Sister of the Bollywood Bride

by Nandini Bajpai

  Apparently not.

  “What’s the date?” Shoma said briskly.

  “August twenty-one,” I said. “Tentatively…” They hadn’t set a date yet but I had to give her something.

  “I’m sorry, I’m booked for that day,” she said. Great, the conversation hadn’t lasted even a minute and she had already panned me. “Can’t do the twenty-seventh of August either, that’s the Patel-Bernstein wedding,” she added. “How about August twenty-eighth? I’ve had a cancellation.”

  “Sure!” My voice was squeaky with relief. “August twenty-eighth would be great!”

  “What’s the venue?” she asked. Was she taking notes?

  “We have some places in mind,” I said, fibbing freely, “but we haven’t booked a place yet.”

  “Sure, sure,” she said. “Are you the bride?”

  “No, the bride’s sister,” I said. Guess my grown-up act was going over pretty well.

  “And your name?” she asked.

  “Mini, um… Padmini Kapoor,” I said.

  There was a pause at the other end. When she spoke, her voice had lost its impersonal, businesslike tone. “You’re not Megha Kapoor’s daughter, are you?” she asked.

  “Um, yes,” I said. Guess Dad was right about knowing her. “Dad said you were our neighbor in Brookline, but I wasn’t sure you’d remember.” I was glad she’d made the connection.

  “Of course I remember!” The warmth in her voice sounded genuine. “So it’s Vinnie that is getting married? Why isn’t she calling?” She remembered Vinnie’s name too.

  “Vinnie is in Chicago,” I said. “She can’t really get time off her residency to come here. So Dad and I have to.”

  “But you’re just in high school, no?” she said.

  “I am,” I said, trying not to sound defensive. “But there’s no one else.”

  “What about your grandmother?” she asked.

  “Beeji and Bauji moved back to India,” I told her. “The winter was getting too much for them.”

  “Are they coming for the wedding?” she said.

  “Well,” I said, “they don’t know about it yet. It was all kind of sudden.”

  “Who’s the boy?” she asked. “He’s Indian, isn’t he?”

  Guess the number one reason not to tell the grandparents about a wedding is that the boy or girl isn’t Indian.

  “Manish Iyer,” I told her, settling her suspicions on that score. “He grew up in Newton.”

  “Oh, Manish!” she said. “I’ve known him since he was little. Very nice family. They’re from my community, Tamils, you know.”

  Wow—I would never have guessed! Shoma sounded more Punjabi than any South Indian—Tamilian, I guess I should say—I’d met. Maybe she grew up in Delhi or something.

  “We don’t really”—I hesitated—“understand their customs properly.”

  “Yes, yes, Tamil weddings are quite different from Punjabi weddings,” she said. “Have you talked to his parents?”

  “No,” I said. “We’ve only met once.”

  “His sister got married last year,” Shoma said. “I decorated for them, of course. They spent lavish amounts of money on her wedding. It was at the Hyatt in Boston. Huge mandap, three priests, four-day event. Very expensive.”

  “Three priests?” I said. “That seems, um, excessive. Anyway, we really don’t have that kind of budget.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Well, I can work with any budget—it just reduces the options. Just tell me what you want to spend and I’ll work with that.”

  “Dad just founded a new technology start-up with two of his friends.” I backpedaled, trying to set low expectations so she wouldn’t be shocked. “He’s the CTO, and he’s putting money into it right now, not the other way around. If things work out he may start paying himself, but for now…”

  “All these techie start-up types.” She sighed. “Wasn’t Vinod with some big corporation?”

  “He was. But this start-up was made for him. So he locked down my college fund before investing in the company,” I said. “That’s why, for the wedding, it isn’t going to be more than thirty, thirty-five thousand total.” About the price of one semester of college, according to Dad, and all he was willing to spend right now. Better let her know what she was dealing with!

  She whistled. “That’s going to be hard,” she said. “But we can do something, beta. Listen, why don’t you come to my office and we’ll run some numbers, okay?”

  At least we were on board with one of the top wedding decorators in New England. And she knew Mom. Vinnie would be so impressed with how well I was doing.

  “Sorry, Sonal!”

  I was late for work again.

  Ten hours a week of part-time work isn’t a lot, really, but it felt like I hardly had time for it anymore.

  “It’s okay,” Sonal said. “Just call me next time you’re late. What’s new with the wedding?”

  “I’ve found a wedding decorator!” I said. “An Indian one!”

  “Namaskar, or Ayojan?” Sonal asked without lifting her eyes from her paperwork.

  “Namaskar,” I said. “I didn’t know about the other one.”

  “Oh, there are more than two!” Sonal said. “But Shoma Moorty has been around the longest. She does the Miss India New England pageant, you know? And she was the India New England Woman of the Year—twice.”

  “Yeah, and she knows my dad, apparently,” I said.

  “She knows everyone!” Sonal said.

  Rahul ran in and took a place at a desk. He was early today—the center had just opened.

  “So sorry we’re early,” Preet said, following him in. “We have to go to my cousin’s daughter’s birthday party in the evening. I’m going to tell him everything about the wedding, Mini. Did you call him?”

  “Um, no,” I said. “Not yet.”

  “Call him,” Preet said. “Sher-e-Punjab on Route Nine. I know it doesn’t look like much, Mini, but trust me. Bhai makes the best food outside Punjab, I promise. And he will give you the family rate, I promise.”

  Rahul fixed solemn eyes on me and said, “Rajinder Singh makes the best samosas in the USA.” I smiled. That child spoke only the truth, this I knew.

  “If you’re recommending him, Rahul, then I’ll definitely call,” I said. “I promise.”

  My second job—not a proper job, actually—is at my friend Rachel’s mom’s business, a fashion consignment store called the Turnabout Shop. I work for Amy there on weekends, sorting and evaluating clothes and accessories, and I do alterations if someone needs a garment fitted. It’s pretty high-end for a secondhand shop—we only take new or lightly used designer wear from the past two seasons. I can basically set my hours because it’s hard for Amy to find people who know fashion like I do.

  I don’t get paid for my hours, only for the alterations, but I do get dibs on new stock and a 50 percent staff discount! It’s not easy to find things in my dress size, but I can usually alter anything to fit, if I really like it. I find it fun to take apart a high-quality garment and decode how the pattern is pieced together. When I explained it to him once, Dad said it’s like engineering in fabric. He even got hopeful for about a nanosecond about my following in his tech footsteps before I put that to rest. I’ve scored a ton of cool accessories too. Last month I got “paid” by buying an almost-new handbag—spearmint green, bow-bedecked, and totally awesome—every girl should have one quality accessory with a stylized version of a bow. And I got a pair of bright red ballet flats. All for a grand total of $15. Total win!

  I missed Rachel, though. Of my two friends, Shayla’s more like Vinnie—there are some things she’ll try with her look, but mostly she plays it safe. But Rachel is an experimenter—she takes risks with style. Sadly, she was in Israel for the summer with her pals from Camp Micah. It wasn’t half as much fun finding a gem of fashion at Turnabout without her around.

  I still liked being there, though. Amy always has fresh flowers and lit candles and bowls of candy at h
er store. It’s so nice that people like to come in just to browse. She also stocks hand-crafted jewelry from local artists and vintage items—my staff discount applies to those as well.

  “Mini, there’s a bunch of pants that need hemming,” Amy said. “I pinned them to the right length, could you do them today?”

  “Sure,” I said, and took the stack of clothes from her. “Any news from Rachel?”

  “Nothing new,” Amy said. “But she’ll be back soon, so we’ll get it firsthand.”

  I nodded and went into the office, where the sewing machines were set up next to racks of clothes that had to be sorted through before being moved up to the shop floor.

  “Hey, Bobbin.” I patted Amy’s cat, who was also the Turnabout Shop’s store cat. He stretched and came over to watch me sew. He found scissors, thread, pins, and fabric endlessly interesting.

  “Nicely done.” Amy put a cup of freshly brewed tea next to me and looked over my shoulder.

  “This is a bargain,” I said, checking the price tag that was still attached to the pants I was sewing.

  “Making fashion affordable, that’s us.” Amy smiled. “I’m taking Bobbin home; he needs his dinner. Will you close up the shop when you’re done? And have a look through the new stock, in case you like something.”

  “Sure,” I said, grabbing Bobbin off my lap where he had settled and handing him to Amy.

  Later I went through the boxes of new stuff, folding and organizing and putting aside a couple of things I liked. Amy would look them up and price them and if they were in my price range, I might get them.

  Honestly, I would much rather buy one expensive versatile piece, new or used, than twenty bits of fast fashion. Not that there’s anything wrong with basic clothes, especially once I’ve altered them! I’m more against the horrible way workers down the supply chain get treated and how wasteful consumerism is in general. Thrift stores recycle fashion and give them a second life, and I’m so there for it.

  Speaking of being there, I had to hurry home—I’d promised Vinnie I’d video chat her after work.

  Vinnie still hadn’t seen the jewelry.

  She had been so busy lately she hadn’t even found time to call. She was packing up her old apartment and moving in with her friend Shinu, also a first-year resident, until the wedding. Shinu was closer to the hospital and to Manish’s apartment.

  I turned the laptop on and waited.

  Vinnie was in shorts and a cami. Behind her I glimpsed a room crammed with packing boxes. I grinned—it was good to see her!

  “Hey, Vinnie,” I said.

  “Hey,” she said. “Awww, Yooogi!” She made kissing sounds as I pointed the laptop webcam at the dog. He whined, because he had no clue how Vinnie’s voice was magically coming out of my computer.

  I put the computer back on the table.

  “How did it go at the bank?” she asked.

  “Great!” I said. “Wait a sec and I’ll show you.” I ran to my bedroom and grabbed the jewelry boxes, which had been lying on my SAT prep papers ever since I unearthed them from their hiding place in the house. “Here, look!” I carefully unwrapped the beautiful necklace tagged with Vinnie’s name and held it up to the webcam.

  “Wow!” she said. “Hold it closer, Mini. Turn it a bit? Oh, I remember that necklace so well! And the bangles and the earrings!”

  “Me too,” I said.

  “But you were so little…,” she said.

  “I still remember,” I said. “And Mom left notes in each of the boxes. Look at this.…” I clicked open another jewelry case and unfolded the note inside it. “‘You won’t believe it, girls, but this necklace is actually one of your nani’s anklets,’” I read from it. “‘She had them made into matching necklaces for your masi and me. Anklets are supposed to be silver. In the old days you were not allowed to wear gold on your feet—unless you were Rajput.’”

  “That’s so cool!” Vinnie said.

  “She says I can have it,” I said. “She based your necklace design on it. See how the pattern repeats all the way around, just like an anklet? And it has tiny bells!”

  “Show me more!” Vinnie said.

  So we played dress-up for a bit, with me modeling all the heirloom jewelry like a five-year-old with a Disney Princess Dress Up box and reading out Mom’s notes to Vinnie.

  “Where are you keeping these, Mini?” she asked suddenly. “What if the house gets burgled?”

  “Don’t worry.” I grinned. “I used Beeji’s trick.”

  Beeji, our grandmother, sealed her jewelry in a Ziploc bag and buried it at the bottom of the basmati rice bin—I wasn’t her granddaughter for nothing.

  I put the jewelry away—it was time for business.

  “Listen, I talked to a wedding decorator and her rates are pretty reasonable. But we need to get her a date and a venue and a head count, ASAP. Have you figured out what day works for you and Manish?”

  If the twenty-eighth didn’t work for her, we were sunk.

  “It’ll have to be a weekend at the end of August,” she said.

  “How about August twenty-eighth?” I asked. “It’s a Sunday.”

  “I think that’ll work,” Vinnie said.

  “Good.” I grinned again. “Because it’s the only day she can fit us in!” Guess it was meant to be!

  “Awesome!” Vinnie said. “Having an actual date makes it seem so real!”

  “How many days will you have off?” I asked.

  “Only three days and the weekend,” she said. “So we can fly out on Wednesday of that week and be back Monday.”

  “No honeymoon?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “We’re cool with that.”

  Knowing Vinnie, I could believe it.

  “So, what about the guest list?” I asked. “You want to make sure that your must-have guests can make it.”

  “I’ll call everyone,” she said.

  “How about Beeji and Bauji, and Nanaji, and Mallu Masi?” I asked. “Dad hasn’t called them, you know.”

  “I’ll talk to them,” Vinnie said. “Masi already knows.…”

  “You talked to her?” I was amazed that she’d told Masi before our grandparents.

  “Yeah,” she said. “Hey, we should send out a save-the-date card.”

  “I’ve got it,” I said, making a note on my sketchpad. “Aaaand, the venue! Shoma said Manish’s sister got married at the Hyatt on Memorial Drive—would you like that? Or do you want me to scout other places?”

  “It’s a nice hotel, I guess.” Vinnie hesitated. “But it’s so beautiful in Boston in summer—I wish we could have an outdoor wedding. I’ve no idea where, though. And I don’t want to make more work for Dad.…”

  “I’ll ask around,” I said. “And see what’s available. But we have to move fast, Vinnie. These things are usually booked solid months in advance.”

  “Sounds like you’re doing everything,” she said. “Is Dad going to help?”

  “He will,” I said. “It’s just that he’s busy. And he’s still coming to grips with it, you know. It was kind of a shock.”

  “Yeah,” she said. I could see by the unhappy shadow that had come over her face that this was troubling her.

  “What about a wedding outfit?” I asked, changing the subject. “Will you wear a lehenga?”

  She hesitated. “I thought we could ask Mallu Masi…,” she said. “She does work in fashion.”

  “Really?” I said. She was going to ask Mallu Masi, Mom’s flaky sister. The one who was so busy and preoccupied that she didn’t even show up for Mom’s funeral. I knew Vinnie spent a lot more time with her than I did, but, Really?

  “Look, you don’t remember her much,” Vinnie said, “but I do. All those vacations in Delhi, before she moved to Mumbai, when she was just starting her business, she was so fond of both of us. She always said she’s the one who should have had the girls, not Mom.”

  “She hasn’t bothered remembering us since you went to college,” I said.

 
“She’s never forgotten my birthday,” Vinnie said.

  “She’s never remembered mine,” I said. It was true. She was oh for six on getting it right.

  “I’ll be at orientation, or sleeping, during waking hours in India all week.” She gave me the Look. “Maybe you could talk to her?”

  Me? I cringed at the thought. But she was right that no one else but Mallu Masi could get us a wedding dress from India. I didn’t trust Beeji to pick out anything remotely suitable. Mallu Masi was our only safe choice.

  “Look,” I said. “I’ll talk to her—for you. But FYI, there isn’t enough money in the budget for a Mallu Masi dress. They are insanely expensive even if she gives us a discount.”

  “Oh! I was thinking,” Vinnie said, tucking a hank of hair away from her face, “that I might even fit into Mom’s instead!”

  “Mom’s wedding lehenga?” I asked.

  She nodded. “Can you get it out of the attic?”

  “You’re sure it’s in the attic?” I asked. It could be anywhere. It could even be gone—Dad had given away boxes and boxes of old clothes to Goodwill recently.

  “I remember Mom and Dad packed it away,” Vinnie said. “Just check it out. It’s worth a shot.”

  “Okay, I’ll look,” I said. I didn’t want to put a damper on Vinnie’s idea by telling her about Goodwill. “Vinnie, put your hair down!” I said. She had it up in a scraggy ponytail, as per usual.

  “Why?” she said.

  “Just do it!” I said. “I want to see how much it’s grown.”

  She dragged the hair tie out of her hair and her thick hair sprang out, framing her face. She had actually let it grow!

  “I know, it’s a mess!” she said, snaking a hand through it self-consciously. “I haven’t gotten around to cutting it for months.”

  “If you dare snip an inch of it, I will personally fly to Chicago to murder you,” I threatened her. “Don’t you touch it until after the wedding.”

  “Okay, okay!” she said. “Jeez!”

  “How’s Manish?” I asked. I didn’t see any sign of him anywhere.

  “I’ve been talking to him,” Vinnie said, “about the guest list.”