A Match Made in Mehendi

by Nandini Bajpai

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by Cake Literary LLC

  Cover art copyright © 2019 by Howard Huang. Cover design by Liz Casal. Cover copyright © 2019 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Little, Brown and Company

  Hachette Book Group

  1290 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10104

  Visit us at LBYR.com

  First Edition: September 2019

  Little, Brown and Company is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Little, Brown name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Bajpai, Nandini, author.

  Title: A match made in mehendi / by Nandini Bajpai.

  Description: First edition. | New York : Little, Brown and Company, 2019.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018060495| ISBN 9780316522588 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780316522571 (ebook) | ISBN 9780316522564 (library edition ebook)

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.B335 Mat 2019 | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018060495

  ISBNs: 978-0-316-52258-8 (hardcover), 978-0-316-52257-1 (ebook)

  E3-20190723-JV-NF-ORI

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Acknowledgments

  Discover More

  For Pushpa and Usha

  Explore book giveaways, sneak peeks, deals, and more.

  Tap here to learn more.

  Sometimes an accident is no accident, but a way to bring hearts together. Those who make such accidents happen are blessed indeed.

  —THE SHAGUN MATCHMAKING GUIDE

  chapter one

  Matching furniture is like matching couples. There must be balance, harmony, and excitement between the sofa and the side table, the lampshade and the rug—just as there is balance, harmony, and excitement between two people who are perfect for each other.

  Sound ridiculous?

  Welcome to my life, where this isn’t a bit of feng shui or vaastu. It’s actually the way my family sees pairing people. My mom and masi are third-generation professional matchmakers, so that’s the way they see everything. Stuck with them since birth, I can usually put up with this. But today they’re making me want to rip the stuffing out of the beautiful silk cushion I’m holding, just like our dog, Sweetie, did when she was a puppy.

  “These colors are a great match, no?” Mom thinks maroon and gold are predestined to be together. “The pattern on the cushions has such positive energy. They balance the coffee table nicely, too. What do you think, Simi?”

  I tilt my head to squint at the abstract geometric design of the cushion. Someone give me a medal for not screaming. “Can cushions really have energy?”

  “Simi!” Mom yells, and I know when she says my name like that she’s either going to buy this thing or walk out of Singh’s Emporium and start over. Again.

  The late afternoon sun spills through the showroom windows of Singh’s, a cluttered, comfortable Indian furniture store popular in this part of New Jersey. It’s the day before sophomore year starts, and everyone else is probably last-minute speed-reading summer book assignments or taking the final beach trip of the season, but I’m stuck in Peach Tree Mall with my family, picking out couches, chairs, and coffee tables for my masi’s new house.

  Actually, correction—I’m picking furniture with the women in my family. My older brother, Navdeep, got to ditch, along with my dad and uncle. Male opinions were deemed unnecessary, I guess. It’s just my mom, my masi—mother’s sister—and my cousins Preet and Geet. They didn’t want to be scooped up and dragged along, either, but our moms always get what they want.

  And they never settle for the first thing they like, or even the fifth. They believe in options. And bargains. And the best deals, no matter how much comparison shopping that might mean. This is legit the fifth store we’ve been at today. No one needs to go to that many furniture stores just to find a place to put their butts.

  “Guys, this is as good as it’s going to get.” Preet’s had enough. “I need to get back to my apartment. I have a package coming later. Will you both please stop fussing and buy it already?”

  “You’re sure?” My mom puts her glasses on to look closely at the upholstery.

  “Sure, I’m sure!” Preet waves a hand, making her armful of silver bangles jingle. She looks fabulous today, as usual, in a white sequined chiffon top paired with dark-wash jeans—which, on me, would be borderline cheesy. She’s all silky black hair and the kind of curves I thought I’d get when I started high school. But nope. I got nothing. Sad face.

  I run my fingers over one of Masi’s potential new chairs.

  “Comfortable but not too comfortable,” Preet says, rolling her eyes. “Which is perfect because you know that our Punjabi peeps never leave if they get too cozy, am I right?”

  Mom laughs and pats her back playfully. “You have a point, Toofan Mail.”

  “Ugh, Manju Masi, don’t call me that anymore.” Preet frowns at the childhood nickname my mom gave her—after the super-speedy train on the old Indian Railways.

  “You’re always straight to the point,” Mom says. “And with so much excitement.”

  Props to Preet: I think she just sold them the couch.

  Maybe that means we can get out of here and head to the art store. I don’t have enough expandable folders or 2B pencils or Post-it notes, and I’m all out of Venetian Sea blue number 34 in my watercolor set, which is critical. This is so not the right way to start sophomore year.

  “What do you think, Geet?” Masi asks my other cousin.

  She grunts, barely looking up from her college textbook and hunkering down in her oversize periodic table sweatshirt. She calls it her signature I-refuse-to-be-pressured-about-beauty-norms look. Mom and Masi have given up trying to influence what s
he wears. Her boyfriend—whom the whole family (including me) loves—doesn’t care what she wears, either. They met their first year of college during Organic Chemistry and formed an instant bond—no pun intended.

  Preet, on the other hand, broke up with That Creep Ravinder senior year. She’s here today on the understanding that Mom and Masi honor her strict no-discussing-dating-and-marriage-and-matchmaking rule.

  “It checks all the boxes,” Geet replies. “Like Preet says, it’s perfect. So can we go now?”

  “Should I write up the invoice, madam?” the furniture salesman asks Masi, hoping to seal the deal.

  “Yes, we’ll take it,” Masi says.

  Finally! I take a big gulp of the milky, sweet chai the salesman served us earlier and sputter because, somehow, it’s still hot.

  “Careful.” Mom reaches for the cup.

  “Mom, stop.” I set it down without spilling. “Ugh, I’m tired of sitting. I’m going to look around while you finish up.”

  “Don’t touch anything, Simi!” Her warning echoes after me.

  “Okay, okay.” It’s annoying when Mom just assumes I’m going to wreck stuff, though my history with breaking china isn’t stellar, to be honest. But I’m older now. She should have more faith in me.

  The store smells faintly of sandalwood incense and a lemony wood finish. Carved Kashmiri screens separate the space into various sections—living room, bedroom, kids’ room. I catch a glimpse of myself in a gilded wall mirror and strike a pose.

  Long, skinny legs, denim shorts that barely stay up on my flat butt, flouncy peasant top, flip-flops, a beaded hemp anklet on my left foot (a new trend), the paisley mehendi pattern I painted along my wrists and ankles yesterday, and lots of bouncy waves in my waist-long hair. Maybe I should’ve added the blue highlights my best friend, Noah, suggested. Even though Mom would hate them. Which means I should definitely get them.

  I give a wooden swing painted with horses and elephants a little push and watch as it glides gently back and forth. There’s a tiny painted rider with a flamboyant mustache on one of the elephants. I click a picture of it and text it to Noah.

  Welcome back to Jersey, beach bum.

  Nice mustache!

  Not as nice as your tropical vacation.

  Hey, what are you wearing for first day of school?

  Not sure… maybe a mustache?

  That’s not what I meant when I said take risks!

  Fine. Fine. Come to my house in the morning. We can walk to school together.

  I wander deeper into the store, dodging a large puddle and an orange plastic cone beside it; glancing up, I see that the ceiling’s sprung a leak. I flop into the soft cushions of an armchair nearby. I pull out my little sketchbook and look around for something to draw.

  Drawing’s my thing. And I’m good at it. I’ll be a famous artist one day, and all my sketches will be worth millions of dollars. No matter how much Mom complains about art not falling into one of the approved careers for Desi people. I don’t want to be a doctor, lawyer, or engineer. And in my family, of course, there is a fourth career category that’s 1,000 percent parent approved—matchmaking. But I’m not doing that, either.

  The puddle on the floor grabs my attention again. It could be a good subject for a still life. Hmm. I could make it a magic portal leading to somewhere other than this awful furniture store. Or… the vase beside the armchair is probably better. I need a “serious” art portfolio for the start of the school year so I can impress my art teacher, Ms. Furst.

  I examine the vase and all its delicate floral motifs and exotic tropical birds. I hum a little as I pencil in the outline of the vase and add swirly paisleys to it.

  The voices of Mom, Masi, and other customers hum in the background, a mix of Punjabi, Hindi, and Jersey accents that’s typical in this area, but my little corner is peaceful. I hold the picture at arm’s length and compare it to the actual vase. I’m missing something, but what?

  “That’s really good.” The comment comes out of nowhere.

  I leap out of the armchair and back up—straight into the orange cone and the puddle. “Yuck!” I jump around and my feet skid.

  My sketchbook flies out of my hands and hits the vase. It tilts with the impact. I watch, horrified and frozen, as the vase falls to the ground with a loud crash. It shatters into a million pieces.

  Disaster.

  And of course Mom predicted it.

  chapter two

  It takes only a moment for the vase to shatter, but the sound rings on and on in my head. I’m sure everyone in the store heard it. I’m sure everyone in the entire mall heard it. Maybe even out in the parking garage.

  Simran Sangha—the high school sophomore who doesn’t break things anymore, because being clumsy is for freshmen—just evaporated.

  The old blundering me stands there awkwardly, a startled-looking dude staring at the damage all around my feet in endless bits and pieces of pottery. My mind fast-forwards to how Mom is going to react in about a minute when she gets here and takes in this scene—her face embarrassed and apologetic about my clumsiness, shaking her head as she opens her purse to pay for another broken thing.

  “Oh no, oh no, I’m so, so sorry,” I stammer.

  The guy is tall and youngish and wears a neatly wrapped blue turban, jeans, and a white SINGH’S EMPORIUM T-shirt. He looks about the same age as my cousins. The desk near him is stacked with books with titles like The Essential Rules for Bar Exam Success and Multistate Bar Exam Study Aid.

  “Don’t move,” he warns. “You’ll cut yourself. Stay right there while I grab a broom.”

  I’m frozen in the middle of the disaster zone. Frustration bubbles like a pot of boiling masala chai. Argh! I make a face at the sign on the wall that warns: YOU BREAK IT, YOU BOUGHT IT. That vase looked pricey. There go my plans for new watercolor markers and sketchbooks. Mom will definitely take this out of my allowance.

  I crouch, sitting on my heels to pick up the larger pieces of pottery while the employee returns and starts to sweep the fragments into a dustpan. “Again, I’m so sorry. Was the vase very expensive?” I hand the big pieces to him.

  He just smiles and shrugs. Uh-oh. It’s probably a five-hundred-dollar vase.

  I squeeze my eyes shut briefly, then open them, but nope, this isn’t a bad dream. “I better go get my mom.”

  “You don’t have to tell anyone.” He points to the orange plastic cone next to me. “It was just as much my fault as yours. I startled you and the floor was slick.”

  I bite my bottom lip and wonder if he means it.

  The sound of footsteps echo. Too late! I cringe. Even if he wants to let it go, they’ve already heard the crash.

  I brace myself and pivot around. But it’s just Preet, looking as pretty as any picture.

  “Are you okay, Simi?” Preet swoops down, tossing back her long dark hair, and gives me a hug. “We heard the noise! What happened?”

  “I kind of”—I screw my face up, embarrassed—“destroyed that vase.”

  “Never mind that; are you hurt?” She scans me with anxious eyes, and I shake my head. “Thank goodness! We can pay for the damage my cousin caused, Mr.…?”

  “It’s Jolly.” The turbaned guy is still holding the dustpan filled with broken pottery. His eyes have gone wide. The tips of his ears are turning slightly red, too. A shy grin tugs the corners of his lips up as he looks at Preet. The Preet Effect, on full display.

  But wait. I’m used to how guys react to Preet. What’s interesting is how Preet is reacting to him. Instead of her practiced expert brush-off, she holds out her hand.

  “I’m Preet,” she says. “This is my cousin Simran. Did you know that already? I’m guessing you might!”

  I study Jolly. He’s pretty cute. And he doesn’t have player vibes like Ravinder did, with his wannabe-Bollywood-star look. Jolly puts the dustpan in his left hand and wipes his right hand on the back of his jeans before shaking hers, making the silver bangles dance on her wrist.

>   They’ve all reached us now: Masi, Mom, Geet, and the salesman.

  Mom already has her hands on her hips and her mouth pursed with disappointment. “Oh, Simi, not again! How does such a halka-pulka child cause so much destruction? More bang per kilo than a box of barood! Are you hurt?” Mom pats my back, shoulders, and head, checking to make sure that I am still in one piece.

  “I’m fine,” I mutter through gritted teeth, wiggling away from her hands. “And it was an accident!”

  Mom spots the dustpan filled with shards. “It always is.” She sighs, opening her purse. “How much was it?”

  “No need to worry,” Jolly intervenes. “It really was an accident.”

  “Your store policy is clear.” Mom points at the large sign. “I insist!”

  “If he says you don’t have to pay”—the salesman nods at Jolly—“then you don’t have to pay for it, ji.”

  “Please understand, it’s really not necessary.” Jolly doesn’t raise his voice or anything, but suddenly it’s hard to argue with him. “The floor was wet and she slipped. We had only one cone marking it. There really should have been more. So it’s our responsibility. In fact, I insist on offering a discount for our mistake.”

  “Really?” Mom shuts her purse with an excited snap. She can’t resist a bargain. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. Raju, take their bill and adjust the payment by fifteen percent.”

  “I do apologize,” Mom says. “I’m Manju Sangha, and this is my sister, Meera. What is your name?”

  “I’m Jashan Singh, Auntie,” Jolly says, “but most people call me Jolly.”

  “Both such happy-sounding names,” Mom says, smiling. “And such a lovely shop. You see, we just found the perfect sofa set for Meera here. She’d been looking for months. Then I told her—we must go to Singh’s! They have the best options anywhere!”

  Jolly smiles at them.

  “This way, madam.” The salesman leads Mom and Masi away to the checkout counter.

  “We’ll be back.” Mom looks over her shoulder. Her eyes find me. “Stay here and… Don’t. Break. Anything else.”