Girl Most Likely To. Poonam Sharma

women when they came home to empty apartments at the end of each day. But I wondered why she also felt the need to shake a hand before her face like a tambourine. Were her fluttering fingers intended to deflect my bad romantic luck before it could infect any of the happy couples in the room? Great. I shook my head at Marty. Now they think I’ve become so hopeless that I require an emotional exorcist.

      The bride and groom swirled past us on the dance floor. Twenty-seven-year-old Nikhil and Suraya, an MIT engineer and an NYU medical resident, had met at a friend’s dinner party the summer before. I spotted a number of single career women hiding behind ice sculptures just to avoid answering the same question posed at weddings the world over. I wondered if there was ever an appropriate response to koi nehy milha? Did I get anyone yet? Factually, it sounded hopeless. No, I have not. The truth sounded sluttish. Actually, I’ve had a few men. Even some I would recommend to a friend. But nobody with whom I’m interested in growing old and less attractive.

      I chose to hide behind the facade of nonchalance familiar to all unattached Indian women of “marriageable age.” What that means is that I lied. “Oh, Auntie, I don’t have time to worry about that right now. I’m too passionate about my career.”

      “Vina is just being shy,” my father interrupted. That man could never be accused of appropriate timing. “We are confident that tonight will be the night. We have found her a lovely boy.”

      “Oh? Is this the doctor from Pittsburgh? The one you were telling me about?” Auntie Meenakshi questioned my mother hopefully. What doctor? Did she say Pittsburgh? Howmany other people were my parents discussing my personal life with?

      “No, no.” My father shook his head. “We found out that the family in Pittsburgh had a history of divorces. This boy, Prakash, is thirty years old, which is suitable for Vina. He was born in New Jersey, but he lives in Manhattan now. He is an attorney, with a very impressive bio data. He is five feet eleven inches, and both his parents are engineers. We are disappointed that they are not Punjabi—they are Gujarati—but one has got to be open-minded on that point these days. And his father attended IIT in the same batch with the brother-in-law of my third cousin, Prem, who is now settled in Bombay. Everybody agrees that it is a good family. Prakash is the eldest of three brothers, and all are highly educated.”

      Table 21 nodded in collective approval. “Lady in Red” wafted through the air. I drained the last of my martini, and checked for emergency exits.

      “Why is everybody talking about this?” my maternal grandmother (referred to traditionally as Nani) interrupted in Hindi. “We have done our part. Now we must let the kids decide. And where is this Prakash, anyway? What kind of a boy would keep my Vina waiting?”

      

      My earliest memory is of my Nani making Gulab Jamuns in our kitchen; I watched as she deep-fried and drizzled them with golden sugar water. I must have been six years old when I dragged that stool stoveside, and quietly climbed on top. Elbows on the counter, I waited silently until she tore off a piece of raw, sweet dough, and handed it to me. I never understood how she managed to grab the right amount of dough each time, and roll it so quickly into a perfect ball between her palms. And I asked her about my grandfather, whom I had never met.

      “Your grandfather was a very good man.” She shook her head and reached for more dough. “Ithna shareef! Here they would have called him genuine, but he was much more than that. He cared for everybody. And he used to give your mother airplane rides on his shoulders. She was too small then to remember, even smaller than you are now.”

      “Did he like Gulab Jamuns?” I swung my heels, chewing happily on the dough.

      “He was a Gulab Jamun, daughter.” She stopped and looked at me. “He was my Gulab Jamun.”

      “Did he look like a Gulab Jamun?” I leaned my head to one side.

      “He did to me. And one day, your Gulab Jamun will come to you.” She caught my chin between her fingers.

      “How will I know it’s him?”

      “You will know,” she reassured me, before rolling a dozen balls into boiling oil, which refrained from splattering, under her watchful eye.

      “Are you sure?”

      “Yes.”

      “But what if he looks more like a Jalebi?”

      “He won’t.”

      “What about a Rasgulla?”

      “A Rasgulla looks nothing like a Gulab Jamun. Besides, mommy and daddy will recognize him and they will bring him for you when it is time.”

      I paused, tilting my head. “But how will they recognize a Gulab Jamun if he looks like a Rasgulla or a Jalebi?”

      She stopped, and eyed me. “You need not worry about such things, Vina. Good girls trust their parents. That is all you need to know.”

      With that, I had to be satisfied. My Nani was always right.

      

      “Ma’am? Another Rasgulla?” A waiter appeared. “Ma’am?”

      “Vina? Are you paying attention?” my mother asked. Everybody at the table was staring at me. Maybe celibacy was rotting my brain.

      “Don’t worry, little cousin.” Neha patted my shoulder before squeezing between the chairs on her way to the dance floor. “You’ll find someone soon.”

      I’m not worried, I agreed with Marty. What I am is thirsty.

      I scrunched my nose at the chai-bearing waiter leaning over my left shoulder. “I think I’m in the mood for something a little stronger.”

      I pushed back my chair, rose to my feet and made a beeline for the bar.

      

      In my defense, I arrived at the wedding feeling nothing less-than-thrilled for Suraya and Nikhil. I raised my f lute, alongside everyone else, in a toast to the newlyweds. I smiled through hours of idle chatter, and now I made my way rather steadily over to the bar. And that was where, as the twenty-one-year-old bartender started looking a little too good to me, it happened. I was reaching out to take hold of my third martini when I felt a warm hand crashing into my own.

      My first instinct was to yank at the drink. Snatch it away and hold it above my head. To gulp it down and Take Back the Night. But I paused when I noticed that the very masculine hand was attached to a confident and sturdy arm, which had brought along an alarmingly attractive head. And the man to whom that head belonged seemed to be thinking the same about me.

      “Bartender, I believe I asked for this to be shaken, not stirred,” he announced for my benefit.

      Oooph, he’s yummy, I thought. If it meant being closer to a smile like that, I might actually consider climbing inside the martini. He was a cross between James Dean and Sunil Dutt (the James Dean of Indian cinema). I smiled and loosened my grip. Countless witty responses raced about inside my head, apparently bumping into one another enough to cause a massive concussion.

      “Mmmhhhaaaahhaaahh,” I said. Or snorted. He must have assumed this was my own personal dialect, because he smiled as if he was impressed. I cleared my throat while he replaced the glass on the bar.

      “I’ll thumb-wrestle you for it,” he said.

      “Seriously?” I blurted. I was too tipsy to play anything cool in the face of such deep, mischievous eyes.

      “No, not seriously.” He laughed, as if I were charming and had said it on purpose. Looking down, I noticed that our collision had splashed the martini across the sleeve of his tuxedo. Then I caught myself considering licking it off him. That was when I decided to cut myself off for the night. I must have reeked of mock-confidence and gin.

      “I’m Prakash.” He wiped his hand on a napkin before extending one to me. “You must be Vina?”

      Honey, I thought, I’ll be whoever you want me to be.

      “Oh!