my fork into the chocolate goodness and shoveled a chunk into my mouth.
“The cake,” she finished with a sigh. She moved away, grumbling about cavities under her breath.
“How are you feeling?” my grandmother asked.
“Fine.”
“Just fine?” Her tone was knowing.
I chewed silently, staring at my half-eaten cake. I wanted to shrink beneath my grandmother’s scrutiny and hide from her inevitable questions.
I could fool everyone else in my family, but I couldn’t fool her.
“By this time next year, you’ll be engaged,” she said. “Hopefully, you can communicate with your fiancé better than you can with me.”
“Please don’t remind me, Nani.” I abandoned the cake for a dosa. I tore off a piece and dipped it in the mint chutney with unnecessary force. “How could Mom do that to me? She’sneverbrought up arranged marriages before, not even when Priya went sailing around the world and declared herself a lifelong bachelorette.”
“Don’t blame your mother too much. She’s making decisions based on what she knows.”
My parents had the world’s most straightforward love story: they met in college, got married after graduation, and popped out three daughters in quick succession. My mother had me at twenty-two, Neha at twenty-four, and Priya at twenty-seven. Most of her friends and family (minus Meera Aunty) had followed a similar timeline, and she couldn’t wrap her head around why anyonewouldn’t.
But that was decades ago, and I wasn’t my mother or Meera Aunty. I was my own person with my own timeline—one that, ideally, did not involve finding a husband within the year.
“She’s also worried about you,” my grandmother added.
“Why? I’m succeeding in every other area of life,” I said, frustrated. “The idea that a woman has to be married by a certain age is archaic. No one bats an eye when men are lifelong bachelors. Look at Killian Katrakis.”
“From what I hear, Killian Katrakis has his own issues,” my grandmother said dryly. “I wouldn’t look to him as a role model. But that’s not why your mother’s worried.”
“Then why?
I hated that I could do everything right except forone thing, and that the one thing invalidated the rest of my accomplishments. I could’ve been a Nobel Prize winner, chief surgeon, and astronaut rolled into one, and people would still cluck their tongue and say, “Poor Maya. How come she’s still unmarried? What’s wrong with her?”
Most of all, I hated that I’d asked myself the same questions. What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I find the same type of connection that everyone else around me could?
I lived in one of the biggest, most diverse cities on earth. It shouldn’t be this hard.
My grandmother sighed and set down her chai. “She’s worried you’ve closed yourself off for so long that you’ve gotten comfortable with it,” she said. “When someone is… stuck in a certain way of living, they subconsciously resist change even if theysaythey want something new. They’re afraid, and sometimes, they need other people to give them a push.”