by Diksha Basu
“Even Priyanka Chopra somehow has different accents on American television and Indian television, have you noticed?” Mr. Das asked.
“And who can blame her?” Radha said. “What’s wrong with doing that? She wants to be understood at home and everywhere. Fair enough, I say. We praise people who speak French and English, why can’t people have different accents for different audiences? It’s quite a skill to do it well.”
“I have a wonderful British accent,” Mr. Das said. “I watched an episode of that Peppa Pig cartoon on the flight. Did either of you see it? Clever concept. So simple and so engaging. Actually, I ended up watching three episodes.”
“Ma,” Tina asked Radha. “Are you going to marry David?”
Tina was surprised to hear herself ask this question. Certainly, she had thought about it ever since she had first heard about David, and her father must have as well but nobody had asked it out loud.
Mr. Das was so surprised that his daughter had suddenly asked this that he let his toast soak in his tea for too long and it had broken off and fallen into the cup, ruining both his tea and the toast. He looked at his ex-wife to see how she would respond, and for a moment there was silence.
“Neel, your toast has fallen into the cup,” Radha said.
“Peppa Pig has a baby brother named George,” Mr. Das offered. “He loves dinosaurs.”
Before Radha could address Tina’s question, a red Jaguar pulled up. Nono, Pavan’s grandmother, emerged from the backseat, wearing a starched, off-white sari and big sunglasses. Her driver turned the car off and rushed over to her side to hand her a purple walking cane and matching purple Prada purse. Her white hair was cut short and stylishly, and her diamond earrings sparkled in the early morning light. Her driver offered her his arm to help her walk and she poked him in the legs with her cane and walked ahead herself.
“Thank goodness they’re doing the wedding in Delhi instead of Dubai,” she said to the driver. “At least the girl’s family is sensible. Getting married in Dubai would be like getting married in the middle of a shopping mall.”
The driver nodded along and followed one step behind her.
“How many times do I have to tell you not to walk so close,” Nono said. “I’m not going to fall no matter what my son tells you. And if I do fall, you can catch me even if you’re two feet away—no need to stick to me.”
She stopped and used her cane to mark a circle around her feet and said, “Stay outside this imaginary line at all times. And tell the girl’s family that flowers—proper flowers, not cheap marigolds—should line all the roads inside the club at all times. Flowers from abroad, not Sarojini Nagar.”
The driver took a notebook out of his pocket and scribbled down her instructions.
“What is that?” Nono asked.
The driver looked up at her.
“Where did you get that ridiculous notebook?”
“Ma’am, I just want to make sure I don’t forget,” the driver said nervously.
“Really? The notebook was your idea? Then why does it have my son’s initials embossed on the front? Did he give you this? Does he want you to keep track of what I say so he can prove I have dementia? He just wants to dump me in an old person’s home but not for one minute will I allow for that. You write that down and show it to him. Write it. My brain is more intact than his has ever been. Write that down also. Idiot son of mine, planning my funeral while I’m still breathing.”
Mr. Das, Radha, and Tina watched from the porch. Nono approached their porch and said, “Are you from the girls’ side?”
She let herself onto the porch, placed her purse on the table, nudged Mr. Das with her cane so he moved to the next chair, and sat down. She pressed the buzzer on the table.
“Yes, ma’am. I am Shefali’s Uncle, Neel Das,” Mr. Das said, not sure why he had called her ma’am.
“And I’m Radha,” Radha said. “Radha Das. And our daughter, Tina.”
Rajesh appeared in response to the bell and Nono said, “Bring me an iced coffee and an ashtray.”
She looked at Rajesh and added, “And tuck your uniform in, young man. This isn’t some fashion show.”
“Radha and Neel Das,” Nono said. She reached into her purse and took out a Marlboro Red.
“Ma’am,” the driver said nervously. “Sir says you should not smoke.”
Nono stared at him silently until he pulled a lighter out of his pocket and reached over to help light her cigarette. The driver loved Nono and personally thought she had not a hint of dementia and that she should continue living life exactly as she wanted because it obviously suited her, but the rest of her family saw her as a hurdle on the way to their massive inheritance. She was kind enough to allow his wife and daughter to live with him in the driver’s chamber in the back lawn of her home, so he was willing to do whatever she asked.
“I’ve heard about you two,” Nono said. She took a drag of her cigarette, coughed, and said, “You’re the one with the American boyfriend.”
Nono looked Radha straight in the eye as she knocked the ash from her cigarette onto the center of the table.
“David Smith, yes,” Radha said, not wanting to use the term “boyfriend.”
“David Smith. Very American. I imagine he loves grilled cheese sandwiches. I personally don’t understand how anybody over the age of eight can stand those. Marvelous, marvelous, marvelous. I wish I had had an American boyfriend or two in my lifetime,” Nono said, laughing.
She took another drag of her cigarette while Rajesh placed her iced coffee and ashtray down on the table in front of her. “How are you two handling all of this? It’s quite lovely to see a family all together despite the presence of a dashing American boyfriend. Is he dashing? I assume he is. How lovely for you, Radha. Most people my age sit around talking about the good old days but I’m telling you, you people have it better. Tina, is it? Life will be even more fun for you.”
Nono put the cigarette out on the ashtray and reached into her purse to take out a compact and lipstick. She flipped it open, touched up her lipstick, and made sure her hair had the volume she desired. She took a sip of her iced coffee and said, “Best iced coffee in all of Delhi. I’d have preferred a cocktail but this will do for now. Tina, tell me about your life. Are you married? I love that cousin of yours dearly and I’m glad she’s agreed to marry my grandson. There’s no chance we can fob the other one off on you, is there? You seem too sensible for Karan.”
Tina wanted nothing more in that moment than to be Nono. She wanted to get old and be dramatic and chain-smoke and cut her hair short and wear lipstick and carry a Prada purse. She wanted to have the confidence of a lifetime of decisions made—whether they were right or wrong. She told Nono about her work, feeling the need to make it sound more serious than it was.
“What I really hope to do is produce documentaries about India for the streaming networks. I think it’s important to give voice to the marginalized. I want to work with the children of prostitutes, for instance. Or the children at Delhi traffic lights who perform circus acts while they beg.”
“That’s all been done, my dear, and it’s dreadfully boring. No more poor children with bright smiles as metaphors. Please, no,” Nono said. “Every foreigner shows up and does that. We don’t need the world to pity us. Do India a favor and show the world our other sides too. Show them this.”
Nono picked up her cane and pointed around the grounds. She poked her cane at her driver and said, “Not him, though. Not this fool. Always worrying that I’m going to topple over.”
Tina could tell the driver loved Nono and her constant insults. And that Nono loved him too.
“He’s worse than my husband. At least my husband was considerate enough to die fifteen years ago,” Nono said. “Now it’s a battle to survive between me and my son. He thinks I have dementia but little does he know that I know that he
has high cholesterol.”
Karan’s Jaguar pulled up then, music thumping as usual.
“My son, his father, bought him that car,” Nono said. “And a blue one for Pavan. These boys have no understanding of the value of money. Useless. And you know who made all the money in the first place? My husband. A modern-day caste system. It exists all around the world.”
“Right. But you have an actual caste system here, of course,” Tina said.
Nono looked her up and down from her shoes to her hair in a way that made Tina’s skin feel as if it were shrinking.
“About which you know a lot?” Nono asked.
“Well, no. But we can’t just pretend it doesn’t exist,” Tina said.
“So you want to make a documentary about the caste system?” Nono asked.
“Well, no,” Tina said, starting to get nervous that Nono could sense how little she knew. Fortunately, she was interrupted by Marianne, who emerged from the passenger side of the Jaguar wearing a red chiffon sari with a black lace blouse and red bindi. Karan popped out from the driver’s side wearing jeans and a kurta, a cigarette in one hand.
“Nono!” Karan shouted. “What are you doing here? Checking on the flowers?”
“You shouldn’t smoke all the time,” Nono said to Karan. “And don’t shout as if I can’t hear.”
“We went to Old Delhi for breakfast!” Marianne said breathlessly, coming over to Tina. She took a sip of Tina’s black coffee and pressed the buzzer for Rajesh.
“What is that?” Tina asked, pointing at a silver ring in Marianne’s now-red nose. “Marianne, what the hell is that?”
Marianne put her hand up to her nose and laughed.
“I’ve always wanted a nose ring,” she said.
“No, you haven’t!” Tina said. “Marianne, you belong in cable-knits. Not berets, not burqas, and not nose rings. It looks ridiculous. And infected.”
Tina leaned over closer to inspect Marianne’s nose.
“Did you do it somewhere safe or was this some needle-and-ice, bedroom nonsense?”
“The shop opened the needle in front of me,” Marianne said. “Relax. I love it.”
“Where did you go last night?” Tina whispered to Marianne. “Please don’t tell me you slept with him.”
* * *
—
MARIANNE HAD NOT SLEPT with Karan, even though she had wanted to. Instead they had left the reception and headed over to the Oberoi hotel for a cocktail. The bar was empty and looked like it was about to close but when the bartenders saw Karan, they turned the music back on and led him and Marianne to a quiet sofa at the back of the bar.
Marianne excused herself to go to the bathroom to check her phone. There was a message from Tom that said simply, “Going to a poetry reading in Gowanus tonight.”
That was it. Tom wasn’t one for romantic texts or gestures, and she knew that and loved that. The men who said the most usually felt the least, Marianne found. But a poetry reading in Gowanus? That sounded so…dull. She didn’t bother texting back and instead returned to the bar and saw Karan, one arm up on the sofa back, looking at her and smiling.
“Tell me something you’ve never told anyone before,” Karan said to her as she returned. “I want to know you.”
Marianne sat down and looked at her hands in her lap. She shifted slightly, uncrossed and recrossed her legs.
“Should we get a drink first?” she asked, looking over her shoulder to see if she could catch the bartender’s attention and saw him approaching with a tray with one gin martini and one whiskey on the rocks.
“You seem the kind who would enjoy a good martini and Rahul here makes the best ones in all of Delhi,” Karan said as Rahul the bartender placed the drinks down on the table in front of them. Karan often showed up at closing time with a new, usually foreign, woman on his arm. If Rahul kept the bar open and the drinks flowing, Karan and his date usually stumbled out within an hour, always leaving a ten-thousand-rupee tip and often a small pouch of cocaine inside a cigarette packet as a thank-you.
“What’s your best memory?” Karan asked.
Marianne laughed.
“You’re right, that’s a stupid question,” he said. “I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I’ve read some guide to picking up women and I’m using tried-and-tested lines from that.”
He took a sip of whiskey.
“No, no!” Marianne said. “I laughed because it was so unexpected. I didn’t know how to react.”
“Okay, I’ll start over. If you could do anything at all tonight, what would it be?”
Marianne took a sip of her gin martini, looked Karan in the eye, and said, “This.”
Karan put his whiskey down as Susheela Raman’s throaty version of “Yeh Mera Deewanapan Hai” started playing.
“This song!” Karan said. “I haven’t heard this song in ages. I love it. Do you know it? It played in that scene in The Namesake when they’re both sitting on the bed in their robes.”
From behind the bar, Rahul watched Karan. Now that the music was on, Karan would stand up and put his hand out to the white girl, and she would get up and he would twirl her around on the dance floor. This man was extraordinary. If he’d come in with an Indian woman, Rahul would have brought her a cosmopolitan and played “At Last” by Etta James.
“You look so beautiful in Indian clothes,” Karan said as he held Marianne’s waist and swayed.
“Really? I borrowed this from Tina’s mother,” Marianne said. But she knew she looked beautiful in it. She felt beautiful in it.
Karan stopped and looked at her and said, “What? You can’t wear something borrowed. I know just the thing you need. Come on.”
“It’s past midnight!” Marianne said.
“The most magical time. Anything can happen,” Karan said. He placed a cigarette pack on the table and winked at Rahul as they left. “Let’s go.”
They arrived at a small boutique filled with glittering Indian clothes. Two men in skinny jeans and tight black T-shirts welcomed them in with glasses of prosecco and plates of mini red velvet cupcakes. Empty wrought-iron birdcages hung from the ceiling around the large chandelier. One wall was decorated with bronze plates of some sort, and a heavy framed painting of a woman in a green sari with a parrot on her shoulder looked down at the room. A small white dog snoozed in the middle of the marble floor.
“That’s Max,” one of the men said.
“You stay open overnight?” Marianne asked.
“That’s when we design,” said Homi. “During the day the staff handle the store, but we like to design when the city sleeps.”
“Homi and Mazer are two of the hottest designers in India right now,” Karan said.
Marianne walked along one of the racks letting her fingers graze all the fabrics. Mazer disappeared to the back. Homi loved these late-night visits from Delhi’s fancy people but Mazer preferred designing in peace. He shut the door to his studio, put on his noise-canceling headphones, and sat down to look at the drawing he was working on for Deepika Padukone’s Cannes trip.
“Pick anything you want,” Karan said. “Everything would look good on you.”
“I think you need a sari. Something light, in chiffon, maybe? Show off that body. Maybe with a lace blouse, long sleeved for sure—long-sleeved blouses are very flattering. They make you look instantly taller. I mean, you’re already slim and beautiful. There’s not much I can do for someone short and fat, despite what magazines try to tell you,” Homi said.
“But isn’t that exactly what a good designer should do?” Marianne asked.
Homi and Karan laughed and Homi said, “Come with me. I have the perfect sari for you.”
In the fitting room, Marianne stared at herself in the chiffon sari and black blouse. She wondered what Tom would think of her in this. With Tom she wore jeans and col
lared shirts. With Tom she always felt comfortable, natural, herself. She heard Karan and Homi talking outside. Marianne looked for a price tag on her clothes but found none. Her credit card had a ten-thousand-dollar limit on it.
She stepped out of the fitting room and Karan said, “Stunning. You’re stunning.”
He reached his hand back while looking at her and Homi placed a small glass container filled with red bindis into it. Karan took one bindi out, removed the backing of the sticker, and pressed it onto Marianne’s forehead. He put his finger under her chin, said, “Let’s go a bit bigger,” and replaced the bindi with a larger one. He looked at her again and said, “Perfect. I could use a cup of coffee now. Let’s go.”
“Don’t we have to pay?” Marianne asked.
“I got it,” Karan said. He picked up a white paper bag with Tina’s mother’s outfit lying crumpled in it.
“See you next time,” Homi said.
“Cheers,” Karan said. “Tell Mazer to stop being so grumpy whenever I show up. My purchases probably pay your rent.”
“You do this often?” Marianne asked.
“You need a nose ring,” Karan said. “I know just the place. And then the coffees. And maybe some pastries. I’m hungry now too.”
* * *
—
“I DIDN’T SLEEP WITH him but I don’t see why I shouldn’t,” Marianne said to Tina.
“Because of Tom?” Tina asked.
Marianne leaned her head back.
“I know,” she said. “But I marry Tom and then what? We move to Cambridge and buy an expensive SNOO for our baby?”
“What’s a SNOO?”
“A bassinet. It vibrates and it’s supposed to really help the baby sleep,” Marianne said.
“See? The fact that you know that means that’s exactly what you’re supposed to do. Get a SNOO,” Tina said. “Marry Tom, have the kids, wear khakis, and get light-pink gel manicures and take skiing holidays. He’s black, you’re white, that’s exotic enough.”
