My very own walking, talking encyclopedia. Goody.
“It’s amazing,” I said, unsure where to look first as we bid farewell to a patient Buddy again and joined the throng surging toward the station.
Grand Central in NYC might be impressive but this place was something else entirely. A staggering feat of architecture, the station had countless archways and spires and domes and clocks that were an astounding combination of neo-Gothic, early Victorian, and traditional Indian.
As we entered, Anjali pointed to a platform. “Over one thousand trains pass through here daily. Efficient, yes?”
I nodded. “How many passengers?”
“About three million.” She said it so casually, I could’ve mistaken it for 3,000.
“Wow, this place is incredible.”
We strolled through the station, admiring the architecture, the wood carvings, brass railings, ornamental iron, and precise detail engraved into every stone.
As we neared the entrance, Anjali touched an archway with reverence. “So sad, the smog and acid rain is damaging this beauty.” I had to agree.
“Next stop, my favorite restaurant.” Anjali rubbed her hands together in glee while my stomach rolled over in revolt.
I didn’t dare ask why we’d skipped seeing Ghandi’s home. I knew. She’d been so rattled by my less-than-subtle harping about Anu, she needed to comfort eat. Besides, getting into a car here was living dangerously. Getting between Anjali and her apparent love of food? I wasn’t that brave. “Restaurant?”
“No tour is complete without a stop at Chowpatty Beach.”
A beach? Good, maybe I could walk off the inevitable gormandizing.
We made small-talk as Buddy commandeered the streets, dodging buses belching diesel fume and carts and people, so many people. Interestingly, my death grip on the seat had loosened considerably by the time we reached the beach. I must’ve been growing accustomed to the chaos.
Anjali gestured toward the shore. “Now we eat.”
We abandoned Buddy and headed for the sand, the lack of restaurants confusing me.
Reading my mind, Anjali pointed to a row of street vendors lining the beach. “The best bhel-puri ever.”
I’d never tried the renowned chaat, fast-food. With Anjali dragging me toward the nearest stall, it looked like I was about to.
She ordered and I watched, fascinated, as the young guy manning the stall dexterously laid out a neat row of papadi (small, crisp fried puris—flatbreads) and filled them with a mix of puffed rice, sev, onions, potatoes, green chilies, and an array of chutneys.
I may not have been hungry but the tantalizing aromas of tamarind, mango, and coriander made my mouth water.
“My treat.” I paid the vendor, who gawked at Anjali as she popped three bhel-puris in her mouth in quick succession.
I laughed, loving her exuberance for food, more accustomed to it—even after a day—than the vendor.
“What’s so funny?” she mumbled, eyeing the remaining three.
“I’m just happy to be here.” I took one and shoved the other two in her direction.
“You sure?”
I nodded. “Positive.”
She didn’t wait, tossing the bhel puris in her mouth and sighing with pleasure.
That good, huh? I nibbled at mine, the instant sweet/sour/spicy explosion on my tastebuds making me want to demolish it as fast as Anjali. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so quick to pass on the others...
Anjali grinned at what I assumed was my orgasmic expression. “We’ll come back here one evening. You’ll be amazed.”
“By more food?”
She gestured toward the sand. “By everything. The beach is transformed with ferry and pony rides, balloon sellers, astrologers, contortionists, snake charmers, monkey-trainers, masseurs.” She snapped her fingers. “You name it, this place has it. Very entertaining to people-watch.”
Glancing at the smallish crowd, most of them dozing in the shade of trees, I couldn’t imagine the carnival atmosphere she described. Would be well worth another visit.
Yeah, for the bhel-puri, too.
“Sounds great. What about tonight?”
She shook her head. “No can do. Game of Thrones finale.”
I stifled a grin at her addiction to TV, along with food.
She rubbed her belly and winced—no great surprise considering what she’d stuffed in there. “Time to head home and rest.”
Good. My mind spun with all I’d seen, and I couldn’t wait to fill Rita in on the gossip.
Plus I needed to steel my nerves to meet the Ramas. My rapidly dwindling confidence had taken a hit following Anjali’s disclosures about Anu.
This could get messy.
Chapter Two
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Mumbai mayhem
You owe me.
Not just a year’s supply of cheesecake. Not ten year’s worth of mojitos. But big-time!
We’re talking a date with Leonardo di Caprio, new apartment on Fifth, a Valentino original. Twenty pairs of Manolos. Get the picture?
Nothing, and I mean nothing, could’ve prepared me for this. And I haven’t even met your lover boy yet. This place is crazy! But I guess you already knew that, huh?
Went touring yesterday, fab fun. But hair-raising! The traffic? Seriously scary. Crashed for the afternoon. Had planned on emailing you but got waylaid by Anjali and her unforgiving addiction to Glee, CSI, and True Blood. Today, I’ve walked around the local area, exploring, but jet lag and the heat have caught up with me and now I’m laying around.
On the upside, your aunt is sweet. She’s killing me with kindness and raising my cholesterol to staggering highs with her force-feeding habits. Don’t worry about my personality scaring Rakesh away. He’ll take one look at the lard-ass he’s supposed to marry and run all the way to Delhi. Speaking of your betrothed, the big welcoming party for me/you is set for tomorrow. Apparently, the Ramas can’t wait to meet me/you, though Anjali has held them off for my first two days here, thank God. Your aunt has some serious issues when it comes to Anu. ‘Hates her guts’ would be putting it mildly.
Have you heard from your parents? Better brace yourself for the heavens to fall in when they return from the Canyon. If we succeed in getting rid of Rakesh, guaranteed they’ll fix you up with someone else, only child or not.
Anyway, will do my best to repel Lover Boy at the party tomorrow. Anjali gave me a special outfit to wear, an amazing green salwar kameez I’m sure inspired Versace’s spring collection last year. The flowing pants make my legs look like Gisele’s and the tunic is mid-thigh, embroidered in crystals and utterly fab. I actually look Indian! Mom would be proud.
That’s about it. Anjali’s about to twist my ear and drag me away from the computer for dinner. Can someone overdose on halwa?
Missing you.
Missing Mojito Mondays more.
Hugs,
Shari xoxo
(PS. Is it a coincidence my name rhymes with sari? Maybe I was fated to be a stand-in fiancée all along. See, I’m hallucinating from the heat already.)
“Shari, come and eat. You need to put some flesh on your bones.” Anjali’s screech drifted upstairs and I glanced around the room, wistfully contemplating a getaway.
I darted to the window and peered at the drop to the dirty concrete below, wishing an escape route would miraculously appear. If I saw another pakora, bonda, or vada—heavenly deep-fried lentil and veggie snacks—I wouldn’t be responsible for my actions.
“Shari.”
I sighed and cast a final, tempted look out the window. “Coming, Auntie.”
Before I let the gauze-like curtains slide back into place, a movement in the semi-darkness across the street captured my attention. Someone leaned against the shop front opposite, Punjab Sweets—where else would Anjali live, but opposite a sweetshop?—smoking a cigarette, staring at my window.
He kicked at an empty soda can and I not
iced fancy steel-capped snakeskin cowboy boots poking out beneath his jeans. A devoted shoe aficionado, I always noticed footwear before faces. Tate had discovered my weakness, taking note of my ‘matching shoes, matching outfit’ motto at work, and homed in for the kill accordingly by taking me on a shopping spree for our memorable third date. His hand cupping my heel as his thumb caressed my instep had been seductive. His platinum AMEX, impressive. His consideration in carrying four boxes of the most exquisite shoes I’d ever seen all the way back to his apartment had sealed the deal. I’d shown my gratitude by donning strappy red-sequined sandals with a three-inch heel, knowing they perfectly matched the satin bra and thong I wore beneath my T and jeans. Yeah, he got to see everything, lingerie and all.
Come to think of it, my inherent stupidity probably started around that time.
Back to the Mumbai cowboy. A slow spiral of smoke from his cigarette wafted skyward, the only indication of movement. What happened to the teeming hordes that swarmed the street all day? And where was the usual line outside the sweetshop? Everyone had vanished, leaving me locked in a staring comp with a stranger.
“What’s keeping you, child? I’ll starve to death waiting for you.” Anjali’s shriek had reached ear-splitting levels and I grinned, knowing if she were to die it sure as hell wouldn’t be from starvation.
Curious, I peered at the international man of mystery before facing another interminable meal with Anjali. Yeah, I know, pretty pathetic way to get kicks, but hey, there wasn’t much else going on. I let the curtain drop and he moved, stepping away from the shadows to stare directly at my window.
Jeez-us. Broad shoulders, bulging biceps on full display in a cut-off denim shirt stretched across his chest, trim waist, and long legs.
Impressive. Tate had worked out, but this guy had muscles. I couldn’t see much of his face thanks to his hat, a Stetson.
I giggled. First the boots, now the hat. The Lone Ranger, surrounded by a million Indians. By the size of his biceps, bet this cowboy could bench-press a thousand Tontos without breaking a sweat. Humming “The William Tell Overture” under my breath I snuck another peek, glad for the anonymity the curtain provided.
As if sensing my stare, he tipped his hat—freaky—before sauntering down the street. Nice ass, too.
Note to self: must not perv on stalker-ish guys. Though I’d always had a thing for cowboys.
“Mom and her Mills & Boon novels,” I muttered, vowing to steer clear of rugged cowboys and move on to reading about dashing tycoons and charming billionaires instead.
Maybe I should buy a stack tomorrow and share with Anjali. Reading risqué romance would surely distract her from fattening me up. I could live in hope.
***
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Mumbai makeover
Hey girlfriend,
You sound like a new woman, embracing all Mumbai has to offer: the food, the people, the clothes. Wish I could see you in that salwar kameez.
About Auntie, she’s had this vendetta with Anu Rama for as long as I can remember. When I’ve spent time with her she’s called her everything from a thieving slut to the Bombay Bitch but she’s never said much beyond the name-calling. No surprise she agreed to help me pull this stunt.
Good luck at the party. Bet it’ll be a blast. NOT!
As for your stipulations regarding payment, Leo says his calendar’s full ‘til 2018 but he’ll squeeze you in after that. (Stop watching Titanic endlessly with Anjali. I forgot she’s a fellow Leo aficionado!) The Fifth Avenue apartment might be a toughie but I’ll see what I can do. The Valentino dress and the Manolos? Too easy. Increase your demands next time, why don’t you?
Why the mojito withdrawal? What happened to the duty-free stash? Our Mojito Mondays are a tradition. In fact, I’m raising a glass to you as we speak (shh... don’t tell Mom).
To Mojito Mondays in Mumbai! Thinking of you.
Love you.
Rita xx
P.S. I know India is a bit of a culture shock at first, but when in India, do as the Indians do... Eat a few jalebis for me!
I chuckled at Rita’s email the next evening and tried not to salivate at the thought of a mojito being raised in my direction. Of all the cultures I chose to impersonate, I had to choose an alcohol-free one.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m no lush, but Rita was right about one thing: Mojito Mondays had become a tradition. Men had come and gone, friends had drifted in and out of our circle, but nothing and no one came between us and our mojitos. Until now.
Slicking a final coat of gloss over my cherry-coated lips, I pouted at the mirror, ran a fingertip along my eyebrows, and stared at my reflection. With my hair in an elaborate bun, enough borrowed gold dripping from my ears, wrists, and fingers to rival Fort Knox, and the emerald salwar kameez skimming my curves, I looked like an authentic Indian. Being here, surrounded by the bamboozling culture, I actually felt my Indian roots reaching out and anchoring me to the soil of my birthplace.
I descended the stairs, smiling at Anjali’s wide-eyed surprise when she first caught sight of me. “Come here, child. You look positively... positively—”
“Indian?” I braced when she threw her arms around me and squeezed the air out of my lungs, sniffling into my kameez.
“Oh my. Stunning.” Her head wobbled from side to side, which had me wondering if she was agreeing or disagreeing.
“Shouldn’t we get going?” I glanced at my watch, wanting to get this ordeal over and done with. In particular, facing my ridiculous fear that Anu would flay me alive if she discovered my deception. The sooner I met the Rama clan and scared off their son, the happier I’d be.
“Of course.” Anjali clapped her hands twice, her usual sign to summon Buddy. Amazingly, he always came running, no matter in which part of the house he was hiding from her ladyship. “Let’s wait on the veranda while Buddy starts the car.”
I smothered a smile at Anjali’s reference to the ‘veranda,’ a dirty, two-foot square of cracked concrete stained red from years of servants spitting paan juice, the tobacco stuff they chewed here for kicks.
We’d been in the car on the way to the Rama roost less than five minutes when she cast me a sly glance. “You’re beautiful, my girl. Perhaps you’ll find a nice Indian boy here and get married?”
Uh-oh, here she goes again. My fingers flexed, creasing the chiffon of my pants and I deliberately relaxed, taking several calming breaths before responding, not wanting my voice to come out an indignant yelp.
“I’m supposed to be betrothed, remember? Besides, I’m not interested in marriage right now, Auntie.” I’d wished a pox on the entire male species three months ago. Now my new, improved motto was ‘Like, lust, leave ‘em for dust.’
“Ah-ya-ya.” Anjali’s hands flew to her mouth while her eyes widened in shock. “Don’t say such rubbish. Every woman needs a good man.”
“When you find one, let me know.” Poor comeback. For Indian moms, matchmaking ranked right up there with force-feeding their kids.
“I can make some inquiries?” She rubbed her hands together at the prospect of finding me a boyfriend.
I didn’t like the cunning glint in Anjali’s eyes, not one bit. “No.”
“No?”
“No.” I waggled my finger under her nose for emphasis and she batted it away. “Silly girl.”
Thankfully, the car slowed at that moment and I craned my neck for the first glimpse of the Rama place. Between Anjali’s sniping at the family and Rita’s dossier, I gathered the Ramas were rich. Very rich. And by the size of their newly whitewashed two-story house, they were loaded. In a country where real estate was at a premium, these guys had a monopoly on space, their house taking up a quarter of the block.
“Nice place,” I said, smoothing the chiffon of my kameez and hoping all the drama training at high school would count for something in the hours ahead.
“All pomp and show.” Anjali’s glare at the house would
’ve exploded bricks if she’d had superhuman powers. “A fat cow needs a big barn.”
Smothering a laugh in case Anjali’s evil eye turned on me, I followed her toward the front door, which flew open as we approached.
“Greetings, Anjali. And this must be our little Amrita.” A tall guy in his fifties wearing what looked like white PJs opened his arms to us. I gritted my teeth, smiled, and stepped to the plate, wishing I could pick up my bat and ball and go home.
“Senthil, lovely to see you.” I watched, transfixed as she turned on the charm like a coquette. Probably to annoy Anu more than anything. “You’re looking younger every time I see you. How’s the music business? Have those nearsighted producers snapped you up to act rather than play tabla?”
Senthil twirled the ends of his ludicrous black handlebar moustache and grinned. “Still the sweet talker, Anjali. Just seeing you again makes my heart beat faster than any tabla I could play.”
Give me a break.
If Rakesh was anything like his father, I was in for an absolute treat—yeah, right.
Anjali giggled like a schoolgirl. “You’re incorrigible.”
Bracing myself for another corny line from Suave Senthil, he surprised me by winking at Anjali and turning to me. “Come, child. Step into the light. Let me see you.”
Taking a steadying breath, I did as he instructed, wondering if this sham would fall apart right then, confused as to why everyone over here kept calling me child. And a tad annoyed. Being involved with a married man who happened to be my boss had been immature, but I’d grown up since then. Impersonating my best friend, playing dress-up in fancy Indian gear, and about to tell a host of fabulous lies. See? Totally grown up.
The extent of the charade I had to perpetuate sunk in and the insecurities niggled. What if someone had snuck a pic of Amrita to Rakesh? What if I was banished from old Bombay in disgrace? What if I made a mess of this the same way I’d mucked up with Tate?
Breathless in Bollywood Page 13
