Trepidation knotted in my belly along with hope and desperation. I didn’t know what kind of reception was in store for me. It would be awkward, of course. I’d disconnected with most of my college friends after graduation some seven-odd years ago. Not Lavinia and Paris, but the rest. In my defense, it was difficult to stay in touch when you lived half a world away. Difficult but not impossible, my conscience pointed out evilly. I ignored it.
The truth was my life in Mumbai had consumed me, kept me busy with work and domesticity, with travel, the social scene and, eventually, the problems. And my friends had grown busy in their own lives in the US and wherever else they’d settled after college. But I needed my friends now. I needed some positive connection to this world.
Stop beating around the bush, Naira. Admit that you need Paris Jaya Kahn’s unique brand of tough love to help you sort out the mess you’ve made of your life.
Paris would call a spade a spade and wouldn’t allow me to do any less. I didn’t need to be mollycoddled or petted or protected or lied to. I needed someone to tell me to stand up and take control of my life, choose my own path and destiny, as no doubt Paris would. The reunion depended entirely on her though, and whether or not she still considered us friends. The last time we’d met in person was nearly four years ago when she’d been sitting shivah for her father. The last time we’d spoken on the phone was the week of her wedding two and a half years ago. We’d fought. Brutally. Since then, we’d communicated strictly via texts and emails, coldly exchanging no more than a birthday greeting or condolence message, and recently through likes, LOLs and applicable emojis on each other’s social media.
I’d sent her a brief text just before boarding the plane, so she knew I was coming, was prepared. Perhaps I should have called? But my plan had been so last-minute. And I’d thought it would be easier to meet her with everyone in one fell swoop amid the happy buffer of a wedding celebration. Then, depending on the vibe, I’d meet my friends one-on-one and reestablish rapport. But now, I wasn’t so sure. I’d chosen to ignore Paris’s black-or-white nature. You were either loyal or you weren’t a friend. You were either good or bad, nothing in between. She’d always had strong opinions and a rigid moral compass. She’d never approve of the choices I’d made in the past three years. She hadn’t approved of the ones I’d made before, either. My twanging nerves weren’t unjustified.
Pieces of gravel began to slip into my open-toed pumps, making me wince, and I hobbled toward a nearby bench to sit and take them out lest the sharp edges tear into my skin. I didn’t have time for medical emergencies. I had an agenda in New York and only a limited amount of time to fulfill it before suspicions arose.
Some of the other women were having similar trouble with the gravel, and were either leaning on their partners, shaking out their shoes, or had found a place to tidy up like me. I exchanged smiles with the salt-and-pepper-haired lady sharing my bench.
“It was a beautiful ceremony, wasn’t it? Everyone is wearing such lovely clothes.” She roved an appreciative eye over my bedecked self. “Are you family or one of the bridesmaids?”
Given my unmistakable South Asian appearance and attire, complete with bangles and bindi, the lady’s assumptions were entirely logical. Lavinia had asked me to be her bridesmaid and to wear something peach today. She’d invited me to be a part of the ceremony and I’d let her down.
Speaking of logic, it struck me that I shouldn’t presume things about Paris. If I’d changed in the last few years, she would have too. Maybe she’d softened her stance on life the way I’d hardened mine. After all, Paris had gone and done the unthinkable. She’d allowed herself to be domesticated.
“Bridesmaid. Lavinia and I were in NYU together,” I explained to my bench partner, swallowing the laugh that always bubbled up whenever I thought of Paris as a wife. Sloppy, stubborn, commitment-averse Paris—a socialist to boot—had married a Scottish-Indian gemstone baron. She’d married one of the high-flying Singh Frasers. I couldn’t get over it.
Regret chased my amusement at the thought of Paris’s nuptials. I hadn’t been able to go.
My stomach tightened. I didn’t have time for regrets, either.
Not to be rude, I exchanged a trickle of small talk with the lady—Penny—as we resumed our walk up the path. Penny, it seemed, was Juan’s cousin from his mother’s side, older by two decades so more like an aunt. She gushed over the lively nontraditional and nondenominational ceremony and the venue and how, unlike her initial apprehensions, the two-hour train ride in from New York City hadn’t been all that taxing.
I agreed that the commute to the vineyard was easy. Several times during my years at NYU, I’d ridden up hereabouts with friends to go apple picking or hiking or skiing, traveling via different and invariably the cheapest modes of transportation available to students. Taking the Metro-North from Grand Central to Poughkeepsie was so much easier than having to endure the bumpy five-hour plus bus ride from Times Square or Penn Station.
I hadn’t taken the train this time, but a private taxi. I’d been so late, and I couldn’t have managed running through the station and hopping on and off a train in a sari.
Penny and I parted ways inside the largest tent where she made her way to one of the buffet lines in the corners. People were scattered across a thick array of lilac-bowed chairs that swept around a staged arbor decorated with blush pink-and-peach peonies. The groom was on the stage, laughing and taking photos with his mates. I didn’t see Lavinia or any of our mutual friends there.
Lavinia’s parents stood just off the stage surrounded by well-wishers. I began to make my way to them, to offer my congratulations and ask where Lavinia was. I took two steps and abruptly stopped as a couple of things occurred to me. If I asked about Lavinia’s whereabouts, they’d know I’d only just arrived. They’d crack a joke or two about the tardiness of Indians from India. Worse, what if they snubbed me?
Lavinia’s parents were from Mumbai. They knew about my circumstances. The whole bloody country knew.
Heat shot through my belly as I imagined their looks of sympathy and censure. The shaking heads. The downturned mouths. The disgust. The sneers. Damn it. I shouldn’t have come. I wasn’t ready to show my face in public.
Why had I come? What was I trying to prove and to whom? Had I seriously thought being a spectacle in New York would be less ugly than it had been in Mumbai? That I’d magically wrap New York’s give-a-damn veneer around me like six yards of courage in a single day?
I turned on my heel, blindly seeking an exit. When was the next train to Grand Central? I fumbled with my clutch, pulled out my phone and brought up the train schedule. I needed to call the taxi back or find another one. Right this minute, I’d even settle for a bareback gallop to the station on one of those horses in the paddock.
In my rush to flee, I nearly sent a gigantic urn filled with calla lilies and lilacs flying into a group of elderly aunties waiting in the food line. They looked at me as if I’d lost my mind. They weren’t entirely wrong.
“Are you all right, honey? You look a little peaked. Put some food in your belly,” one of them said helpfully. “Or are you one of those who only lives on cheese?”
“Not cheese, Mina. Grapes. My granddaughter only eats ten grapes a meal.”
I backed away, thanking them and apologizing profusely, while they continued to jabber among themselves about the idiocies of the very young. Then, I simply sagged against the first wall I came across. It took everything I had not to slide to the floor and curl up like a petrified worm.
Be strong. You’ve taken the first step. You’re in New York. Don’t panic now.
I fixed a glare at a hanging wooden arrow sign pointing the way to the bar and the bathroom. I breathed in, debated my next move, breathed out and scolded myself. Once again, I had choices to make: imbibe a shot of Dutch courage or throw up? Stay or go? Now or never? As my panic ebbed, I began to notice other th
ings. The rough wooden wall against my back. The scarcity of people around me. Good. No one had witnessed my idiotic behavior except the aunties. I headed for the bathroom before I got splinters in my clothes or skin. I’d freshen up and try this again—being around people.
The tent transitioned into the barn hotel through a long rustic hallway. Stag heads with oversize antlers leaped out of the walls, and thick leathery furniture had been placed in strategic alcoves along the corridor. The space was a stark contrast from the fairy-tale-like wonderland of the tent or the earthiness of the valley outside. Thick pillars of candles burned all over the vaulted room—rooms, plural, as the corridor led to a narrower lounging area, which opened to a furnished great room decked out in more lavender-scented candles, flowery decorations and an enormous antler-style chandelier swinging from the open-beamed rafters. A fire roared inside a huge hearth, the flames leaping high enough to lick the bear head on the wall above it.
My panic attack had completely faded from the sheer shock and growing anger I felt on behalf of the deer and bear heads looking down on me. Those poor animals. To be hunted, exposed, victimized like that. I knew exactly how they’d felt before their heads had been lopped off.
So many people had wanted Kaivan’s head on a spike for what he’d done to them—correction, what their greed had allowed him to do to them. Now those same people had turned their spiteful eyes on my head.
I wondered, yet again, if it was my brother-in-law, Vinay Singhal, poisoning everyone’s minds and leading the hunt. Either way, if I didn’t want to end up as a taxidermy metaphor, then I had to convince Paris to help me. I had to get over my bad, her mad and everything in between and patch us up. And to do that, I had to stay and see Lavinia’s reception through. Cowardice was a luxury I couldn’t afford. Neither was pride.
The restrooms were burrowed beneath the grand staircase in the great room. I joined the queue of women waiting to use the facilities. I would not flee. I would stand and face the music—even the ghastly techno music Paris listened to—without cringing or crying. I was going to tell her my pathetic story—well, most of it—and she was going to listen.
Through some lovely ladies inside the restrooms, I found out that the bride was taking pictures in the tent at the back of the barn. So, there I went, pumped up with renewed determination.
I found them immediately. It was impossible to miss the fourteen or so swirls of peach gliding and twirling across the dance floor with diyas in their hennaed hands. They weren’t only taking bridal photos for posterity; Lavinia and her bridesmaids were doing a last-minute dance practice before the reception. It warmed my heart that Lavinia had asked me to wear peach today. It made me weepy. I had one good friend in this city still.
Paris had been the maid of honor at my wedding even though traditional Indian weddings didn’t require one. But Paris had declined to be Lavinia’s MoH, citing crazy work hours as an excuse. Now that I could believe as Paris’s work ethic was as immovable as Mount Everest.
My first glimpse of Paris confirmed my suspicions that she’d changed since our last meeting. It was a shock to see her even though I’d seen photos and videos of her life on Facebook. Gone was the unkempt Paris with the cropped hairdo and aggressively black wardrobe. The woman across the room wasn’t just beautiful—Paris could never be something as benign as beautiful—she was stunning in peach silk sharara-style pants and a halter-neck blouse made of a frothy gauzy fabric that had been stitched together in clean lines. No doubt her fashionable yet frill-free outfit had been designed by Helen Pal, Paris’s fashion designer sister-in-law. Well-groomed, her hair shimmered halfway down her back in a long straight line. Her face glowed with happiness, her makeup was subtle and highlighted her best features. And, would wonders never cease, was that a hand-painted bindi on her forehead? Like the ones models painted on for fashion shows?
Hadn’t I known it? I felt like clicking my heels and yodeling. I’d assured Paris she’d stop traffic if she just bothered to groom herself. She hadn’t been interested before. Or rather, she hadn’t cared about outward beauty, always rebuffing my attempts to lure her into an afternoon of shopping and salon treatments. She’d dissed my battles with beautification as frivolous nonsense and a complete waste of valuable time.
My heart lifted when she smiled at Lavinia and said something that was no doubt smart and sarcastic. This was Paris. Sarcasm was a given. Years rolled away and my cheeks began to hurt from grinning. They hurt also from trying not to cry.
I’d missed her. Unbearably. Why had I stayed away for so long? I started toward her. There were so many things I had to tell her. So many gaps we needed to fill. Then someone screamed my name and I jolted to a stop. I was only a dozen feet away from my bestest friend.
Paris whirled, her eyes darting across the tent, zeroing in on my face. Her mouth formed an O of surprise before she snapped it shut. Her hands, red and gold with faux henna designs, were cupped in front of her body as if she was begging for alms. A tiny flame shook inside the diya she held, lighting up her face in a soft, golden glow.
The diya brought another tidal wave of NYU memories to mind. We’d used diyas as props in our intercollegiate dance-offs. Only those diyas had been made of battery-operated plastic, not the real deal like these ones.
Before I could take another step, I was surrounded by our friends. Lavinia launched herself at me after setting her diya down on a table, the flame dancing madly as though sensing our excitement. I hugged her tight and wished her all the happiness in the world, abjectly apologizing for my tardiness. I was a bad friend.
“It doesn’t matter. You’re here now,” she said, happy tears filling her eyes.
Nothing could mar a bride’s happiness on her wedding day. Not ill-timed friends or even absent ones.
God, Paris, I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry for not being there for you on your wedding day.
I hugged Aria and Olga and Stacey and Karen, who was huge and pregnant and looking very much like a fertility goddess in a one-shouldered blush pink Grecian-style gown. I hadn’t known—hadn’t expected that one of my friends could be pregnant. I should have though, as we were all crossing into our thirties on our next birthdays.
I couldn’t quite control the dash of envy I felt at Karen’s fecundity even while I drowned in sheer joy. We all jostled for space, bouncing madly, uncaring of the spectacle we made of ourselves. I even embraced a couple of women I didn’t know and was introduced to between the hugs and screams. We were attracting attention with our hysteria; people were staring at us. But, for once, I was beyond embarrassment. I had nothing to feel ashamed about here, nothing to be careful about. Everyone was shouting and laughing and hurling questions at me. I felt welcomed and wanted. I felt as if I’d come home.
I looked for Paris in the mayhem. She stood stiffly only a dozen feet away. Shock had melted from her face, coolness taking its place like ice sheets glazing over stone. Maybe there was even a sliver of disgust in her eyes.
Stop being a fucking doormat. You’re better than that, she’d hurled at me over the phone when I’d called to tell her I wasn’t coming to her wedding. She hadn’t believed me when I’d said the decision was mine.
I swallowed the hurt that had taken up residence in my throat since that conversation. I wanted us to—needed us to forgive each other for our unkind words. Tears wet my lashes but I didn’t blink. I wouldn’t look away. Couldn’t.
“Hi,” I whispered, hoping she wouldn’t make a scene. Yet, I braced for attack.
Paris broke eye contact and shot a wry look at Lavinia whose face shone with an I told you so expression. Nothing should mar a bride’s happiness on her wedding day.
I really hoped we wouldn’t have our showdown here. Our friends grew quiet around us, waiting for the inevitable explosion. Paris had a volatile temperament and I was no meek mouse—or I hadn’t been before.
I took a step forward, then another. Paris di
dn’t move. My rib cage hurt when I released the breath I’d been holding. She wasn’t leaving. That was...good. I wanted to run to her. Hug her, hard. Apologize to her and yell at her at the same time for...everything.
Then suddenly out of nowhere, a bunch of girls ran between us, giggling and shouting. I stepped back automatically. One of them had a man’s shoe in her hands. The groom’s shoe.
I grinned, recognizing the joota chupai—a custom in which the bride’s sisters hid the groom’s shoes, then made him buy them back. Ostensibly, to teach the groom the art of marital negotiation before he left the mandap or wedding site. Kaivan had taken my older sister, Sarika, and her family to the Maldives as his shoe-release remuneration. Sarika’s husband, Vinay, had given me money and that too only after I’d reminded him, several times, that he owed me. My smile died. Like how he repeatedly reminded me of what Kaivan and I owed him now.
A gang of boys thundered past us to catch the girls and snatch the shoe back. It seemed Juan’s family had been apprised of this fun but mercenary little Indian wedding custom.
I looked back at Paris, wondering what fun customs had been part of her Jewish-Scottish-Indian wedding, again feeling awful that I hadn’t been there to see it.
Everything happened in slo-mo next. Paris did a double take as a boy headed straight for her. He was looking over his shoulder, grinning with the impudence of youth. She dodged a head-on collision by swirling out of his way as he dashed past her. As she turned, her stole slid off her shoulder, falling to the floor in a graceful heap. She reached for it in reflex. The flaming diya in her other hand tilted as she bent low. Oil spilled from the earthen cup, splashing the hem of her beautiful lehenga pant. Oops. It was impossible to get oil stains out of embroidered silk. Then Paris flinched as if hurt.
The Object of Your Affections Page 3
