T HIS BOOK is not about my participation on Indian Matchmaking , though it does, of course, include my time on the show. Several viewers and critics of the Netflix series have referred to me as a polarizing figure. And I can see why. For me, Indian Match-making was a life-altering experience. It was filled with ups and downs. It had surprises both good and bad. It was at once heartbreaking and heart-mending. And throughout it all, one thing stands out: the show has been a source of good in my life. It was a remarkably positive experience, one of which I am proud, one that I would repeat a thousand times over. To the entire team at the show: I hope you know that my heart is filled with appreciation and gratitude for every single one of you. Thank you.
I M AT THE LAX airport, about to flag down a lifeboat. I dont know this yet.
For now, I am moving slowly through the boarding line with fellow group 2 passengers snaking around the coffee kiosk planted in the middle of the terminals thoroughfare. My eyes are heavy. My tote bag bites into my shoulder. I am aching to sit in my plane seat and be taken back home to Houston, where a mountain of litigation briefs awaits me. Most of all, I am feeling defeated. I dont want to be in this city anymore.
Why am I still in Los Angeles? For a first datea failed first date.
I came to L.A. to visit a friend. I stayed an extra day to meet a guy. Well call him Mr. Gentle-but-Rambling Giant. Mr. Gentle-but-Rambling Giant and I met on a South Asianfocused dating app called Dil Mil, which loosely translates to when hearts meet. As far as dating apps go, its not an awful name. The date, however, was just that. Which is unfortunate because I had high hopes for Mr. Gentle-but-Rambling Giant, a tall entrepreneur with a charming smile.
The entire date lasted eleven hours, its longevity the result of both logistics and persistency. I really wanted to make this one work. Feeling hopeless about the South Asian dating scene in Houstona repetitive stream of the same ten to fifteen men Ive already dined with or swiped no onI knew I had to expand my small pond into the ocean. For me, that meant slotting in dates when I traveled. Mr. Gentle-but-Rambling Giant and I met for coffee at 4:00 PM at a Beverly Hills caf and moved to a luxe wine bar around 10:00 PM . Enough time for me to learn that Mr. Gentle-but-Rambling Giant is preternaturally attached to his suburban Orange County lifestyle and that we shared zero chemistry.
I wouldve cut the date short if I hadnt kept convincing myself that maybe, just maybe, if I stayed a little longer, I would like him more. Something would magically click at hour five... or seven... or ten. Except it didnt. And when I finally admitted defeat, I realized that my friend failed to provide me with a fob to get into her building, which meant that Mr. Gentle-but- Rambling Giant and I had to wait in his car outside her complex for someone to let me in. The tableau we were stuck in was an unhappy one: Mr. Gentle-but-Rambling Giant was pattering on about his Santa Barbara wine getaways while I yawned and eyed the front gate. I felt stranded. And bored. And absolutely eager to run away. All at once.
Finally, at 3:00 AM , a late-night partygoer stumbled out of an Uber, at which point I hastily said goodbye to Mr. Gentle-but-Rambling Giant and followed the partygoer inside. Shockingly, Mr. Gentle- but-Rambling Giant seemed surprised by my eagerness to catch the slowly closing gate. I had no regrets about leaving him behind. He was not for me. Of this, I was sure. Still, I was proud for putting myself out there. Proud but, like I said, defeated. I had hoped against hope that this guy would be different.
What is it about defeat that makes us want to go home?
My flight wasnt scheduled until 6:00 PM , but in that moment, as I climbed into bed with a full face of makeup and tears of exhaustion in the corners of my eyes, I knew I had to get out of Los Angeles as quickly as possible. I was alone in my friends homeshed gone to Las Vegas for a birthday party. Her multistory, split-level apartment somehow felt both empty and cramped. I thumbed my way to the United Airlines app. I knew what to do.
Within minutes, I was on the phone with a representative from the airline premier status line. I allowed myself to find my sad voicenot a challenging task when youre experiencing the failure of an extended first date. Not that I shared that part. Of course not. Instead, I explained that my dog was ill. Sniff. Could she please help me get back to Houston and with no change fees or additional cost?
It worked: in a matter of minutes, I was booked on the next available direct flight, all penalties waived. (Pro tip: the sick-dog excuse always works. Alls fair in homesickness and datingand this was both.) A small comfort. I set my phone on the nightstand and fell into a listless sleep. I had an 11:00 AM flight to catch.
A few hours later, my alarm went off.
As I threw my clothes into my trusty purple carry-on suitcase, I couldnt help but wonder: How many more of these dating attemptsbig or small, on a plane or at a local wine barwould I have to endure before I found Mr. Right? Its all I could think of as I headed to the airport.
Thats how I got here. Here being the line to board the airplane. About to signal a lifeboat. Again, not that I know that. Not yet.
Boarding lines are a socially acceptable form of torture. Theyre messy and interminably lengthy, not to mention inefficient and slow. Not a great thing when youre already feeling crushed by your nonexistent love life. Which is why I pull out my phone. Mindless Facebook scrolling is all I have right now. Itll distract me from the wait, if not from my heavy heart.
I am shifting from hip to hip when I spot a friends post with three questions. I read each one, answers firing in my head in rapid succession.
Are you single? Yes.
Are you South Asian? Yes.
Do you want to get married? Yes!
The next line is a call to action.
Then send an inquiry to xyz email address.
I look up from my phone. The gate still hasnt been opened. Ahead of me, group 1 is still impatiently waiting. I read the questions one more time.
Can you blame me for thinking it was a sign? For deeming it kismet?
If you can, you are not single, South Asian, and hoping to get married.
I click on the email address and quickly draft a note expressing my interest in participating in the docuseries and inquiring about next steps. I board the flight and turn off my phone.
By the time I land in Houston, the response is in my inbox.
As were taxiing to the gate, I reply to the email requesting a thirty-minute Skype call with an attached application. I promise the completed forms before our call, which is quickly set up for the end of the week at 3:00 PM . It will be tricky, video chatting from my rigid workplace, but I will just have to shut my door and hope Im not interrupted. I reply to each question on the forms promptlyI want them to be impressed by my responsiveness. In proper Aparna rationale, I figured no one would want to cast someone who didnt provide information in a timely manner. In an attempt to curtail self-doubt, I fill all the paperwork out quicklyand honestly. (I am thankfully not a chronic overthinker.) At this point, Im already picturing myself going through the docuseries official matchmaking process. This could be my chance at finding love. A buoy in the rough waters of dating. A lifeboat.
