Sister of the Bollywood Bride

by Nandini Bajpai

  “Where are you applying?” he asked. “Do you have a college list yet?”

  I could actually think about finalizing a college list now that I had my SAT score, though I still had to wait to see how I scored on my AP Studio Art portfolio and my other AP exams.

  “Fellsway, for one,” I said. “Put in a good word for me with your mom, will you?”

  “Fellsway doesn’t have a design program,” he said. “You should be applying to Parsons, or FIT, or Rhode Island School of Design, or—”

  “I know what the good design schools are,” I said, raising an eyebrow. “But Fellsway is close to home, so I can still see Yogi—my dog, you know—and my dad too. Why are you dissing the school, anyway, when your mom runs it? Jeez!”

  “None of my business, I know,” he said. “But you have talent, clearly. Don’t sell yourself short!”

  “It’s not like I haven’t thought about it,” I said. “I have a portfolio from my AP Studio Art classes and I’m hoping to finish some new pieces over the summer. I’m definitely going to apply. And if I get in—I’ll see how I feel then.”

  “Good plan,” Vir said.

  “You must have been in some Indian weddings,” I said, changing the subject. “Any tips for me?”

  He made such a horrible face that it made me laugh.

  “Like weddings that much, huh?” I said.

  “I didn’t mind so much when I was a kid, but now…,” Vir said. “Hey, why aren’t your parents planning it?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Dad’s hopeless,” I said. “And Mom’s not around.”

  “Oh.” He didn’t ask for details. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” I said.

  “Divorce?” he asked. “Not that it’s any of my business.” Funny he assumed that.

  “It isn’t that,” I explained. “She passed away.” I’d had a lot of practice saying this, and it had gotten easier to say. “It’s been seven years. Right around the time my sister took her SAT, and she still got a 1590. If not for that, she would have scored a 1600 for sure.”

  “That’s amazing,” he said.

  I nodded. I was so proud of Vinnie. Not only was she smart, she was genuinely committed to helping people.

  “So, your father hasn’t remarried?” Vir asked.

  “Nah,” I said. “Mom was the love of his life, evidently.”

  “He’s lucky to have had her,” he said. “It must have been hard.”

  “It was years ago,” I said. “It’s fine now. We’re over it.”

  “Uh-huh.” He wasn’t buying my we’re-fine line, I could tell.

  “Okay, so maybe we’re not,” I said, surprising myself. Weren’t we? “I mean, how do you get over something like that?”

  He said nothing, just tapped my list. “You still need a DJ?” he asked. “Hire me.”

  “You’re a DJ?” I said. “What do you charge for a gig?”

  “Charge?” He looked blank. “Oh, I’ll give you a discount on whatever’s the going rate. I just haven’t had a chance to, you know, cost it out.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “You have references?”

  “Not in Boston,” he said. “Like I said—I’m trying to get the business started.”

  “You’re making this up, aren’t you?” I said. “What kind of DJ are you that you don’t even know what to charge?”

  “The cut-rate kind.” He grinned. “The kind people pay with free dinner.”

  I didn’t know if he was being serious or not. “I’ll think about it,” I said.

  He grabbed my notepad and wrote Vir and a phone number next to the DJ line.

  “I’ll do a good job, I promise,” he said. “Try me.”

  His eyes smiled into mine and made me feel warm from head to toe.

  “Okay, I’ll think about it,” I said.

  “Let me know what you decide,” he said. “I better get going.” He turned to head off down the trail. “I’m a good DJ, remember,” he flung over his shoulder.

  I stared at his retreating back, flabbergasted. (His back was also nice to look at, let’s be honest.) How on earth had I just spent an hour talking to some guy I barely knew about my mom, and my college applications, and my sister’s wedding? After letting him check my SAT score for me? I’m really not the kind of person who spills everything about their life to strangers. What was happening to me?

  “Spill!” Shayla ordered over the cell phone. “You can’t just say you’re thinking of hiring that guy to DJ Vinnie’s wedding without a proper explanation. I want to hear everything.”

  “Aren’t you going to congratulate me on the score?”

  “Congrats. But, duh, I always knew you’d do fine! And you let him check your score? What was that about?”

  “I was just scared to check it myself!”

  “Why, I’ll never know! But why is he DJ’ing the wedding, again? How did this even come up?”

  “Well.” I dithered. “I was making a checklist for the wedding. By the lake, you know.”

  “Very romantic,” Shayla said encouragingly.

  “Shut up!” I said. “Or I’m hanging up.”

  “Fine, fine—continue,” Shayla said.

  “And he happened to run by, and he saw me, and so he stopped to chat, and then it came up,” I said. “So he mentioned that that’s what he does, and he’s starting up here and he’ll give me a discount. That’s all.”

  “But he’s starting at MIT in September!” Shayla said. “You don’t launch a DJ business the year you’re going to MIT!”

  “Maybe he did DJ’ing over his gap year. To help pay for college tuition or something!” I suggested. “Not everyone taking a year off goes backpacking, you know. Shayla, he gave me his number—should I call him or not?”

  “You should definitely call him. But I think he’s offering to help because—” Shayla said.

  “No. I don’t want to hear it!” I said.

  “—he likes you,” Shayla said, fulfilling her need to have the final say, however delusional her conclusions.

  So, I went down to the Indian grocery store to pick up some supplies—a crate of mangoes, creamy Indian-style yogurt, cilantro, ginger, lentils, a few boxes of KDH spices, and freshly fried samosas from the little café kitchen they had in the back of the store. And I picked up a bright flyer for wedding horses. Apparently, it’s possible to hire a decorated wedding horse for weddings in the state of Massachusetts.

  BARAAT WEDDING HORSES

  by Springmeadow Farms

  We provide decorated white horses for your weddings. We serve Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Maine, and Vermont.

  Our horses are well mannered and gentle.

  Our staff is experienced, courteous, and professional.

  We have provided horses for many Baraat/Hindu weddings & matrimonial events.

  Safe, fun, and memorable

  Fully insured

  Please contact us for more information, quotes on our low prices, or for reservations.

  To see more pictures of our horses, please visit our website.

  “It sounds legit,” I said to Shayla after reading it to her over the phone.

  “It sounds nuts!” Shayla said.

  “Wait, there’s more,” I said. “It says here: ‘Elephants available on request.’”

  “Elephants?” Shayla said, her eyes round like Ritz crackers. I’m guessing this, obviously, since she wasn’t actually there.

  “Elephants,” I confirmed. “They have pictures.”

  “Get out of here,” Shayla said.

  The elephant was out, of course, because (a) Vinnie and Manish weren’t nuts, and (b) as per the rates on the pamphlet, it cost a shitload of money to rent one.

  The decorated white horse, though. That might actually fit in the budget!

  “Hello.” The deep voice with the British accent was Vir, all right. He sounded distracted.

  I nearly panicked and almost hung up.

  “It’s Mini,” I said. “Mini Kapoor. We met by Lake
Waban?”

  “Mini!” His voice warmed up immediately. “What’s up?”

  “I’m calling about my sister’s wedding,” I said. “You said you could DJ for it?”

  “Sure can,” Vir said. “If you give me the date, I’ll put it on my calendar right away. And if you like, we should probably meet to go over the music, and the lights, and the schedule of events—that kind of stuff.”

  He said SHED-ule instead of SKEJ-ule—it sounded sweet.

  “Um, we’re having a meeting at the venue on Tuesday with some of the vendors. Could you come to it?” I said. “My sister will be there too. We could go over everything then.”

  “Where is it?” Vir asked.

  “The River Bend reservation. You know, MassBot,” I said.

  “I don’t,” he said. “But I’m guessing that MassBot is not, as it sounds, a robot of some sort.”

  “What?” I said. “No! It stands for Massachusetts Botanical Society. It’s right by Fellsway College.”

  I gave him the time when Vinnie and I were meeting with Shoma Aunty, Sondhi Sr. of Curry Cuisine, and Jen Courtney of MassBot.

  “Okay, then,” he said. “I’ll see you Tuesday!”

  I was smiling as I hung up.

  Chapter Eleven

  My sister was finally coming home!

  I hummed a happy tune as I drove down to the airport to get her. Yes, me—all by myself, all the way to Logan Airport. And why was I even allowed to do this after my last driving debacle, you ask? Because Dad was in meetings all day long, and unless he wanted her to take the Logan Express Bus Service to Framingham, or pay for a taxi, there was no one to get her but moi.

  Only, this time Dad had made sure I was prepared. Gas tank? Full. GPS? Functioning. Cell phone? Charged. Mass. Pike E-ZPass? Velcroed to my windshield. I was good to go.

  I didn’t feel guilty about leaving Yogi at home either, because he’d be psyched when I got home with Vinnie. Not that we were planning on hanging out at home for too long. We had to hit the ground running—there was a ton of wedding stuff to cover in the three days she was there. The best part would be taking her back to River Bend—I couldn’t wait to show her the gorgeous Carriage House!

  I made it to Logan without screwing up, and also backed into a super-tight spot in central parking without incident—huzzah! Vinnie had told me to park so I wouldn’t get stressed about trying to spot her on the curb and find a place to pull over. She was waiting by the baggage carousel, even though she had no baggage.

  “Mini!” She grabbed me in a bear hug. “I’m getting married!”

  “Vinnie!” I hugged back as we hopped in excitement, arms locked. “I know!”

  People were staring at us, but I didn’t really care and neither did Vinnie. We didn’t have to wait for bags—she just had a carry-on—so we were out of the airport in no time.

  Sadly, she didn’t seem to share Dad’s confidence in my driving abilities.

  “Slow. Down,” she said. “I want to live to see my wedding day. And have babies and stuff.”

  “Hey, I drive well,” I protested.

  “You drive way too fast,” she said. “Now slow the hell down. Or stop and let me drive.”

  “Okay, okay.” I eased off the gas. Jeez! “Relax, I’m doing the legal, I promise!”

  She unclutched her fingers from around her armrest.

  “So what are we doing today?” she asked.

  “We’re talking to Masi to pick out your wedding outfit,” I started. Might as well get the worst part over first. “Then tomorrow evening we have an appointment with the caterer, the wedding decorator, and the DJ/lighting dude at River Bend. And the Dover fire marshal is coming too.”

  She didn’t know about Vir being the DJ/lighting guy. She didn’t know about Vir, period. What would she think of him?

  “Mini, if it weren’t for you, Manish and I would be getting married in our scrubs in the hospital parking lot or something,” she said. “Seriously, thanks for doing this!”

  “Aww.” I smiled. “You’re welcome!”

  “And-watch-out-for-the-car-in-your-blind-spot-before-changing-lanes!”

  “Okay, okay… don’t panic!” I said, and did a head check.

  “Why is the fire marshal coming?” she asked after I switched lanes and got off at the exit.

  “Because there’s a fire at the wedding ceremony,” I reminded her. “The fire department has to okay it. Also, we might want to get a dosa chef to make fresh dosas for your TamBrahms.”

  “Why?” she said. “Won’t that cost extra?”

  “Not much more,” I said. “We have some South Indian dishes on the menu anyway, so why not dosas too?”

  “They really like Punjabi food, actually,” Vinnie said.

  “Good, then let’s have Sher-e-Punjab cater,” I said. “They’re cheaper anyway.”

  “Who?” Vinnie asked.

  “Another restaurant,” I said. “Look, it’s fine. Dad’s already okayed it. We also have to meet the mehendi lady and the bridal makeup lady, and pick out the flowers and wedding garlands.”

  “Also, we’re meeting the Iyers tomorrow,” she said.

  “The IYERS?” I said. “You mean Manish’s parents? I didn’t know we were seeing them.”

  “They invited us to lunch after Manish gets here tomorrow morning,” she said. “I think it’s time we all met properly.”

  “Okay,” I said. “We have a lot to do tomorrow, then. You should have warned me about the Iyers so I could have prepared Dad.”

  “What’s the use?” she said. “He’s determined not to like them. Hey, how’s Yogi?” she asked.

  “See for yourself,” I said, because we were pulling into our driveway and there was a frantic dog at the front door, who knew via some finely honed canine instinct that the second-most-important girl in his world was home.

  It was midmorning in Massachusetts and evening in Mumbai. The pink glow of the sunset over the Arabian Sea lit up Mallu Masi’s office windows, even on our computer screen. She must have a kick-ass webcam on her computer because Zoom was never that clear. Mallu Masi herself was dressed in linen capris and a kurti shirt in pale green, and looked as cool as a cucumber. She was also smiling a lot more today because Vinnie, her favorite niece, was here to chat with her.

  “Vinnie, beta, congratulations!” she said. “You’re ready to see the lehengas we pulled?” Why did she always talk so loudly? Like she thought the webcam wasn’t picking up her voice or something.

  “Yes!” Vinnie said, all excited. “Thanks for pulling them, Masi!”

  “I’ve an assistant, Ria, who’s about your size—Mini sent me your measurements. The models were all too tall,” Masi said. “Ria is going to try the lehengas on so you can see how they look worn.”

  “That’s awesome!” Vinnie said. “Let’s go, I can’t wait!”

  “Okay, here’s lehenga number one,” Masi muttered at someone off-camera, and the webcam was expertly trained on the model—I mean, the assistant.

  The lehenga was brilliant, and I don’t use that word loosely. Among the people who can afford to buy this stuff—Bollywood A-listers, celebrities, billionaires—Masi is known for her gossamer laces and light-as-air lehengas and saris that still include traditional embroidery like zardozi and dabka. She has workshops full of craftspeople working on them—some of them months ahead of time. She doesn’t sell anything ready-made; every single piece is custom-tailored to her wealthy clientele. Seriously, she’s booked solid a whole season in advance, just like in that movie. Unless you’re lucky enough to be her niece. This lehenga was classic Mallu Masi—which meant it was awesome, but not necessarily that it was perfect for Vinnie. It was a subtle moss-green silk contrasted with rich red velvet—traditional wedding colors, but it would look too Christmasy on Vinnie, I thought.

  “Ooh,” Vinnie said. “It’s beautiful!”

  The girl walked around and did a slow turn, then spread the chunni out to show the intricate embroidery on it. After we’d
examined every bit of the outfit, thanks to Masi’s camera assistant, we moved on to the next dress. And the next. They were all gorgeous but not quite Vinnie.

  “It’s really nice, Masi,” I said after checking out the newest dress Ria had modeled, which had to be the understatement of the decade. “But I think the A-line lehenga will look spectacular on her. The one with the antique gold lace?” I consulted the catalog in my folder. “It’s on page four. Remember we talked about it?”

  “Yes, the Meri Bollywood Wedding lehenga,” Masi said. “Ria, can you change into this one?” She pulled out the gold lehenga from the stack of garments on the table.

  “Masi, Manish’s parents have invited us for lunch tomorrow,” Vinnie said. “Do we have to bring them gifts or anything? I don’t know what the etiquette is.…”

  “You’ve already had an engagement, right?” Masi asked.

  “Manish gave me a ring and we took our friends out to dinner, and his friend Sol took engagement pictures for us,” Vinnie said. “That’s about it. Mini and Dad and his parents and sister weren’t there.”

  “What I don’t understand is why you kids don’t do anything properly!” Masi wasn’t impressed by Vinnie’s short and sweet engagement. “You live in America, not in a jungle. You’re supposed to have a godh bharai, when the boy’s family comes with gifts and formally accepts the proposal. And then your dad and uncles and brothers go with gifts to the groom’s house for the tilak ceremony.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” I said. “What do the parents have to do with it? Those two are getting married, not the parents!”

  “I’m not saying it makes sense,” Mallu Masi said. “I’m just explaining how it’s always been done.”

  “Not in his family!” Vinnie volunteered. “They have this thing called a janvasam at the temple. The girl’s father announces the wedding date to everyone there. And then they parade around the temple with the groom in a decorated car and invite everyone they see to the wedding.”