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artwork by t. h. lisa

"Are you joking, Abbu?" Lamia's nostrils flared. "You encouraged me to get my master's, think about a career, do the things that you and Amma didn't do. Now you want me to marry someone I don't know, because khala told Amma that he's a 'good boy from a good family!' That's ridiculous." Taking off her flip-flops, she paced the cool mosaic floor. "You and Amma had an arranged marriage, but it was understood that I wouldn't. Haven't you noticed women are choosing their husbands these days?"

She looked out the window of her parents' bedroom. When they'd moved onto the 10th floor of the building, Kazi Nazrul Avenue had been quiet, but the city had grown since then. The midday traffic was slow and loud: honking cars, bus drivers shouting at zig-zagging pedestrians, rickshawallahs trying to weave in and out of the crowd, almost dislodging their customers. As usual, motorists were ignoring the traffic police, who were trying their best to prevent accidents. Everything was normal outside, but Lamia's world had changed in a few minutes.

Although the fan was on full speed, Lamia's cotton T-shirt was damp. Her father had moved to his favorite chair by the open door to the balcony and was fanning himself with The Daily Star. A cooling cup of tea sat on a tray by his feet, with a soggy Nice biscuit on the matching saucer with the green trim. Dipping another biscuit in the lukewarm tea, he ignored Lamia's angry eyes. If only he hadn't refused Obaid's offer to drink a few beers after their game.

"Yes, I want you to have the advantages we didn't," he sighed. "But I also want you to settle down with a man who'll be good to you. Why are you so opposed to meeting someone and maybe marrying him if you like him?"

Lamia frowned at him. To her, he seemed older and more tired since they'd moved to Bangladesh from India two years before, although he'd retired and had a relaxed schedule: golf three days a week, followed by beer-drinking sessions; Friday afternoon bridge at a friend's house; a few rounds of rummy on week nights. But there was something about Dhaka life--family obligations, nonstop dinners, weddings and funerals--that had this negative effect on him.

"That's not the point, Abbu. Times have changed. Look at my cousins on your side--they all chose their husbands. Why can't I?"

"Yes, but you left out one important detail: Not all of them are happy. What about your cousins on Amma's side? They had arranged marriages. Are they complaining?"

"But do they have careers? If anything happens to their husbands tomorrow, will they be able to support their kids? I'm sure they're relatively content, but that's their dream. You weren't like this in India. What happened to you?"

Now his nostrils flared. She had inherited his biting tongue and hot temper, but she was soft, too, like her mother. Which was why he'd agreed to the matchmaking efforts. He'd even whittled down the list to the least objectionable candidate. But Lamia had hit a nerve--he'd started worrying about how others perceived his "wild, spinster" daughter. "Yes, I feel compelled to conform to an extent." He continued, "You don't, and you have opinions that, much to your mother's dismay, you're not afraid to voice. People talk about you. It upsets your Amma."

"I should marry someone just so people stop gossiping?" Lamia's brown eyes started tearing. "By the way, you can be sure that this guy's parents control him if he's letting them pick his wife. If I were married now, I'd lose a part of myself. I want to make something of my life, Abbu. You let bhaiya go to the U.S. Why not me?"

"That's it," he said. "You'll come with us to meet him. Aar torko chai na." With that he headed to the bathroom, the only place he could read his paper in peace.

"I hate you," Lamia muttered. Flouncing out of the room, she almost mowed down her mother who was walking in through the front door carrying a watermelon that matched the color of her sari. Their driver, Diwakar, followed, laden with bags, a bunch of tiny yellow bananas almost falling out of his left hand. Wet yellow stains were spreading under the arms of his white shirt. "Lamia, who are you shouting at?"

"He's gone crazy Amma," Lamia said, waiting for Diwakar to leave.

"Oh, Abbu's back? Diwakar, you don't have to pick up shaheb. Get the other bags from the car, then ask Khushi to give you lunch. We're not going anywhere. Unless you have plans, Lamia?"

"I don't know. I may have to leave this place forever." Turning to Diwakar, who had a curious, almost amused expression on his dark little face, Lamia said, "Diwakar, I'm not going anywhere now."

He'd barely left when she started: "Don't act innocent, Amma. You put Abbu up to this. How dare he ask why I want a career? I expected something like that from you. Why did he encourage me to get into Dhaka University? Was he trying to keep me occupied while you conspired with khala?"

"Lamia, we're not forcing you to do anything. Yes, Choto Apa knows and likes this boy's family," her mother said. "Saurav, the younger son, studied medicine in America--he has a Green Card and wants to take his wife back with him. He's smart and handsome, and he's not interested in a traditional girl. That's why we thought it would be good for you to meet. Why can't you do this for us?"

"Is my future about you and Abbu? You don't parade girls in front of your darling sons when they're home. Why me? Because your narrow-minded family thinks it's time for some random man to tame me?"

"There's no need to insult my family. What did they ever do to you? Is it wrong if we want you to be happy?"

"I'm not going to be sidetracked by your drama!" Lamia stormed into her bedroom, slamming the door. Loud music blared for hours, then there was total silence.

"I don't know what to do, Zarina," Lamia said. Diwakar had driven her over the next day. Her cousin had just come home for the summer from Bangalore, where she was getting a B.A. in psychology.

"What's wrong?" Zarina asked, brushing her chin-length bob and yawning. She had just pulled on shorts and an oversized white T-shirt that had "Too Many Men, Too Little Time" emblazoned across in purple.

"How dare Abbu suggest such a barbaric thing?" Lamia kept tying her long hair into a knot, then untying it, interspersing the routine with vigorous nail biting.

"Oh, it's true? Amma said your khala 'recommended' some guy for you," Zarina giggled, stopping when she saw her cousin's expression. "Lamia, calm down. You don't have to agree to anything." She yawned again. "I'm exhausted. I finished my last exam yesterday and almost missed my plane. It's good to be home. I'm going to sleep for a month!"

"Sorry I barged in like this, Zarina." Lamia was sprawled on the orange breadspread, her head propped up by mirrorwork cushions. "I love this room," she said, staring at the photograph-plastered wall. "I miss coming here when you're away."

"Listen, I'm serious. I was dragged to see many 'eligibles' last year. I finally had to tell my parents about Nimal. Just go along, don't really respond to any questions and, most important, don't be shy--eat and drink to your heart's content. Do everything we're told not to do. Don't worry, Lamia--your parents aren't going to marry you off in a flash."

"When we moved here everything changed, Zarina. The pressure of living here had a strange effect on them, especially Abbu. Why do they suddenly want me to become traditional? Why educate me, and then marry me off? What chance do I have of growing, of figuring out who I am, if I'm busy producing some stranger's brats every year?"

They talked until lunchtime, when Zarina's mother decided it was time for her to visit her grandparents. They dropped Lamia off on the way. She avoided her parents for the rest of the day, mentally strategizing for the ordeal ahead. Armed with Zarina's advice, she felt less nervous.

The morning of "the showing" (as she called it), Lamia dressed in a plain white shalwar and pink cotton kurta. When she came home from university, she tortured her mother. "Wait and see what happens this evening," Lamia said menacingly. Her nervous mother suggested canceling, but it was too late. Feeling a bit guilty, Lamia reassured her: "Don't worry, Amma, I won't throw a tantrum or run into the room naked, but what if I'm suddenly cross-eyed? Will they want a deformed bride?"

Her mother sighed. "Lamia, Abbu and I had an arranged marriage--we've been together 30 years. You think I was weak to agree, but those were different times. I trusted my family's judgment. Abbu is a wonderful man and a great father. You may be just as lucky." Lamia left the table without eating.

Around 6 p.m. they started out for Choto Khala's. Refusing to wear a heavy sari or dressy shalwar-kameez, along with gold jewelry, Lamia ironed the outfit she'd worn earlier. However, her vanity got the better of her--she blow-dried her hair and applied light makeup.

When they arrived at the house, Lamia barely spoke to her khala. She also refused to cover her head and help serve the tea. Ignoring her cousins' discreet requests to "come to the other room," Lamia strolled into the living area with her parents. She sat in a chair by the door, trying not to fidget as she felt five pairs of eyes on her. They belonged to the Green Card-holding wonder, Saurav; his chubby teenage sister; loud, older brother; and beaming parents. Lamia greeted everyone politely and looked boldly at the "good boy from a good family." He'd certainly never skipped a meal--the buttons on his off-white silk shirt were straining across his potbelly. To top it off, dark pants were belted high on his waist to camouflage his portly frame, but it had the opposite effect. He had pale skin, dark curly hair and a pleasant enough round face. The adjectives were running wild in Lamia's head, making her giggle. In turn, her father's eyes had a very sobering effect.

Resigned to the situation, she decided to enjoy herself, especially after observing her relatives' fake smiles. When her khalu attempted to seat her next to Silk Shirt, Lamia demurely refused. Unfortunately, a game of musical chairs took place, and she found herself flanked by Saurav's female relatives. Out of sheer politeness she had to converse with them, which she did, in monosyllables. All the while, she ate her fill of firni, samosas and biscuits, making sure she drank plenty of Coke in between bites. But Zarina's strategy wasn't having a negative impact. Green Card's family didn't seem to mind Lamia's behavior as much as hers did. At one point, she caught Saurav's twinkling eyes. He was taking immense pleasure in asking her questions just as she was in the middle of responding to his mother or sister. Lamia kept losing her train of thought, plus she had to shout across the large room--after all, she'd chosen the spot farthest from him.

Around 8 o'clock, the "prospective" family, looking extremely pleased, said their good-byes. Cringing inside, Lamia graciously accepted a hug from the parents and sister. "What did you think of him, Lamia?" her khala asked, trying to ease the tension.

"Am I allowed to have an opinion?" Lamia ignored her mother's pleading eyes. "Well, he definitely needs to start exercising immediately and eat fewer burgers. And really, what was he thinking, wearing that shirt in 100-degree weather? Did you notice the sweat stains under his arms? No, you were so bowled over by his Green Card and fat family. I will never marry a man like that!" She turned to her parents. "I'm staying at Zarina's tonight. If you're not ready to leave, I'll take a baby taxi."

"We'll drop you," her father said. They exchanged farewells with Choto Khala's family and climbed into the car. "I liked him, and his family seemed really nice," Lamia's mother said after an initial, uncomfortable silence.

"I'm not marrying that man--or his family--and the topic is not up for discussion. There will be no negotiating, no getting others to convince me! I did what you wanted and you promised you weren't going to force me," Lamia said angrily, trying to hide the fear she'd felt for days.

"All right, you kept your end of the bargain. We're not going to force you to do anything." And her father's eyes, meeting hers in the mirror, conveyed a lot more--regret, apology, confusion.

Farah Ameen works as copy editor in New York.