Sister of the Bollywood Bride

by Nandini Bajpai

  Only, they weren’t there.

  Whaaat?

  They weren’t there!

  Yogi whined, waiting for me to open the car door, and I had nothing. I racked my brain. I must have dropped them when the poodle incident happened.

  Oh, crap.

  Chapter Three

  “They were right here!” I wailed, cell phone clutched to my ear. “Shayla, I swear!”

  “I believe you, okay?” she said. “But I can’t ditch my camp kids at River Bend and help you search. Just… keep looking.”

  “Will you give me and Yogi a ride back?” I begged. “I have a spare set at home I can try to find. If Dad realizes I lost the keys he’s never going to believe I’m responsible enough to plan anything.”

  “I’ll come get you, I promise,” Shayla said. “Got to go.”

  I stuck my cell phone into my pocket and started over, slow-walking from the hill where the poodle had jumped Yogi, all the way to the lawn, eyes scanning the ground, searching for any glint of metal.

  Straight into a sweaty chest. One that I would have seen if my eyes had not been glued to the ground.

  I sprang back. “Excuse me!”

  Way to go, Mini. Looking dorky twice in an hour to the same guy was a record even for me.

  “You’ve lost something,” mystery guy said. The deep voice sounded matter-of-fact, and yes, the accent was definitely British. “These, maybe?”

  He was holding up my car keys.

  Yes! I was not in trouble. I didn’t need to call AAA. Or tow the thing back to the house and pay for a new set of keys. Dad didn’t even have to know! I could kiss this guy. Well, he was pretty kiss-worthy anyway.

  “My keys!” I said. “Thank you! I didn’t think I’d ever find them.”

  “Hey, no worries,” he said, dropping them into my grateful hands. “We’ve met before. Your dog chased my cat, right?”

  I nodded. “For the record, that was totally out of character. Yogi’s a really good dog normally.”

  “I can see that.” He held out his hand. “I’m Vir, and you?”

  Okaaay. Who shakes hands when they introduce themselves? No one I know under the age of twenty. And Vir—that was Indian, wasn’t it?

  “I’m Mini,” I said.

  “What kind of dog is Yogi?” I could tell by the way he said dog that he knew perfectly well that Yogi was a mutt.

  “He’s a rescue,” I said. “A sato, from Puerto Rico.”

  “What are they?” he asked. “A designer breed?”

  “Sato means ‘street dog,’” I said. “There are too many strays in San Juan so they fly them here. The dogs have a better chance of getting adopted.”

  “Makes sense,” he said. I realized that he’d fallen into step next to me and seemed to be headed the same way as me, back to the parking lot. “You know what he looks like?”

  “What?” I asked.

  “A coyote,” he said. “No—a dingo!”

  “He’s white,” I said. “Dingoes are usually brown, aren’t they?”

  “He looks like a dingo that’s been dipped in bleach,” Vir said.

  I laughed. “But his ears are brown,” I said.

  “He looks like a dingo that’s been dipped in bleach and pulled out by his ears,” he said.

  “Okay—stop! That’s just…” I spotted the amusement in his eyes. “You secretly think Yogi’s awesome, don’t you?”

  “Who wouldn’t?” he asked. “He reminds me of street dogs in India too, by the way.”

  “Are you Indian?” I asked.

  He nodded. “And you?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “It’s Mini Kapoor.”

  He still didn’t crack a smile, but his shoulders were shaking with silent laughter. “You own a Mini Cooper,” he said, pointing to the logo on my key chain, “and your name is Mini Kapoor?”

  Didn’t miss a thing, did he?

  “Guilty as charged!” I said. “But if your dad’s into British cars and you like Mini Coopers, you may as well own one, right? It would be silly not to.”

  He tilted his head, as if conceding a point. “You sure he didn’t name you after the car?”

  “My name is PADmini,” I said. “Mini is just short for it.”

  “Nice name,” he said. “And the car fits you, Padmini Kapoor.”

  “Thanks,” I said. I could tell by the way he pronounced my name—he did it better than I could—that he had spent way more time in India than I had.

  “Did you drive a long way to get here?” he asked.

  “I live over the town line,” I said. “In Westbury. And you?”

  “There.” He waved over his shoulder to the graceful old house on whose manicured lawn Yogi had nearly done his business.

  “There?” I asked. “Wow, that’s some house. I love the architecture! It’s a Georgian Revival, isn’t it? What is it—hundred and fifty, two hundred years old?”

  He shrugged. “We only live there because my mom works at the college.”

  I stared at him with dawning realization. “Is your mom the dean?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “You’re Gulshan Chabra’s son?” I asked. “She’s amazing. The first Asian American woman to be dean of Fellsway. The youngest woman to be provost at Harvard. I thought she was unmarried.”

  “She is,” he said. No silent smile this time.

  Awkward. But by now we had reached the parking lot.

  “Oh, no!” I spotted a splat of bird poop on the windshield. Couldn’t have that blocking my view! I unzipped a tiny pocket in my capris and extracted a Clorox wet wipe sachet I kept for emergencies.

  “Could you please hold Yogi?” I handed Vir the leash and wiped off the icky stuff carefully. Done! I dropped the wipe in the garbage bin by the car.

  Vir had been watching the proceedings with interest, Yogi’s leash firmly in hand.

  “If you have a pocket in those pants,” he inquired, “why don’t you put your keys in it?”

  Because the towelette fitted flat and didn’t look like I’d grown a lump, that’s why.

  “The keys don’t fit,” I explained.

  “Really?” He leaned over to stare at the pocket, which, unfortunately, was located on my butt. “That material looks pretty stretchy.”

  I snapped straight, turning that part of my anatomy away. “I could stuff it in, but it would look like I’ve grown a lump or something,” I said. “Look, it doesn’t matter.”

  “Does your dad have other British cars?” he said, changing the subject smoothly. The silent laugh was back in his voice.

  “A 1991 Lotus Esprit,” I said.

  “Sweet,” Vir said. “Bond car, right?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Most people don’t know that, actually!”

  “But it was legendary!” he said. “It turned into a submarine and took out a helicopter with a surface-to-air missile while submerged.”

  “I can see you know your cars,” I said.

  “As do you,” he said.

  “Didn’t have a choice,” I said. “I got dragged to the car shop whenever Dad wanted to tinker. He took me to all the car shows when I was a kid too—you know, at the Larz Anderson Auto Museum. Italian car show, German car show, but especially the British car show—Jags, Rolls-Royces, Aston Martins, they have everything. But I liked the Minis best.”

  “They suit you,” he said. “The pocket rocket.”

  Was that a crack about my size, about the pocket, or something else? “I’m not exactly small!” I said, standing tall. He was still a head above me. Dang.

  “That’s what they call the car,” he said.

  “I know!” I said. It was way past time to end this conversation. “Listen, thanks for finding my keys. You’ve no idea how much trouble I’d be in if I lost them.”

  “Anytime,” he said. “See you around the lake?”

  “Sure.”

  “Dude,” Shayla said. “Who was that guy?”

  “What guy?” I asked. My cell phone had lit up fiv
e minutes after I left the parking lot.

  “The guy hanging out with you in the parking lot,” Shayla said. “Holding Yogi’s leash and staring at your butt.”

  “You saw him?” I asked, mortified.

  “I came by to pick you up,” Shayla said. “Like I promised. But you were standing there with the keys in your hand talking to him.”

  “Why didn’t you come over?” I asked.

  “Didn’t want to break up the cozy chat you were having,” Shayla said. “God knows you don’t talk to many guys.”

  “I talk to Peter, and David, and Isaac.…”

  “AP study group is not talking!”

  “He found my keys,” I said. “That’s all. He wasn’t, like, chatting me up, or anything.”

  “Sure he wasn’t,” Shayla said.

  Shayla and I met in kindergarten, and we’ve been close since sixth grade. Back then we took Yogi for a walk every day after Dad got home from work. I rode ahead on my purple bike with the blue and silver handlebar streamers, and Dad and Yogi followed on the sidewalk. That was my favorite part of the day, way better than school, where people stared and walked on eggshells around me (Her mom, like, died! It’s so sad!), and more fun than the quiet dinner and homework that came later.

  Shayla’s mom, Sue, always waved to us on our walks—which led to us stopping to chat, which led to invitations to cookouts at their house. The Siegels, Rachel’s family, were usually there too. Shayla, Rachel, and I rode Razor scooters in the driveway while Dad tried to cope with stilted conversation that tiptoed around Mom’s passing. I found out later that Sue’s niece had died of cancer. All the people in our unofficial support group had been affected directly or indirectly by the disease. Shayla’s cousin, Rachel’s grandmother. They understood.

  Anyhow, that’s why Shayla knows me well.

  “I mean it,” I said. “He’s not my type.”

  But I don’t think I was convincing her.

  “Look, I’m home now,” Shayla said. “Can you come over? I want the deets!”

  “Sure!” I said.

  Chapter Four

  I dropped Yogi home before going to see Shayla.

  Who was in full-on interrogation mode.

  “So he has a cat?” she asked. A Camp Woodtrail headband held her dark, springy hair out of her pretty green eyes—the better to quiz me with.

  “Uh-huh,” I said.

  “And his mom’s a dean, and he’s into cars?” she said.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Hmmm.” Shayla analyzed the available information with care. “So, he’s probably smart—because of Mom; kind—since he likes animals; he’s athletic, he’s cute… but is he seeing someone, or not?”

  We both decided he must have a girlfriend. He hadn’t made the slightest attempt to ask for my number.

  “Well, at least you’ve talked,” Shayla said, strategizing. “So next time you can—”

  “No!” I said. “I may be prepping for the SAT again. And I’ve got too much to do for Vinnie’s wedding. I’m not getting involved with anyone.”

  “But you finally found someone you LIKE,” Shayla said. “It’s like a miracle!”

  “What’s a miracle?” Sue, Shayla’s mom, popped into the room and we dropped the subject. Sue, an avid quilter, is my sewing guru. She wanted to know all about what Vinnie was planning to wear to her wedding and fifty other things. I wished I had answers!

  When I got back, the house was quiet.

  No dog at the front door. No Dad either. But Dad had to be home because the minivan was sitting in the garage—he and Yogi were probably out for a walk.

  I checked in the garage, just in case. God, Dad really had to clean the garage before the wedding! It was full of junk—car tires, garden tools, old files, computers. Even if he did, I’d still have to park my car outside. The Lotus was too delicate, and there was no question of putting the minivan outside.

  I looked at my key bunch. Did I still have a key to the minivan? Yeah, I did.

  On impulse I opened the door and turned the engine on. Familiar scents cocooned me. In the rearview mirror I could see the weathered Northwestern University bumper sticker that Mom had proudly placed on the back window when Vinnie had been accepted to Feinberg. Dad knew I wanted the minivan to be around to see me off to college and let me add my bumper sticker next to Vinnie’s. Only then would he donate the minivan to benefit WBUR, as Mom wanted. But it didn’t feel right to be sitting in the driver’s seat. I left the minivan in park and climbed over the armrest into the second row.

  The thing was a time machine, I swear. If I closed my eyes I could go back to being ten years old. I could almost imagine Mom sitting in the driver’s seat.…

  My eyes snapped open. No, the radio channel was wrong. I leaned over the armrest, turned off Dad’s talk show station, and put on WBUR, Boston’s National Public Radio station. A measured voice filled the van, talking about the Senate race. Yeah, that was right. I smiled, remembering the time when Mom called the number and got on air. How amazed I was that she could be right there in the car, driving me home from karate, and people all over Boston could hear her on their radios.

  In here, I could admit it. I still missed Mom so bad that it hurt. And I was terrified that Vinnie was getting married. I was ten when she went away to college. That first summer… I wouldn’t have made it without her. When she left for college, the house felt so empty with just Dad and me and Yogi. I always thought that when Vinnie finished med school I’d get her back. Then she met Manish, and now she was getting married—soon she’d be gone forever, or that’s what it felt like, anyhow.

  “Hey.” Dad knocked on the window.

  I rolled it down sheepishly. “Hey,” I said. “I made sure the garage door was open so I wouldn’t die from fumes.”

  “Good. But do you have to sit there with the engine idling?” he asked. “I thought you cared about global warming.”

  He knew very well why I camped in there once in a while. When Vinnie left, he sold his other car and made the minivan his daily driver. This is a man whose other car is a Lotus Esprit.

  “I do,” I said. “Just need a minute in the van.”

  He nodded. “I’m going in,” he said. “Don’t stay out here too long.”

  I rolled the window up and went back to listening to NPR.

  “Our guest tonight is Shoma Moorty of Namaskar,” the voice on the radio said. “Shoma, thanks for joining us today.”

  “My pleasure.” The husky voice had a clipped New Delhi accent.

  No way. That sounded just like Mom and Masi. What the heck was Namaskar?

  “So what brought you into the wedding decorating business, Shoma?” the host asked. “And why only Indian weddings? Is there even enough business there to keep you afloat?”

  “Enough business?” The rich laugh sounded familiar too. “We’re so busy, David, that I have to turn events away. I’m booked solid months in advance.”

  “Really?” David asked, sounding intrigued. “I had no idea that Indian weddings were so big in New England.”

  “Most Indians here like to spend on two things, David,” Shoma Moorty said with confidence. “Education and weddings. They may cut corners on everything else, but you won’t find them letting their kids take out massive student loans or have slipshod weddings. Indian weddings are big business.”

  “How do you spell Namaskar?” David asked.

  “N, A, M, A, S, K, A, R, Namaskar,” said Shoma. “You can find us online.”

  I slid open the minivan door, turned the engine off unceremoniously, and zipped into the house.

  “Dad, pen!” I said. “Write this down.”

  “What?” he asked.

  “N, A, M, A, S, K, A, R, Namaskar,” I chanted. “They’re a local business.”

  “No need to shout,” he said. “I know how to spell Namaskar.”

  He typed it onto the iPad screen. “Here it is.”

  I grabbed the tablet from him and stared at the web page he�
��d brought up. It had a tasteful design with mango leaves, gold drapes, and a white horse wearing red wedding livery. I smiled at the image of the horse. “Jackpot.”

  “What are we looking at?” Dad asked.

  “Wedding decorator,” I said. “I found one.”

  Dad snorted. “It’s going to cost us.”

  Us? That was a change! I looked at him questioningly. Could it be that he had finally seen sense?

  “I guess we’ve got to do this right,” he said gruffly.

  “We do,” I said.

  “I used to know a Shoma Moorty,” he said, reading over my shoulder. “When we lived in Brookline.”

  “Good,” I said. “Because we need her to fit Vinnie into her booked-solid-for-months schedule.”

  “We have nearly two months,” he said.

  “Not enough,” I said. “Not even close to enough.”

  “Speaking of Brookline,” Dad said, “they’re having the British car show this weekend. Do you want to go?”

  “Do I want to go?” I said. “Do Louboutins have bright red soles?”

  “Do they?” Dad looked doubtful.

  I rolled my eyes at him.

  “Yes, they do.”

  Chapter Five

  I clutched the phone.

  It was time to stop staring at the computer screen and actually, like, call the number I had up on it, but I was nervous.

  The average budget for a wedding in Massachusetts was $35,000, as per Shoma Moorty on NPR, and the typical desi wedding, she said, was probably triple that amount. But Dad had only approved the baseline 35,000. How was she going to take that news?

  Worst case, she’d blow us off.

  I had a notepad and pencil out on the coffee table. The dog had been walked and fed and given a rubber toy to chew. I dialed. The call was immediately picked up.

  “Shoma Moorty here,” the voice at the other end said.

  “Hi,” I said, my voice a bit shaky. I cleared my throat. “I’m calling about a wedding in August,” I said. “We need a quote for decorations.” Could she tell it was a teenager at the other end?