The Sari Shop Widow
Also by Shobhan Bantwal
THE FORBIDDEN DAUGHTER
THE DOWRY BRIDE
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
The Sari Shop Widow
SHOBHAN BANTWAL
KENSINGTON BOOKS
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
Acknowledgments
As always, at the beginning of a new venture, I offer a prayer of thanks to Lord Ganesh, the remover of obstacles.
My heartfelt appreciation goes to my generous, warm, and supportive editor, Audrey LaFehr, who has placed her faith in me time and again. The friendly and efficient editorial, production, public relations, and marketing folks at Kensington Publishing richly deserve my gratitude for a job well done. I look forward to working with you on my future projects.
To my agents, Stephanie Lehmann and Elaine Koster, thank you for your invaluable help and guidance at every step.
I am greatly indebted to my critique partners, Teri Bozowski and Carol Aloisi. They are gentle in their criticism but right on target.
The Writers’ Exchange at Barnes & Noble in Princeton, New Jersey, and the Writers’ Group at the Plainsboro Public Library deserve my thanks for their insightful comments and suggestions.
I offer a grateful hug to my many friends, who also serve as tireless cheerleaders, marketers, and promoters of my books.
To my family, whose love and support I could not survive without. They are my constant source of inspiration.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Author’s Note
A Reading Group Guide
Discussion Questions
The Sari Shop Widow
Chapter 1
For the second time in ten years her life was beginning to come apart. Anjali Kapadia stood still for a minute, trying to absorb the news. Could it possibly be a mistake? But it wasn’t; she’d heard it clearly. Despite her best efforts to curb it, the initial shock wave refused to ebb. The seemingly harmless bit of information was all it had taken to shatter the image of a satisfying lifestyle and career.
Her mind in overdrive, she started to pace the length of the tasteful and elegant boutique. Her boutique—her baby—her artistic and inventive skills put to optimum use in creating a fairytale store worthy of movie stars, models, and beauty queens.
Technically the business belonged to her and her parents as equal partners, but it was Anjali’s creativity and vision that had turned it into a classy and successful enterprise—at least until recently. It stood apart like a maharani, a queen amongst the ordinary, plain vanilla sari and clothing shops of New Jersey’s “Little India.”
The area known as Little India, located in Edison, was crammed with sari shops, jewelry stores, restaurants, grocery markets, and souvenir shops. It was a small slice of India buried in central New Jersey, a quaint neighborhood that smelled of pungent curry, fried onions, ripe mangoes, incense, and masala chai, strong tea laced with spices and oodles of thick, creamy milk.
Even the store’s name was Anjali’s brainstorm. Overrun with ho-hum and even dumpy names and ugly storefronts, Little India was badly in need of some class. So she’d called her store Silk & Sapphires. It had a nice ring to it, and according to Hindu astrology, a sapphire supposedly dispelled the destructive influence of the fiery planet Shanee. Saturn. The store’s window displayed the most elegant mannequins and rare jewelry to give it a boutique flavor rather than just a sari-cum-bauble shop.
The interior was done in soft cream and shimmering blue to fit the name. Teardrop crystal chandeliers hung from a vaulted ceiling. Strategically placed recessed lights highlighted the displays, mirrored walls created the illusion of space and light, and dense cream carpeting covered the sales floor and fitting rooms. No harsh music with screeching falsetto voices was allowed to tarnish the store’s atmosphere either. Only soft instrumental pieces by both Indian and other masters were piped in through the sound system.
Shopping at Silk & Sapphires was meant to be a unique and indulgent experience.
The boutique also carried jewelry—one-of-a-kind creations of precious and semiprecious gems fit for an empress or a blushing bride. It was all custom-made in India by her uncles, Anjali’s mom’s brothers, two of whom were in the jewelry business in the state of Gujarat in northwestern India.
Nearly every piece of clothing the store sold was designed by Anjali, each outfit envisioned, then meticulously planned, cut, sewn, and embellished to her demanding specifications. She took pride in finding the right fabrics, trimmings, and tailors to make her designs evolve from an idea swirling in her brain to divine ensembles. Granted, her clothes and accessories were far more expensive than some, but they were worth the money. Every design was exclusive. Many of them were award winners in fashion shows and competitions.
She glanced at them and exhaled a long sigh. The colorful silks, the clingy chiffons, and the gossamer tissue-crepes were draped in an exquisite array on their pretty satin hangers—row upon row of lush, costly clothes. The pearls, the rainbow of beads, and the jewel-tone sequins lovingly sewn into the borders, sleeves, necklines, and bodices of the sleek garments sparkled and winked at her as she strode up and down the aisles, again and again.
What had gone wrong? How? When?
Could she be kissing her dress design business and her beloved store good-bye? If so, how soon? Catching her reflection in the mirrored wall behind the row of clothes, she realized her eyes were filled with resentment and frustration. Darn it! She rarely let bitterness prevail over her, and she wouldn’t do so now. She was a woman who liked to laugh, although there hadn’t been much to laugh about in the last decade—not since she’d cremated Vikram.
How could her parents have concealed such a significant problem from her for so long? And how could they even dream up something so preposterous to address the problem? How could they jeopardize her career as well as theirs with one phone call?
She wouldn’t stand for it. She couldn’t. She’d get a loan from a bank to bail them out of their financial mess, or even beg and borrow from friends and acquaintances before she’d give in to her parents’ harebrained plan.
Turning on the narrow heel of her tan sandals, she trudged back to the long glass display counter behind which her parents stood. They’d been mutely watching her pace like a caged panther all this time. Now the mildly optimistic look on their faces told her they hoped her dark mood had passed, or at least diminished to some degree.
Well, no such luck. The distress was still spiraling inside her like a mad January blizzard. She raised her troubled eyes to them. “Why didn’t you guys tell me about the problem sooner?”
Her father, Mohan Kapadia, a wiry man with glasses and a heavy mop of graying hair, gave a helpless shrug. “We didn’t want to upset you. And I honestly thought your mother and I could handle it by now.”
“But we’re equal partners in th
is. I’m not a child who needs to be protected from bad news.” She took a deep breath to steady her tremulous voice. “I know I nearly lost my mind some years ago, but I don’t need coddling anymore.”
“I know that, Anju, but I’m upset at myself for not being a better businessman.” He sent Anjali a rueful look. “I suppose I didn’t want to believe it myself at first. It’s not easy admitting to one’s daughter that one is…uh…a failure.”
She immediately regretted her outburst. “I’m sorry, Dad. You’re not a failure. It’s not all your fault. We’re all in this together.”
“But still…”
“I’m just as much to blame,” she said. “I should have kept an eye on our finances a bit more. What I can’t believe is why you went to Jeevan of all people for help.”
“Jeevan is my eldest brother. Who else could I go to when we’re in financial trouble?” He combed his long, skinny fingers through his hair for the fourth time since Anjali had walked into the store minutes ago. His nervous raking was making his hair stand up in stiff peaks, making him look like one of those troll dolls sold in novelty stores. His starched blue shirt and gray slacks paired with sensible black shoes did little to improve the troll image.
“You could have gone to that old man, the Indian capitalist with three wives…What’s his name…Harikishan.”
Usha Kapadia, Anjali’s mother, gave a derisive, unladylike snort. “After killing off his first two wives, old Harikishan has met his match. His third wife is young and pretty and smart. She keeps him…um…occupied,” she remarked, clearing her throat. “He’s not interested in pursuing the financing business anymore.”
“How about Naren-kaka?” Naren Kapadia was her father’s youngest brother.
Her father shook his head. “Naren has a large debt on his motel. You know that.”
“Then why not go to a legitimate bank?” Anjali suggested. “Instead, you called your other brother Jeevan, in India?” She still couldn’t make sense of her parents’ wacky decision.
“Your uncle’s got the best business brain in the world,” her father argued.
“But Jeevan’s a dictator.”
Her mother, trim and elegant in a shell-pink chiffon sari, and tiny pearls at her throat and ears, threw her a scorching look. “Anju, Jeevan is your oldest uncle. Show your elders some respect. And stop referring to him as Jeevan. To you he’s Jeevan-kaka, just like he’s Jeevan-bhai to your father and me.”
“I’m sorry.” Anjali sighed. From her mother’s tone one would think Anjali was a teenager or young adult at most. Their family business, essentially their livelihood, was headed for ruin, and her mother was lecturing her, a grown woman, on the old-fashioned Gujarati way of talking about one’s uncle. “You know as well as I that Jeevan-kaka is bad news, Mom.” He was a short, tubby, beady-eyed scoundrel who sat atop a mountain of money. He was rich and mean and sly and unscrupulous—a lethal combination.
Jeevan was the oldest of three brothers and two sisters, and never let his siblings forget it. In his eyes, he was only one small step below God. At the mention of his name, the family trembled with fear. With a simple phone call he could reduce some of them to tears. Most often, when someone in the family mentioned Jeevan’s name, it was preceded by “Oh, God,” and rightfully so.
Mohan shook his head. “Jeevan-bhai is a little bit on the strict side. That doesn’t mean he’s unkind.”
“Little bit strict?” Anjali groaned. Was her father living on the same planet as she? She looked at him. The shape and deep brown tint of their eyes were similar, and the thick black lashes were definitely something she’d inherited from him. In fact, most of her sharp features were her father’s, but her complexion and straight black hair were genetic traits from her mother’s side of the family. “After the beating you took from him as the middle brother, you still choose to defend him, Dad?”
This time Mohan’s eyes glinted with irritation. “You of all people, with your fancy college degrees, should realize we have major financial problems. We need some serious help and advice. Who better than your uncle to give it? Everything your uncle touches turns to gold.”
Her mom gave another scornful snort. “That’s why they call him Bada saheb.” Big boss. Despite admonishing Anjali about her lack of respect for Jeevan, her mom had plenty of contempt for her eldest and most feared brother-in-law. But then Usha always had a different set of rules for herself. And they changed frequently according to her convenience and mood.
Having expressed her sentiments, her mother turned around to cast a quick glance in the mirrored wall and patted her hair, which was swept back into a simple but elegant chignon. Then she went back to arranging the new shipment of jewelry in the display case—earrings, bracelets, and rings made of rare yellow diamonds.
Anjali watched her mom’s dainty fingers gently lift each piece and arrange it over the sapphire blue velvet spread. Having grown up in a family of jewelers, Usha knew her gems well. And at fifty-nine she looked wonderful—much younger than her age.
“Whatever my brother’s faults, he has the knowledge and money to help us,” said Mohan, picking up his calculator and gathering up the day’s receipts. “And his advice is free.”
Anjali mulled over the issue for a minute. There had to be another, less drastic solution than the insufferable Jeevan. “Can’t you call him again and tell him you were wrong?”
“No.” Her father shook his head emphatically.
“Say you made an error in judgment and that everything’s just fine?”
Mohan gave her a bland look. “I can’t. He’s arriving here next week.”
“What?” A dull thud jolted both Anjali and her father. Usha had dropped a box on the counter and turned dark, accusing eyes on her husband. “You didn’t tell me your brother was coming here.”
“I thought I did.” Mohan’s tone was mildly apologetic.
“Not true, Mohan,” Usha reminded him. “This morning, when you called your brother, you said you were asking for a little advice and nothing more. You didn’t say anything about him coming to New Jersey.”
“Slipped my mind…I guess.” Ordinarily a resolute man with a good head for business, Anjali’s father seemed to turn to putty when his beloved Usha was around. Despite her sweet face, dimpled smile, and her preference for soft colors and understated accessories, she wielded the gavel like a seasoned judge. It was a good thing, too, because Anjali’s dad was too softhearted. If it were up to him, he’d give away half the store to someone he thought was needy.
She watched the angry color rise in her mother’s amazingly unlined face. “Slipped your mind? Something as important as that?”
“But…but he said he wanted to come. How could I say no?”
“Exactly when is Jeevan-bhai arriving?” Usha demanded. “Or were you planning to tell me after he arrived at Newark Airport?”
Anjali had a feeling her father had deliberately kept his brother’s visit a secret. She felt a twinge of sympathy for her dad. The poor man was caught between his loyalties to his brother on the one hand and his wife and kids on the other.
“But there’s still one more week,” he mumbled weakly. “He’s arriving next Monday.”
“Next Monday is only five days away, not one week,” reminded Usha.
Mohan ran his fingers through his hair yet again. What little hair had been lying flat now stood at attention. “Jeevan-bhai is family. Why are you getting so upset?”
Usha’s look of annoyance turned to disbelief. “Your brother is not some ordinary family member like the others; he is a god. Once he descends from his chariot he wants everything perfect, from homemade vegetarian food cooked in clarified butter and spotless white sheets to his newspaper available at a precise time every morning. And don’t forget hot masala chai five times a day. I’ll have to dedicate myself to serving him hand and foot.”
If there was one thing Anjali couldn’t picture her mother doing, it was waiting on someone hand and foot. Raised in indulged afflue
nce in the city of Ahmedabad, and being the only girl in a family with four boys, she was a prima donna. Her brothers doted on her.
Though Usha was a good cook, she preferred working in the store and depended on restaurant food to feed the family most of the time. It was the simplest and most efficient thing to do, anyway, with literally dozens of Indian restaurants serving any kind of reasonably priced multiregional cuisine, literally within walking distance from their store.
Every night, after locking up, Anjali and her parents, too exhausted to worry about cooking, bought restaurant food and toted it home. After eating, they barely had energy left to get changed and head for their beds in their modest house in neighboring Iselin. Despite keeping the store closed on Mondays, the boutique was a 24/7 commitment for the three of them. It was their whole life.
Anjali couldn’t bear to think of any other way of life. She’d had her own home and a career separate from her parents many moons ago, while she’d been married to Vikram Gandhi. But after Vik’s death, heartbroken and depressed, she’d decided to pool all her savings with her parents’ and upgrade their struggling sari shop in Edison.
Now the boutique was everything to her, a place where she’d buried her grief and more or less resurrected herself. It had helped to have a challenging business to keep her mind occupied, the best kind of therapy for a grieving young widow.
Her brother, Nilesh, a sophomore at Rutgers University, had always distanced himself from the clothing business. Nearly eighteen years younger than she, and an unexpected late-life baby for her parents, he could be a joy as well as an annoyance.
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