“And?” I prompted.
“He’s got a huge amount of family and friends in Boston,” she said.
I groaned. I didn’t like where this was going. “Okay, so?” I said.
“His sister just got married a year ago and they invited four hundred people,” she said.
My jaw hung open. “Four. Hundred. People?”
“He said they could keep it down to one fifty for our wedding,” Vinnie said.
“One hundred and fifty people!” I said. “You know how much that would cost?”
“I know, I know,” Vinnie said. “Look, we can just get married on a beach out in the Caribbean. As long as Dad and you are there, I don’t need anyone else.”
“No way! What about Beeji and Bauji?” I said. “What about Nanaji? What about your Mallu Masi?”
“Our Mallu Masi,” Vinnie said. “They can come too!”
“So, bottom line: We have to include everyone, or you’re getting married on a beach?” I asked.
“At least half of them?” Vinnie said. “And Mom’s old friends from dance school, and Beeji and Bauji’s friends.”
It was completely crazy! “If we invite all of them we’ll have a hundred and fifty people of our own!”
“Somewhere there,” Vinnie admitted. “But you know, Mini, not everyone will be able to come! There’s going to be at least twenty percent who won’t make it.”
“We can’t do anything until we have a head count,” I said. “Not even send out save-the-date cards. Can you and Manish put together a guest list? And I’ll start on everything else.”
“And just talk to Mallu Masi,” Vinnie added. “I’d do it, Mini, but honestly I have no time!”
“Yeah, yeah. Fine!” I squared my shoulders. “I’ll talk to her.”
Chapter Six
I hate her. I totally hate her!
I paced up and down the immaculately vacuumed carpet and then threw myself onto the couch. It was not going to be easy, but I’d promised Vinnie.
How ironic! There was a time when I couldn’t wait to see Masi, when I hung on her every word. But that changed the winter after Vinnie left for college.
I flipped open my battered MacBook and adjusted the screen. I had spent the whole morning obsessively cleaning the house, as if someone were actually coming over. I’d even washed and waxed my car—washed the dog too, since I had the garden hose out. But it was only a virtual visit—she was going to see my face and shoulders, and approximately ten square feet of wall behind me, total. I put my bottle of Poland Spring down by the laptop, clicked my Zoom window open, and waited for the tone to ring.
I couldn’t even exchange ten words with the woman, and now, for Vinnie, I had to beg her for handouts.
The singsong tone rang loudly, nearly making me choke on my gulp of springwater.
The video chat window popped open. “Answer with video?” it asked politely, and I clicked OK.
I expanded the video window to full-screen and waited for the screen to refresh.
“Mini? Are you there?” a familiar voice said. It killed me how much she sounded like Mom, when no two women were ever less alike. “I can’t see, beta.”
“Just give it a minute, Mallu Masi!” I said. “It’ll come up soon.”
And there she was. Mallika Motwani, in the flesh. Dark shoulder-length hair with classy caramel highlights, her fine-featured face a younger, feminine version of Nanaji’s. She had a huge pair of very stylish glasses perched on her nose. Hello? Who wears sunglasses indoors? Apparently she wears anti-glare glasses so she can bear to look at a computer screen.
She pulled them off to reveal wide brown eyes, just like Mom’s—and mine. I noticed Masi’s had a few more lines around them than I remembered.
“There you are! Mini!” She smiled. The office behind her was tastefully decorated. Was that a real M. F. Husain hanging on the wall? For all I knew, the master artist had been a personal friend of hers or something. She certainly didn’t have to spend an hour vacuuming and mopping and picking up, like I did. No, Mallu Masi had a live-in housekeeper, a driver, a cook, a gardener for her penthouse terrace garden, a massage lady (I kid you not), and sundry other specialized servants. Some of this isn’t out of the ordinary for even middle-class India, but Mallu Masi was definitely not middle-class.
I nudged the wet mop gently away with my toe so it wasn’t visible leaning against the ten square feet of wall behind me.
“You look great, Mini,” she pronounced. If I didn’t know better I’d have said that her cheerfulness sounded a bit forced, just like mine. I wiped the sulky look off my face and tried for a genuine smile. It wouldn’t do to look rebellious if I was trying to get something out of her.
“Thanks, Masi,” I said. “So, Vinnie’s wedding is most probably going to be on August twenty-eighth.” No point beating about the bush. “And she really needs a wedding lehenga. I know it takes months to custom-embroider one—but is it possible to get one off the shelf?”
She ignored me completely and asked a question instead. “Who is this boy Vinnie is marrying? Why didn’t anyone tell me about him?”
“We didn’t know about him either, Masi.” I forced myself not to sound impatient. Vinnie had been over this with her, surely. “Vinnie kind of sprang it on us, you know?” I tried to steer the conversation back to the lehenga. “Um, Vinnie is going to be home next week. Could we pick a few options for her to look at? And did you get my email with her measurements?”
“Yes, yes.” She waved one bejeweled hand. “I got the email. Don’t worry, we’ll fix Vinnie up. And we can look at everything I have in stock next week—whatever she wants. But what about the boy? Is he… nice?”
“Yes, he’s nice.” I didn’t know Manish well enough to give him a ringing endorsement, so I went over his basic résumé instead. “He’s a doctor. He’s twenty-seven years old. He was one year ahead of Vinnie in med school. He’s a second-year resident, at the same hospital where Vinnie is doing her residency.”
“But where is the family from?” she prodded. “Has anyone checked them out?”
She called Vinnie exactly once a year, and now she wanted to “check out” the family of the guy she was marrying. What next? Was she going to arrange a marriage for me?
“They’re from Newton, Masi,” I said. “Newton, Massachusetts.”
“No, no, where are they from in India?” Masi said.
Oh, that.
“They’re, uh… Tamil?” I said, trying to remember what Shoma Moorty had said. “His name is Manish Iyer.”
“Iyer!” she said, her face clearing. “Yes, they’re Tamil. TamBrahms.”
I probably looked confused because she added, “It’s short for Tamil Brahmins.”
“Okay,” I said. Not that I cared about caste or anything, but it felt oddly nice that someone had a clue about where Manish’s folks were from, geographically speaking. Apart from Newton, Massachusetts, that is.
“They’ll probably want her to wear a Kanjivaram sari for the wedding,” she said.
“What’s a Kanjivaram sari?” I asked. I’m always interested in fabrics, and though I knew a lot about saris I hadn’t heard that term before.
“They’re very rich handwoven silk saris,” she said. “Like a South Indian version of Benarasis. You know what those are, right?”
I did. Mom had some. One of them even had real gold thread woven into the border.
“Aren’t they kind of heavy?” I asked.
“They are,” she said. “I’m not sure Vinnie can handle that. She should wear a Punjabi lehenga—one of mine, of course—I can make it as light as she wants. The wedding customs should be from the bride’s side of the family, no? After all, we’re hosting.”
“About that,” I said, remembering how the moms at Ace talked about the movie where some girl was hell-bent on buying a Bollywood lehenga from designers like Masi—Meri Bollywood Wedding, or something. “Mallu Masi, how much would the lehenga cost? Or that sari you’re talking about. We ca
n’t really afford an expensive lehenga, you know.”
“Cost?” Mallu Masi said. “You think I’m going to charge my own niece for her lehenga? It hasn’t come to that yet!”
I fist-pumped just out of the camera frame, startling Yogi. I had been hoping she’d say that. But it was a relief nonetheless. Vinnie could have a gorgeous Bollywood-style lehenga—for free!
“Thanks… Mallu Masi,” I said.
“No problem, Mini,” she said. “Just tell me when you need it. Did you look at the link to the latest bridal line I sent you? Which one does Vinnie like?”
Shayla and I had spent a half hour looking at the bridal line and being shocked at the insane prices.
“I’ll send you a short list of lehengas to pull,” I said. “I’d love to see her in the A-line lehenga on page four. She doesn’t think she’ll like gold, but she’d look totally hot in it, if you ask me.” I stopped for a second—no point getting all excited in front of Masi.
“She will,” Masi concurred. “Good choice, beta. That lehenga was actually featured in a movie recently. I do have one or two pieces left I could have fitted for her.”
Funny that we were sympatico on this when I couldn’t remember ever having a grown-up conversation with her—about anything.
“Then her bridesmaids could wear saris too, in a complementary color—it’ll look so nice in all the pictures,” I said.
“Aren’t you the bridesmaid?” Masi asked.
“Yes,” I said, “but you can have multiple bridesmaids here. People do—all the time. She has friends from high school she wants to include.”
“American girls?” Mallu Masi said. “You sure they’ll wear saris? Who’s going to tie it for them?”
I suppressed a flash of annoyance. “I will,” I said.
“You know how to tie a sari?” she asked.
“It’s not that hard,” I said, feeling defensive. “When I was nine Mom taught my whole Girl Scout troop how to tie them. I’m pretty good, actually.”
“Oh!” she said. “And Vinnie?”
“Vinnie never learned,” I said. “She was too busy with sports and studies to do Girl Scouts.”
“One time I came to visit,” Masi said, “and your house was full of cookie boxes. Hundreds of them.”
“Mom was cookie mom that year,” I said. The memory almost made me smile. “We had to sort them out and collect the money for the whole troop.”
“I should have just stayed in New York,” Masi said. “She had no time for me and I put on two kilos from eating those things. Caramel deLites, no? They were good!”
Mom had no time for her? That was rich coming from the sister who didn’t even visit Mom on her deathbed. I fumed inwardly but bit my tongue.
“I remember, Masi,” I said with a tight smile. “Can we talk next week when Vinnie gets here?”
“Of course we can. But you know, Mini,” she said, “the best thing would be if she came down here for a fitting. That’s the right way to get a custom fit.”
“She can’t do it, Masi,” I said. “But don’t worry, I’ve taken the measurements very carefully. And if something needs fixing we can get it altered here. But we need it here in good time to do that.”
“Okay,” she said. Someone appeared at her elbow and put down a tea set. The kind in period dramas, with a pot in a tea cozy, and a fine bone china teacup and saucer. And a creamer and sugar bowl. “One sugar,” she said absentmindedly to the person next to her; I could only see the torso.
“What about you, Mini?” she said. “What will you wear for the wedding?”
“I haven’t thought about it, Masi,” I said. There wouldn’t be enough money left for a pair of shoes after we were done, to be honest. Forget about a full wedding-worthy outfit.
“I can pick something out for you,” she said. “Something that will complement Vinnie’s look but not overshadow it.” Her face brightened up. “In fact, I have just the thing for you, Mini.”
“No, really, it’s okay,” I said. The whole thing was awkward. What if she picked out something hideous and I was stuck wearing it? “You don’t need to bother.”
“No, no,” she said. “What size are you? Same as Vinnie?”
“No, I’m about five inches—” I said. Her cell phone rang.
“—bigger? Got it,” she cut in, glancing at her cell phone. “I have to go, beta. Sooo sorry. But I have to take this call. That’s the waist size, right? Lehengas are free-size anyhow, so it should fit if it’s in the range. Okay, done!”
The screen flickered off.
“Five inches taller,” I said to the empty screen.
I felt drained. I flipped down the lid of my laptop and punched the air. Arrgh! Why does she get under my skin? Why is she so… Both my hands formed into fists.
Who knew what old junk she was going to send me? She did have good taste, though, however irritating and preoccupied she was. Truthfully, I was a teeny bit excited to see what she could possibly think was perfect for me.
The day of the British car show dawned sunny and clear.
Dad was relieved because he didn’t like to take the Lotus out in the rain. We headed out to Brookline right after breakfast. Yogi and I stuck our heads out the window as we flew down Route 9—our hair (or fur in his case) flapping in the wind.
The Larz Anderson Auto Museum has the feel of a castle on a hill. It’s a stone building overlooking a vast green park with an outstanding view of the Boston skyline. I’d been to these car shows many, many times with Dad, but it was always fun to ride over to the showground in Dad’s Lotus, even with Yogi stuffed beside me into the passenger seat. You’re ridiculously low to the ground, and the engine (even with only four cylinders) has enough oomph to launch you into orbit around Earth. Maybe not actually, but you get what I mean.
Once there, Dad parked the Lotus in a carefully selected shaded spot, and we walked around and looked at all the cars, and the people, and the dogs. Personally I liked the dogs almost as much as the cars. There were always lots of them at the car show.
Dad ran into Ernie Uncle, one of his friends who owns a garage that specializes in exotic cars. He’s always fixed all our vehicles—even Mom’s minivan, though he rolls his eyes about it. I wandered off with Yogi to get myself some guilty treats—warm honey-roasted nuts and a stick of cotton candy. Something that shade of neon pink couldn’t possibly be good for you, but it tasted wonderful!
I was busy eating the cotton candy or I would have seen that Dad was now talking to that guy. Because it was him—you know—whatshisface from Fellsway.
“Hi, Mini,” he said. He looked great in cargo shorts, a T-shirt, and Teva sandals. I wasn’t surprised. A guy who looked good in pajamas with a stubble and bedhead could look good in anything. Meanwhile, I was a fashion disaster.
In my defense, even someone who gives a damn about personal style doesn’t dress up when they’re going out with their dad. I wore well-worn cutoff jean shorts, a Red Sox T-shirt, and $1 flip-flops and had my hair up in a goddamn ponytail. Tiny Percy Jackson and the Olympians–inspired earrings that I had owned since sixth grade dangled from my ears. In other words, I looked like a twelve-year-old, and I carried, as you might recall, a bright stick of cotton candy that was just then probably the same color as my face.
“It’s Vir, right?” Apparently I could still talk while in shock, and remember stuff.
“Yogi’s behaving well, I see,” Vir said.
“Thanks,” I said. “He’s been here every year since I was ten, so he knows the rules. And he does behave well most of the time—you just haven’t seen him at his best.”
“I was just talking to your dad,” Vir said, “about his car.”
He leaned in a little and smiled, causing momentary confusion and tongue-tiedness in me. “Are those Ferrari earrings? No, those are Pegasuses… or should that be Pegasi?”
“They’re from when I was younger,” I explained. I was so going to bury these at the bottom of the basmati rice bin!
&nbs
p; “You liked mythology?”
“Just Rick Riordan, to be honest.” I’d read all the books. Mom had read most of them to me, actually.
“Same!” Vir grinned. “Blackjack, right?”
I nodded and smiled back.
“I’m sure Dad liked talking about his car.” I sneaked a look around to scope if he was here with anyone. No girlfriend in evidence as far as I could see.
“He did,” Vir said. “Actually, I had one more thing to ask him.”
He walked back to Dad and the Lotus. I stood there for a moment—undecided—then shook my head and went off to get some lunch instead of following him. Yogi whined as I pulled him away.
“You’ll like a hot dog better than him,” I told Yogi, and got a sizzling-hot one for him and one for Dad. By the time I got back to the car, Vir had vanished.
Dad took the hot dog from me.
“I just met the nicest boy, Mini,” he said. “He knew more about cars than most kids these days. Remembered the Esprit from The Spy Who Loved Me and everything.”
I’m sure he did, Dad. I’m sure he did.
Chapter Seven
It was the farthest I had driven on my own—ever.
Since I could pretty much stay on Route 27 all the way to Shoma Moorty’s office, Dad said it was okay for me to go by myself. I even put on the radio station instead of driving in total silence, fists clamped around the steering wheel, the way I used to last year.
It was easy to find the little strip mall. There were a real estate agent, a dental office, and a florist on the bottom level. Namaskar was in a suite on the second floor. I smoothed my hair down once nervously and rang the bell. “Coming!” Yes, that was Shoma Moorty’s voice, all right.
She opened the door. She was very tall. Her kohl-rimmed eyes had hanks of spiky hair falling into them. Yoga pants, sweatshirt. Lots and lots of gold chains. Barefoot. Huh! I mean, I hadn’t expected her to be wearing a sari or anything, but this was not what I had visualized either.
“Come in, come in, Mini,” she said. “You have Vinod’s height, but you look just like your mama.”
Sister of the Bollywood Bride Page 5
