So, the way the new moon is calculated in Hindu astrology is not scientifically accurate. Even though the actual new moon was on the twenty-ninth, it showed the new moon phase starting at noon on the twenty-eighth!
“Look, there’s no way we can change the date,” I said. “What can we say to Ragini Aunty to make her feel better about it?”
“Just what I said to her before,” Sundaraman said. “These are old things, and this is a new time. If it is convenient, then yes, use the good date and time. Otherwise don’t.”
Not bad, Sundaraman, not bad.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Vir called—again.
And this time he called the landline instead of my cell phone. And when Dad handed me the phone without explaining who it was, I got tricked into speaking to him.
“Mini!” Vir said. Hearing him say my name was a physical shock. I’d been deleting his messages without listening to them because I couldn’t deal with hearing that voice. I should have hung up—but I didn’t.
“Where have you been?” he said. “I’ve been calling every day. Can you just tell me what’s going on?”
“I don’t want to talk,” I said. Dad took one look at me, picked up his drink, and vanished into his office.
“Okay,” Vir said. “Okay, fine. But can you tell me why you don’t want to talk?”
“I’m really busy planning for the wedding. And Masi and my grandparents are arriving soon. I don’t have time for distractions,” I said. True. All of this was true. But a tear slipped down my cheek. Odd—I hadn’t even realized I was crying.
“I understand. But we’re good, right? When I saw you last time everything was fine,” he said. “What happened since then, Mini?”
Why did he have to sound so sweet? It just wasn’t fair. But I couldn’t even think with those images swimming before my eyes. The ones of him and the perfectly beautiful Koyal Khanna. I swallowed the hurt resolutely.
“What happened, Vir Mirchandani, is that I Googled you,” I said, and hung up.
Manish was supposed to talk to Vir about the music this week. I told him instead that we didn’t have a DJ anymore. To avoid actual contact, I’d dropped Vir a note in the mail—yes, in the actual USPS mailbox, stamp and envelope and everything. Manish took it well—in fact, he sounded pretty excited about arranging all the music himself. And now, thanks to his musical talent and that of his friends—he played in two bands, apparently—it was all going to be live.
Yay, I guess.
“Thanks for picking such a kick-ass venue, Mini,” Manish said. “It rocks. And the acoustics in that Carriage House are great.”
He was even having a piano trucked in so he could serenade Vinnie with a song he wrote especially for her. No wonder Vinnie loved the guy. I bet he never even looked at a Bollywood star with Vinnie around.
“Did I tell you I booked the horse?” Manish said.
“You did?” I asked. I had sent the link with the wedding horses to him. He had to okay it, obviously, since he had to ride the thing.
“Yeah,” he said. “It’s a surprise for Vinnie. I told her that Tamils don’t do a baraat, so she isn’t expecting it.”
“That is so sweet,” I said.
“I was nervous at first, but Vir was great!” he said.
“Vir?” I asked.
“He went with me to the farm,” Manish said. “And walked me through the whole thing. Even brought Benadryl, because of course I was allergic to the horse, or maybe it was the hay.”
Talk about dedication—this guy really loved my sister, didn’t he?
“Vinnie will love it!” I said. “Is there anything you need as far as equipment?”
“I’ve talked to Jen at River Bend,” Manish said. “What they have is pretty basic, but with that vaulted ceiling, everything will be fine.”
“We just won’t have the lighting we planned on,” I said. “But if you want, we can rent the stuff from Talbot Rental. I have Vir’s notes on where to put the lighting so it looks best.”
“He’s a great guy,” Manish said. “I mean, I’ve only properly spent time with him once when we went to the farm, but he’s cool. Why isn’t he doing the lighting, again?”
“Because I fired him,” I said.
“Oooh—that’s harsh,” Manish said. “Bad breakup?”
“Yeah,” I said.
Okay, I wasn’t even seeing him anymore, and now my grandparents knew about Vir! Could it possibly get any worse?
Mallu Masi was not the only one who saw the pictures of Vir and me. Beeji, my grandmother, had turned into a gossip-column follower ever since she had moved to India. But she hardly expected her granddaughter back in the US to feature in them.
Needless to say, she told Bauji. And Bauji gave me a long, stern lecture, via telephone, and now they were both coming a few days early for the wedding—with Bade Bauji, her father, in tow! Don’t get me wrong—I love my Baba and Beeji.
“Mini, you have to be careful who you’re friendly with,” Beeji said on the phone. “That boy is not like you. He’s very wild and he’s had so many girlfriends. Actresses and all. I’ve read in the magazines.”
“Look,” I said, “I’m not seeing him anymore. So can we forget about this?”
“Okay, okay,” she said. “Just be careful, bache, that’s all.”
“Beeji, why is Bade Bauji coming?” I asked. “Isn’t it too much for him? He’s ninety-two, and he’s never even left India before.”
“I told him there’s no need,” Beeji said. “But he wants to come.”
“How did he even get a visa?” I asked. “Isn’t it really hard to get a tourist visa for the US if you haven’t been here before?”
“Of course he got a visa,” Beeji said. “They know he has a big business in India.”
So that was three more confirmed guests to add to the guest list—180 guests invited, 150 confirmed.
As Nanaji says when he’s overwhelmed, baap re! Though neither his father nor mine was going to be any help to me now.
Mallu Masi was the first overseas visitor to arrive.
Dad and I took the minivan to the airport—nothing else could transport the luggage Masi was sure to bring. We waited at the customs gate for her to come into view. After a long stream of British tourists (the flight was from London), she appeared—and she had not changed a bit! Same artfully highlighted shoulder-length hair, same bouncy striding step and smooth olive skin. How could she step off a plane after a daylong journey looking that fresh and unwrinkled?
“Mini!” she said, and grabbed me in a long hug. “Look at you! You’re tall like your dad, but you look just like Megha!”
“Er… thanks,” I said, extricating myself. “It’s good to see you, Masi.”
It actually felt true.
“Mallika,” Dad said, grinning boyishly. Wow, I couldn’t remember seeing Dad smile like that in years. He and Masi had always gotten along well.
“Vinod,” she said. “So good to see you, ya!”
“Wish you’d brought the boys with you,” Dad said. By which he meant Motu Mausa (Mohan Motwani, Masi’s husband) and their twelve-year-old twin boys, Arvind and Avinash.
“Ari and Avi are at school,” she said. “Their school reopened on July first, Mini, otherwise I would have definitely brought them. But they’ll come in time for the wedding, and Nana is coming too! Mohan can’t get away from work, though.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. I haven’t seen Motu in years!” Dad said.
“Nanaji is coming too!” I squealed. “That’s awesome!”
Nanaji, my other grandfather—Mom and Masi’s dad—doesn’t travel overseas as much as he used to. Last time I saw him was two years ago when he spent the whole summer with us. And he’s hard to contact because he’s usually off visiting his army buddies, who have retired to every remote corner to be found in India—none of them have internet access. I hadn’t even known he got the wedding invitation I’d mailed to his Delhi address.
“Of course h
e is,” Masi said. “Your Bade Bauji can make it, when he’s, what—ninety-two? So why can’t Nanaji?”
The atmosphere at home was suddenly festive. Masi breezed into the house, threw her stuff all over the master bedroom (Dad had lived in his study for the last seven years), put on loud Bollywood music, and forbade poor Yogi to “shed all over my pashminas.”
We ordered takeout and Dad went off to pick it up.
“Show me how you altered the lehenga, Mini,” she demanded. “I just have to see what you did with it!”
“It’s in my closet,” I said. “I’ll get it!”
Before I could get over to my room, she was already there and, having flung my closet door open, was oohing and aahing over various items in it.
“Where did you get that?” she asked.
“Careful,” I said. “It’s vintage.”
“I can see that!” she said.
“And here’s the lehenga!” she said. She pulled it out and examined it with interest. “Nice work, Mini. Clean sewing too. You have a machine that can handle fabric this thick?”
“I don’t,” I said. “But my friend’s mom’s consignment store has everything because they offer alterations, and she let me use their sewing machine. I just have this…”
“Megha’s old machine?” she said, taking in my sewing corner in the far end of the room. “I remember it.”
“I love the lehenga, Masi,” I said. “Thanks for sending it to me. I didn’t realize it was your signature piece, otherwise I would never have taken it apart.”
“Is this the dress you wore when you went out with Vir?” she asked.
A shard of hurt stabbed at me when she said his name.
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, it is.”
“It’s excellent.” Masi turned the dress inside out and examined the stitching. Thankfully, I had sewed it cleanly. “I’m proud of you.”
It shouldn’t have meant so much, but it did.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Do you know I’ve had a ton of orders for this design already?” she asked. “They all want the dress that the Boston girl was wearing.”
“Get out of here!” I said, shocked. “Really?”
“Really,” she said. “Mini, what’s this?” She held up a child’s firoza-blue double-breasted pea coat. “This can’t be yours.”
Oh, no! I snatched it back. “It used to be,” I said. “But I never wore it. Here’s Dad now, Masi. Let’s go eat.”
So here’s the downlow on why I’m still upset with my Masi. The September Vinnie left for college was probably the hardest time in my life. Worse even than when Mom died, because right after it happened I was so numb it didn’t even feel real. And Vinnie was there that spring and summer to cushion me from it. But when she left for college, it really hit hard—and the only thing that kept me going was the promise Masi made me.
She said she would come to visit in December and I would go to India with her. I believed her. Because she had promised—more than once! She was going to New York for work—it was an exciting collaboration with Saks Fifth Avenue. She was finally going to launch a ready-to-wear collection in India and overseas. And after her meetings she would come to Boston and take me back to Delhi for three weeks. I’d miss a week of school, sure, but that was hardly a big deal in sixth grade.
I was so excited about that trip. It was my Golden Ticket. When Vinnie came home for Thanksgiving, she took me shopping for it. I hadn’t had a birthday party that November—Dad and Vinnie took me to see Penguins of Madagascar instead. But Vinnie bought me a double-breasted pea coat—in my favorite firoza blue with bright brass buttons—just for my trip to Delhi. Mom had told us how cold it could be there in winter, and how the houses were not built for the cold weather, and how no one had central heating. I didn’t remember being there in winter, but Vinnie did.
Vinnie went back to college after Thanksgiving, but I looked at my new clothes, and my suitcase, and packed and unpacked them. Then held the jacket to my face and dreamt of India. It felt soft and smelled of pure wool, excitement, and adventure. I just knew that my trip would be incredible! I’d drink ThumsUp in Masi’s office, and visit her sewing units, and babysit my cute twin cousins—it would be epic.
But a week before Mallu Masi was supposed to come to New York she canceled her trip—just like that. No explanation. Nothing.
It was a little bit like that morning I found Mom, all over again. The light went out, and I had to cope.
I finally wore the new clothes to school in January. But I never wore the beautiful blue pea coat. That’s why it still hung in my closet as a warning—never trust Mallu Masi.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I went over to air out Beeji and Bauji’s house and stock up their fridge—it’s no fun food shopping while jet-lagged. Masi offered to help—I had no clue how much help she would actually be. I mean, when was the last time she used a vacuum cleaner—if ever? But she was determined to come along, so I was stuck with her.
“I like your car,” she said. “Your favorite firoza blue with a white roof and racing stripes, huh? It’s cute.”
“Thanks,” I said. A good word about my car or my dog was always welcome—even from Masi.
“I still remember when your Nanaji taught Megha how to drive! He made her use that tank of a car he had—the Ambassador. Did you ever see it?”
“I’ve seen photos,” I said. The Ambassador was the first car to be manufactured in India.
“Yeah,” she said. “He set up gharas, you know, the terra-cotta water pots? Arranged an obstacle course in a field at our farmhouse and made her drive around them. By the end of her first try she had flattened them all!”
“Wow, did she blow a tire?” I asked. It was good to hear something about Mom I didn’t already know.
“No, but she scared a herd of buffaloes!” Masi said. “Nanaji’s farmhand swore they wouldn’t give any milk that day because of it.” Tears of laughter streamed down her cheeks. When she was like that, it was hard not to like her.
Beeji and Bauji’s place looked dusty and smelled stale—it had been sitting in the baking summer sun for months. They should really rent it out—just so it would be looked after. It took three hours of vigorous vacuuming and throwing open of windows and doors just to freshen the musty air inside.
“What’s down there?” Masi asked as I flipped on the light in the basement and walked downstairs.
“Just storage,” I said.
I stared at a stack of suitcases—vintage hardcase American Touristers—and was struck by an idea. Beeji stored her old saris in them. Maybe Mom’s wedding lehenga was here instead of at home? Dad and I had been through every box in our attic and found nothing.
“I’m just going to look in these, Masi,” I said. “If they’re open.”
I took down the first one, snapped the clasps, and lifted the lid. Beeji’s old saris, dupattas, and salwar kameezes, neatly packed. But no bulky silk lehenga. I shut it and opened another one. This one had old linens hand-embroidered by Beeji half a century ago. I passed a hand over them—the tiny stitches looked bright and felt crisp and new, even now—why had she never used them to set a table? Or displayed them in her china cabinet? What a waste!
“Look!” Masi had been opening suitcases too. “That’s Megha’s lehenga.”
Brilliant pink silk spilled from Masi’s hands—Mom’s lehenga. I knew it right away even though I’d only seen it in pictures. The pink was an unusual crushed raspberry spangled with silver tilla work—hand embroidery done with metallic thread, a specialty of Punjab.
“We’ve been looking for this everywhere!” I said. “In the garage, in the attic, in all the storage boxes at home. I didn’t realize she left it here!”
“They lived with Vinod’s parents the year they got married, right?” Masi said. “Before they bought a house. I guess she must have given it to Beeji for safekeeping.”
“Do you think it’ll fit Vinnie?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Masi said
. “If it needs any fixing, I can do it. I designed it, after all. I was so proud of it! You’re looking at the very first Mallika Motwani, Mini. And I wasn’t even a Motwani then!”
“You made Mom’s wedding lehenga?” I asked.
“With input from her, of course,” Masi said. “Megha was great at it, but Nanaji didn’t let her study design. There was no future in it, he said. But when I finished class twelve, NIFT had just opened in Delhi a few years earlier.”
“National Institute of Fashion Technology?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Masi said. “It opened in 1986, and Megha talked them into letting me apply. If it hadn’t been for her, I’d have been doing a Bachelor of Commerce at Shri Ram College of Commerce, Delhi University, like your Mausa! Hey, will Vinnie wear this for the reception if we fix it?”
“Yes!” I said. “That’s why I was looking for it! I’ll have it dry-cleaned and then we can fix it. She’ll be so surprised and thrilled!”
“Speaking of surprises,” Masi said, “I wanted to ask you about a wedding present for her.”
“She has a wedding registry, Masi,” I said.
She waved a dismissive hand. “Not anything from there! No, I had the recordings I have of Megha reading books out loud made into an audiobook for you two.”
She what?
“How do you have recordings of Mom reading?”
“Arre, she used to call and put the phone on speaker and just let me listen too. You know in the last months… I recorded them and I’ve been playing it to the boys. Ari and Avi are just the right age for Percy Jackson, and I thought you girls would like it too.”
“Yes.” I gulped. “That would be just perfect.”
“Okay, let’s finish up here!” Masi said, clearly done with housework.
It was still light as we drove home.
“So, I’m thinking of the ready-to-wear line again, Mini,” she said over the music station I’d turned on to discourage conversation. In spite of the thaw that had definitely set in since she told me about Mom’s audio recording, I was still wary of warming up to her completely. “I haven’t thought about it for a while, but after six years, the time seems to be right again.”
Sister of the Bollywood Bride Page 16
