Destination Wedding

by Diksha Basu

  Mr. Das shook his head at her. Why wouldn’t she leave? He cupped the phone with one hand and said, “Nono, if you don’t mind. I’m on an important call.”

  He gestured with his chin toward the rest of the salon.

  “Romance, Mr. Das,” Mrs. Ray said on the phone. “Romance. Flowers and wine and fancy restaurants and long walks and hot cups of tea.”

  He wiggled his toes around in the bubbling water.

  “Romance is for the young,” he said.

  “Romance is for everyone,” Nono said loudly.

  She waved to the receptionist and said, “Bring me a chair, dear. I’m going to sit here and have a little chat with Mr. Das.”

  “Mr. Das, I don’t know who else is chiming in over there but she’s right—romance is for everyone. That’s what I’m trying to teach all my clients. Stop thinking like an old divorced man—think like a young man in love for the first time.”

  Mrs. Ray closed her laptop again and stood facing the breeze coming off the ocean and over the cliff.

  “Make it fresh, Mr. Das,” Mrs. Ray continued. “I have faith in you. Think like a youngster.”

  She put the phone down and walked over to Upen Chopra, pulled the magazine away from him, kissed him on his mouth, and said, “Let’s go for a swim. And then maybe some time alone in our cottage before dinner.”

  Upen Chopra stood up, pulled Mrs. Ray toward him, and said, “Forget the swim.”

  Mrs. Ray smiled and led him back toward the cottage. Think like a youngster. Maybe that would be the title of her memoir.

  “Think like a youngster, she said,” Mr. Das said to Nono. “When I was young I was busy studying. How do young people think?”

  “Ma’am,” a young woman wearing black pants and a black collared shirt nervously approached Nono. “Ma’am, your massage was scheduled for twenty minutes ago. Would you mind coming now? We have a very full schedule today.”

  “Rearrange things then, dear,” Nono said, placing her bag down on the ground near Mr. Das. “And bring me a ginger tea and two Marie biscuits on a plate.”

  “Ma’am,” the woman repeated. “Ma’am, your son called. I understand you may be a bit confused.”

  “You tell that son of mine that I’ll shut down his bank accounts if he doesn’t stop telling people I have dementia. Now, go get me the tea and biscuits. Extra hot.”

  The woman nodded and quickly backed away.

  “Sometimes I think maybe I should just give in and retreat in silence to an old people’s home,” Nono said. “But old people are so dreadfully boring, have you noticed? Their stories have no arcs. I refuse to be surrounded by that. And I love the comfort of my own home. I’m used to a certain lifestyle and those homes are all made for monks, what with the vegetarian food and early bedtimes. I’ve always preferred whiskey and late nights.”

  “When were you first diagnosed?” Mr. Das asked.

  “Never. I’ve never been diagnosed,” Nono said. “Dementia is just what my son has decided on because he has no interest in caring for me. We’re stuck, here in India, my generation. We no longer live in joint families where the children have to look after us but we also don’t have good senior communities or assisted living centers.”

  Mr. Das nodded.

  “I don’t have a solution,” Nono said. “Ultimately we all have to face our old age or trade it for the tragedy of dying young. There’s no winning on your way out of the world. Old people turn into babies again, but we’re hardly cute. Nobody wants to clean an old person’s bottom. I’m not at that stage yet and I can only hope I die before I am. Anyway, let’s not get too morbid.”

  The same woman who had tried to get Nono in for her massage returned with the ginger tea and Marie biscuits.

  “Whenever you’re ready,” she said softly and backed away.

  “Now tell me, Mr. Das. What is it you need to think like a youngster for? I may be old but my mind is still young, no matter what my son tries to tell the world.”

  Near his feet, his pedicurist held up something that looked like a small brown brick and said, “Sir, your heels are remarkably soft. I barely needed to exfoliate.”

  “You’re welcome,” Mr. Das said with a sigh.

  He turned to Nono and told her all about Mrs. Sethi.

  “Have you kissed her yet?” Nono asked. She placed her cup down and opened her purse and took out her compact. “Look how my skin wrinkles. I get Botox done every six weeks but it has no effect beyond a certain age.”

  “I haven’t kissed anyone in about twenty years. Maybe Radha once or twice, but barely. I’m just trying to work out what to do. I want to do something special for Mrs. Sethi in case I never see her again after this.”

  “Well, then you must kiss her. Here’s what we will do. I happen to have a lovely little backyard with a greenhouse filled to the brim with pots and pots of flowers from all over the world. I have a small, climate-controlled, all-glass room built inside of it. I use it to read, eat meals, have a drink, or sometimes just to sit surrounded by the flowers. It’s really quite lovely and tonight, it’s yours. My staff will prepare a meal. I’ll handle it all. I love doing this kind of thing, especially for young lovers. But it’s all on one condition—before the clock strikes midnight, you have to kiss Mrs. Sethi. I have closed-circuit cameras all over my house, including in the greenhouse, so I’ll be watching.”

  It was all going fine until that last bit of the deal, Mr. Das thought. But why not? It didn’t sound like she was saying it in a kinky way. An intimate greenhouse dinner sounded like a perfect grand gesture, and besides, if anything were to progress beyond kissing, they would return to Colebrookes or Mrs. Sethi’s home. The pedicurist was wiping his feet down with a warm, damp towel. Mr. Das rubbed his feet together. Oh, my. But what about the rest of him? His arms and legs had grown skinny with age and lately he had noticed a little bit of extra skin that flopped over the band of his underwear. His skin, though wrinkled in places, had taken on a disconcerting softness. He had a handsome face, he knew that, but his body was aging. Parts of him were becoming like a chubby baby—the smoothness, the softness. Would his soft feet alarm Mrs. Sethi? He would have to leave his socks on if clothes came off. But Radha always laughed if he did that. So much so that he had got in the habit of removing his socks before removing his pants so he wouldn’t have even a moment of standing there in only his socks. How did all this work with a new person? Mr. Das was feeling tired just thinking about it.

  “Now, don’t overthink things and don’t worry,” Nono said. “This will be fun. I’ll have a wonderful dinner prepared. Dress nicely and arrive by eight.”

  “Wait, why are you doing this for me?” Mr. Das asked.

  “I always wanted to be a theater director,” Nono said.

  She put her cup down on the table and waved over the girl in all black.

  “Are you ready for the massage now, ma’am? That would be very helpful in terms of our scheduling.”

  “Cancel my massage and tell the driver to pull up. I have an important show to run tonight. Mr. Das, don’t forget—a kiss before midnight. I’ll be watching. What fun.”

  Nono picked up her purse and walked out of the beauty parlor, the girl in all black rushing to apologize to another woman who was sitting near the entrance looking angry about a scheduling change.

  Mr. Das picked up his sandals and walked out of the beauty parlor back toward his cottage barefoot to try and get his feet a bit rougher and manlier before he had to remove his socks. He sent Mrs. Sethi a message saying he had a surprise planned for this evening and would pick her up at 7:30 P.M.

  On the way out of his pedicure, he bumped into Tina heading to the beauty parlor to get her eyebrows threaded.

  “My feet have become too soft,” he said to his daughter.

  “That’s what a pedicure is supposed to do,” Tina said.

&
nbsp; “How are you feeling?”

  “Miserable but at least I’ve regained control of the whole vomiting situation,” Tina said.

  She could still feel clawing in her stomach and her entire core hurt from the exertion. Her skin felt sallow and dry, the effects of Chon’s face mask all gone from one round of food poisoning and the accompanying dehydration.

  “I wonder where you picked it up,” Mr. Das said. “Don’t you think usually when you vomit you deep down know the source of what caused it?”

  “I’m going to vomit again if we keep discussing this,” Tina said. “Where are you off to?”

  “I’ve got a big evening ahead. What does a youngster wear for a big night out?”

  “Jeans, I guess. Are you seeing Mrs. Sethi again?”

  “You said my jeans looked like dad jeans,” Mr. Das said.

  “Actually, I said they looked like mom jeans. Even worse,” Tina said.

  “I’ll wear a suit,” Mr. Das said.

  LATER ON THURSDAY EVENING

  Colebrookes, but across Town Shefali Is Wearing a Face Mask and Researching Whether or Not Stopping Birth Control Will Make Her Break Out Because She Wants to Get Pregnant but Not If She’s Going to Get Acne

  TINA HAD HER EYEBROWS THREADED, her nails polished, and a head massage, hair wash, and blowout, and was strolling slowly back toward her cottage, finally feeling a bit better after the food poisoning. Two small boys ran around the lawn holding fake guns and shouting at each other.

  “I’ll kill you,” one said.

  “I’ll kill you first,” the other shouted. “Bang, bang.”

  “I have a bulletproof vest on, you didn’t know that!” the first boy said.

  “But my bullet hit your head, you died,” the other one said.

  “But I also have a bulletproof helmet on so now I’ll kill you,” the other one said.

  The boy breathed out loudly, clearly tired, and said, “That’s not fair. That’s not allowed. You can’t suddenly have a helmet.”

  “Bang, bang, now you’re dead! You should have a brought a bulletproof helmet, you idiot.”

  “Mommy, tell Sahil he can’t do that.”

  Tina could see two women wearing tight jeans and tight tops and high heels, having a drink near the pool. The mothers, Tina assumed. One of them looked over at the boys and said, “Uff, Rahul, please don’t be such a sissy.”

  Like most outdoor pools in Delhi in the winter, this one was empty but Colebrookes had filled it with mud pots full of colorful bougainvillea with fairy lights woven through them and around the edges of the pool. In the middle of the pool was a grand piano, and a man in a tuxedo was playing an instrumental version of—yes, it was—Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On.” Indians loved that song.

  At the table next to the two mothers sat two women who looked like sisters with a handsome older man who looked like he could be their father or one of their partners. Men were rarely seen with women who could be either, Tina noted. They were all drinking colorful drinks and snacking from a bowl of peanuts in the middle of the table. One of the women was in the middle of telling an animated story about, from what Tina could gather as she slowly walked past, something that had happened to her on a chartered flight to Mallorca the previous week, something about an emerald earring gone missing.

  Tina smiled at them. What a normal family they looked like. The mother was probably at home today, maybe getting a massage or reading a book or watching a movie. Maybe every Thursday night the father took his daughters out to Colebrookes for an evening drink. Tina imagined them doing this since they were young—going out for ice cream first, then a cup of coffee, and now, as adults, a cocktail.

  Rocco emerged from around the corner, his hair damp, his skin glowing, a towel draped around his neck.

  “There’s an indoor pool too, did you know that?” he said.

  The gray T-shirt he was wearing was wet in places he hadn’t bothered drying carefully and was clinging to his muscular body. He was wearing jeans and a pair of blue-and-white Indian chappals. He rubbed the towel in his hair. A pair of wet swimming trunks dangled off his elbow.

  “I love Indian weddings—this is basically just an excuse to take a holiday. We aren’t actually expected to be anywhere or do anything boring,” Rocco said.

  “I don’t think this is most Indian weddings. I think this is how Shefali gets married—on her own terms, none of the boring traditional stuff, only the things she can take perfect pictures of.”

  Rocco lifted his shirt and rubbed his stomach and Tina got a glimpse of his abs and a fine trail of brown hair.

  “Aren’t you cold?” she asked.

  Rocco looked down at his chest and said, “Why? Are my nipples showing?”

  Tina laughed.

  “I should have called,” Rocco said.

  “Stop it, don’t worry about it. It hardly matters.”

  “No, it does matter. I had an amazing time with you. And I’ve thought about you often since then.”

  “So then why didn’t you call?” Tina said. “Ow, fuck.”

  One of the two little kids had slammed straight into her, his fake gun piercing her thigh.

  “Sorry, Auntie,” he shouted and ran away.

  “Did that jerk just call me Auntie? I should be Didi at most. I don’t look like an Auntie.”

  She rubbed her thigh.

  “Wait, Shefali never told you?” Rocco asked.

  “Told me what?”

  “You’re going to hate me,” Rocco said. “That is, if you don’t already.”

  “I don’t hate you. It was a long time ago. We didn’t even have sex. I’m just curious.”

  “I slept with Zahra the next night. Remember her? The comedian?” Rocco said.

  Tina felt a heavy, hot weight tumble down her body and her mouth went dry. She could barely hear Rocco continue.

  “I shouldn’t have told you. Shit, I am so attracted to you, I should have said I lost your number. But you’re off with some mystery man here at night anyway.”

  “No!” Tina said. She closed her eyes for a moment. Not because she was going to cry but because she needed a moment to not be looking at him. “I really wish you had just lied. I don’t want to hear you didn’t call me because of the tall, hot Pakistani comedian. And that mystery guy thing isn’t actually, I don’t know. I feel even worse now. Why would you even think you should tell me the truth?”

  “I thought women appreciate the truth,” Rocco said.

  “Not when the truth is mean,” Tina said. “I had all my own ideas—you had a steady girlfriend but you couldn’t resist me that night. Or, you know, the one we always tell ourselves—that you just felt too strongly about me but knew that it wouldn’t work. Anything, anything other than you hooked up with the hotter girl the next night.”

  A ball hit Tina in the back.

  “Damn it,” she shouted looking back.

  She picked up the ball and flung it in the opposite direction of the kid.

  “That’s what he gets for calling me Auntie,” Tina said.

  “You’re much hotter than Zahra,” Rocco said.

  “No, don’t tell unbelievable lies, you idiot,” Tina said. “That’s even worse. You need to learn when to lie.”

  “I really thought you knew. I bumped into Shefali when I was having breakfast with Zahra the morning after and I figured she told you.”

  “Shefali doesn’t notice anything that isn’t directly about her,” Tina said.

  “I really wanted to call you. I thought we had the most amazing connection. But then I figured you wouldn’t want to hear from me because of the whole Zahra thing. Which was really a regrettable choice because you have never seen anyone more boring in bed. She just mostly lay there like a stick.”

  “Okay, that’s enough,” Tina said.

 
The little kid went running past, panting, holding the ball. Tina watched him run to his mother, who held a cup up to his mouth. She then kissed his forehead, wiped her lipstick mark off, and returned to her cocktail and conversation.

  “Are you heading back to the cottages?” Tina asked.

  Rocco said yes and they both walked away from the lights and down the dark road along the main lawn toward the cottages on the far side. Two women workers in matching brown uniform saris walked past them and folded their hands and said “Namaste.” Tina nodded; Rocco folded his hands and said “Namaste” back. Tina kicked some pebbles with her shoe. But the pebbles didn’t roll away.

  “Is that poop?” Rocco said. “Did you just kick poop? I think that’s dog poop.”

  Tina looked down at her shoe and tried to scrape it onto the road.

  “Why did you kick poop?” Rocco asked.

  “Obviously, not on purpose,” Tina said, laughing despite everything. “I thought it was a pebble.”

  She continued walking, scraping her foot along the path.

  “Have you noticed it’s never really silent here?” Rocco said. “Like the kind of silence that hurts your ears. You don’t get that here.”

  “Tina?” Radha called to her daughter. Radha was sitting on a yoga mat in the middle of the lawn in the darkness.

  “Ma?” Tina said, squinting to look. “What are you doing out there?”

  “Yoga, meditation,” Radha said. “Do you want to join me?”

  Tina looked over at Rocco and said, “I should. I’ve been pretty unfair to my mother on this trip. And for the last decade. Am I a shitty person?”

  Rocco looked at Tina standing in the darkness, her face lit only by the small lamp beside her and he said, “You seem pretty magnificent to me. Listen, about Zahra and London and—”

  Tina put her hand on Rocco’s hand and said, “It’s okay.”

  Tina didn’t expect an apology. The night was what it was, and yes, she had googled Rocco repeatedly since, always curious about what he was doing. But it was nothing more than mild interest. Although she had come across a picture of him at a movie premiere where he was wearing dark jeans and a black button-down with the sleeves rolled up and holding a whiskey glass in one hand, and that picture had made her google “Rocco Gallagher girlfriend,” and she did then briefly think about what it would be like to explore India with him. But that was all. She had truly never expected to see him again.