Page 17 of The Matchmaker

“How long has it been this bad?”

“The haters swarmed after the article,” she says. “It was like an infestation. It’s eased up. The inbox looks better than it did even a few weeks ago.”

Thisis “eased up”? I balk at the subject headings. “It’s the one line they had to put in for clicks,” I say. “Calling us an ‘arranged marriage throwback.’ ”

“Like Bumble and eHarmony don’t exist.”

“Exactly. They wouldn’t say any of this if I wasn’t desi.”

Of all the options, my agency offers the least shallow matchmaking service out there. Even our app is careful to dig deep, with a comprehensive questionnaire to ensure proper pairings. Yes, marriage is about attraction, mutual interests, and the undefinable chemistry that mixes it all together—but none of these on their own are enough, are they? Not even love is enough to guarantee a successful marriage. My team at the agency work like coaches, guiding our players to victory. We ask the questions better explored before one has two children and is staring out the window onto their concrete cul-de-sac wondering whom they signed up to spend the rest of their life with. Our goal is simple: We want you to be happy. Cheesy? Yes. The truth? Absolutely.

“I need a palate cleanser,” I mumble.

I skim through the media requests. Darcy’s right about us needing a temporary replacement while she’s out of the office. Managing the inbox looks like a full-time job. There’s an invitation to headline an app makers summit. A request for anInsta live with a lifestyle influencer. The interview requests from journalists are practically identical. A profile would be “a great free advertising opportunity.”…They’d love “a few moments of our time.”…Promises of a full Nura Khan spread…Direct appeals to my vanity…

As I’m reading, a new email dings.

“If it isn’t Logan Wilson,” I say. “Again.”

“FromRolling Stone,right?” Darcy rolls her eyes. “He just won’t quit.”

Hi, Nura,

I was checking in to see if you might have changed your mind about that interview? You’ve done what so many dream of doing but few actually accomplish. Your assistant explained to me that you don’t do profiles, but after listening to the latest disturbing episode of the podcast, I can’t help but reach out and try one more time to see if you might change your mind. Everyone who works with you has nothing but rave reviews about the personal touch you provide, but then there’s this other side: Those not chosen. Those who feel resentment. I would love to do an in-depth profile that paints the full picture about you and your business and puts it in a holistic light. I’m in town for a few days and would love to speak with you about what a profile might look like. Hope to hear from you soon.

Best,

Logan

“ ‘Disturbing’?” I glance at Darcy. “Is there a new podcast episode?”

Darcy winces. “We were going to tell you. I kept trying to figure out the right time.”

I pull up my podcast app—thereisa second one. This one is also short, a few minutes in length, and harder to make out than the last one. It’s like he’s recording it from inside a wind tunnel. His words clip in and out.

Fraud…shady…egomaniac…

But his final words ring out clear as day:

You want to call the agency “magical”? That might be right. Magicians are the masters of illusion, and let’s be real: Piyar Matchmaking Agency is just a mirage. They don’t help people. They fuck with people’s lives. Nura won’t quit UNTIL SOMEONE STOPS HER.

The recording abruptly ends. His final words reverberate through me. For a moment, neither of us speak.

“I’m sure he’s all bark and no bite,” I say slowly. “But you were right, Darcy. We should try to figure out who this is.”

“Definitely.” She looks visibly relieved. “This is too creepy to ignore. I bet Borzu or Genevieve can get to the bottom of it. There’s got to be a way to figure it out, on the dark web orsomewhere.”

“Logan. Now this. They’re all coming out of the woodwork, aren’t they?”

“Well, don’t worry about Logan. I’ll tell him to kindly go fuck himself. In a professional way, of course. He’ll get the message.”

When she leaves, I look at the two-minute recording on my phone. I shouldn’t, but it’s like an itch you can’t help but scratch. I press play. The man’s voice quivers with rage. I can practically feel the spittle flying from his mouth. I play it again.And again. Straining for some sort of clue as to who it could be, even though I know: He’s a pissed off would-be client. There’s no getting around this unsavory reality. It happens.

Still. Those words:She won’t quit until someone stops her.Khala taught me to let things bounce off me like oil on water, but this is impossible to ignore.

Five

The mehndi hall overflows with lanterns and brightly colored flowers. When it comes to desi weddings, I try to make an appearance at the mehndis, the henna party the night before the actual nuptials, when things are a bit more casual and everyone’s nerves are slightly less frayed than on the actual wedding day. Tonight, the walls practically pulse to the beat of the bass. I press my fingers to my own throbbing temples. Music and mehndis have been inextricably tied together since the beginning of time, though they didn’t always feature deejays blasting pumped-up Bollywood tunes that make the floor vibrate. My head pounds in sync to the rhythm. The bride and groom have not yet made their appearance, but I’m hoping they arrive sooner than later; with this impending migraine, I may need to make my exit earlier than expected.

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