Sister of the Bollywood Bride

by Nandini Bajpai

  “Vir is here,” Dad said. “It’ll take too long for him to get back.”

  Sounded like everyone was there but me.

  “I’ll see if Shayla’s up. Maybe she can give me a ride.”

  “Fine,” Dad said.

  “Pick up, pick up. Pick. Up. The. Damn. Phone!” My pleading was for nothing because Shayla was not doing any picking up of the phone on an early Saturday morning. She had to be up at six for summer camp every weekday—she was sleeping in.

  So what were my options?

  Only one.

  I pushed the button for the other side of the garage, and it rolled open to reveal Dad’s car.

  Cue the James Bond theme song—I was taking the Lotus Esprit.

  I won’t lie—it was fun driving the Lotus properly. Dad had only ever allowed me to take it down the street and back. The speed and power of the thing were incredible. I turned into the long wooded driveway that led up to the temple. Vir was standing there with two other guys—was that really Chintu and Mintu Patel? I hadn’t seen them since I was twelve years old. All of them had their eyes bugging out at the sight of me in the race car.

  “Sweet ride!” Vir was the first one to speak when I rolled down the car window at the temple. “So, are you with the bride’s party or the groom’s?”

  “Vir!” I said. “What are you doing?”

  “Directing traffic, of course,” he informed me. “I’m helping out, along with these guys—family friends, I gather? We’re putting the groom’s side in this parking lot and the bride’s side in that parking lot. Of course, some people are just here to pray, and they’re completely confused.”

  “So I have to go to the parking lot at the top of the hill?” I asked.

  “Correct,” Vir said. “You look gorgeous, Mini.” I felt flattered but then he added, “Especially in that car!” Way to destroy a perfectly heartfelt compliment.

  I got to the top of the hill, only to be flagged down by a frantic-looking Shoma Moorty.

  “Mini, go down to that parking lot!” she said. “Go now!”

  “But I thought the bride’s side was supposed to go here?” I asked.

  “Yes, but that car, Mini,” she breathed. “That car is perfect!”

  “For what?” I asked. Had she totally lost her mind?

  “For the wedding,” she said. “We’re not getting a horse because it’s booked for the Patel-Bernstein wedding, so how can we make an entrance?” She paused for impact. “I thought we could decorate the white Ferrari.…”

  “Lotus,” I corrected.

  “Whatever. It’s a good-looking car, that’s all,” she said. “Manish really wanted to surprise Vinnie with a baraat, but it doesn’t work unless the guy has a nice ride. We don’t have a horse, but once we’ve decorated it, this will be perfect!”

  I could see Dad approaching us from the corner of my eye. “Okay,” I said, hurriedly changing gears, and backing out of there before he could get to us.

  Because if I told him we were going to sticky-tape rosebuds on his beloved car’s impeccable fiberglass exterior, he would lose his mind.

  The temple driveway is a circular one-way, so I had to pass by Vir at the entrance again.

  “Everything okay?” he asked. Did I mention that he looked strikingly handsome? No? Well, he did.

  “Get in,” I said.

  “Oookay,” Vir said. “Carry on without me, guys!” he said to Chintu and Mintu Patel.

  “I don’t think Manish knows how to drive stick shift,” I said. “Or at least I haven’t seen him do it. If my dad’s car is going to be in the baraat, I’m putting it in hands I trust—yours.”

  “I’m happy that you trust me,” Vir said. “But I don’t know a single person on the groom’s side.”

  “I know,” I said. “And please give them these red turbans.” I handed him a stack of starched and ironed turban cloths, no pretied turbans if Beeji had her way. “Oh, crap!”

  “What?” Vir asked.

  “They’re not tied,” I said. “Bade Bauji was supposed to tie the turbans for us so they could just put them on their heads. Do you think those Iyers know how to tie a turban?”

  “They may not,” Vir said. “But I do!”

  “Really?” I asked.

  “It was part of our dress uniform at Mayo College,” he said. “We had to wear it to temple and all the formal events. So how do you want it tied—Jodhpuri style, or Jaipuri?”

  “Vir,” I said. “Thank you again.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said.

  Back in the bride’s-side parking lot I finally got a good look at Vinnie. I needn’t have worried because of course Masi had done a spectacular job—Vinnie looked ravishing. She didn’t look overdone like some brides. Despite all the gold and red, her look was simple and classic—contemporary chic with a hint of traditional. Timeless.

  Best of all, her gold lehenga with the cranberry-red veil set off Mom’s jewelry to perfection. Masi, Beeji, her bridesmaids, and half the aunties were fussing around her, and for a moment I felt left out. Then Vinnie caught sight of me, and her face lit up.

  “Mini, where have you been?” she demanded.

  “Taking care of stuff,” I said. “You look ready to get married, Dr. Vinnie!”

  “You better believe I am!” Vinnie said. “Did you get a look at Manish?”

  “I did,” I said mysteriously. “But I can’t tell you anything.”

  A flash went off next to my face, and I looked over to see an intense young woman behind a huge camera with an extra-large lens attached.

  “Sol?” I asked. This had to be Manish’s friend Sol, who was to do the photography and videography. What a relief! By the look of her equipment, she was more than qualified.

  “You’re the sister.” Sol had no trouble identifying me. “So can we finally take group photographs?” I didn’t realize they’d been waiting for me. Sol was already giving directions.

  “Vinnie in the center, Dad to the left, Mini to the right, Aunty left, grandparents right,” she directed.

  All of Vinnie’s bridesmaids were picture-perfect in their red saris—and they had twenties-style headbands and fascinators in their hair.

  Where on earth did they get those?

  “I had some made,” Masi said. “With the leftover material from Vinnie’s lehenga. Your designs inspired me, I guess, and the girls thought they were fun so they decided to use them.”

  “Wow,” I said. “Just wow! But where’s mine?”

  “Right here,” Masi said. She produced a hair comb with an antique gold flower mounted on it and pushed it into my hair. Her hands were gentle as she fastened it expertly with a couple of bobby pins.

  “Ready?” Sol asked, and Masi nodded. “Okay, perfect. Say ‘To hell with the hurricane!’”

  We had time for a few more photographs, and then dhol beats announced that the groom’s party was advancing up the hill.

  “The baraat is coming,” Dad said. “Places, everyone!”

  Beeji and Masi were going to greet Manish with a lighted lamp and place a ceremonial red tilak on his forehead. And then Vinnie would make her grand entrance flanked by her bridesmaids.

  “Is that Dad’s car?” Vinnie asked. “He let Manish use it?”

  The Lotus was climbing the hill slowly and smoothly without stalling out once. Vir was at the wheel, evidently. Red roses and gold tassels hung festively from the sleek hood of the race car—Shoma Moorty’s work. I could hear Dad make a strangled sound in his throat at the sight. Driving was not the only thing Vir had done well—both he and Manish were wearing flamboyant red turbans. Ahead of them came two real Punjabi Dholis with large wooden drums and a bunch of Iyer relatives dancing in a happy, if not very Punjabi, way.

  Someone handed Manish his varmala and he turned around to wait for Vinnie’s entrance.

  “Come on, girls!” I said. “Now!”

  Vinnie’s bridesmaids and I held the ceremonial red-and-gold canopy high above Vinnie’s head. Vinnie walke
d beneath it holding her varmala garland, Dad beside her, and we started out toward the groom’s party.

  I could hear gasps of admiration. Vinnie looked every inch the glowing bride, and I think the bright red the rest of us wore added to her splendor.

  In the background Sol was clicking away earnestly. Then Vinnie garlanded Manish and the ceremony was underway.

  Shoma Moorty had done an outstanding job—the mandap was just the way Vinnie wanted it. Beautifully draped in tasseled silk, with a flower-bedecked welcome arch and a red carpet down the center aisle. I looked back from the mandap and saw row upon row of smiling faces. Beeji, Bauji, Bade Bauji, Dad, Vinnie’s friends from high school and med school, old teachers, Beeji’s Arya Samaj friends, the Tamils from the Iyers’ side. And—it took me a moment to place her—the bank teller from the Westbury Bank of America branch. She had been at the temple to pray and found herself caught up in the wedding. She had been happy to stay.

  In the confusion, no one asked Krishna Ji to perform the ceremony the Punjabi way, so he went ahead and followed the Tamil ceremonials instead.

  There was a bit when Manish opened an umbrella and pretended to go off to Kashi and stay a bachelor, until he was persuaded to come back. And another when they reenacted the garlanding ceremony but both Vinnie and Manish were lifted up by family members to make the garlanding more difficult for the other person—like a sort of competition. Vinnie didn’t get very high with only Dad and Bauji holding her until Vir, Chintu, and Mintu pitched in.

  And there was the part when they had Vinnie sit on Dad’s lap—not something they do in Punjab, but sweet anyway. They also did some of the more familiar rituals—the seven steps around the fire and so forth.

  And before we knew it, they were done!

  “You’re all invited to our house for the reception,” Dad said. “The address is posted on the temple bulletin board.”

  So it was.

  I had been getting texts throughout the ceremony. Shayla and Rachel had gone over to our house soon after they got my messages just to keep an eye on things. Then they promptly called in their moms, so Sue and Amy were there as well. Everything was going well, they reported. The tent was up, the tables set, the flowers arranged. Shayla had walked Yogi—the poor dog had no idea why he had been abandoned since early in the morning and why strangers were swarming over his yard and putting up large, scary things.

  But I was still worried about the food! It was to come at noon, and it was already 11:50 and I was nowhere close to getting home. I called Sher-e-Punjab… no one answered. I called Rajinder Singh’s cell phone—no response. In desperation, I called Preet.

  “Why didn’t you call me?” Preet demanded. “All day long I’ve been worrying about your sister’s wedding. Give me your address. I’ll go now and talk to my cousin Rajinder.”

  “Thanks so much, Preet!” I said. “We’ve not even paid a single cent so far. And if he gets to our house and there’s no one there to give him a check—I’m worried he might—”

  “Don’t worry about anything,” Preet said. “But I don’t have anywhere to leave Rahul—is it okay if I bring him?”

  “Of course!” I said. “And I’ll be there as soon as I can!”

  After the final group photos, they didn’t need me anymore so I hurried home. It had been bright when we took the group pictures and the baraat came up the hill to the temple, but now the sky was getting dark and the wind was picking up. The radio was full of stories of what was happening in New York—none of it good. Over a hundred people were about to descend on our house—I was worried, but there was nothing I could do until we got home.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The tent was up!

  Shayla had told me it was, but it was something else to see it myself. Festive and bright with yellow and white stripes and clear arched windows—it was beautiful to behold. And it was perfectly level, lashed down tight, and looked ready to take on the weather—rain or shine.

  The inside was shipshape too—neat, sparkling table settings with their burgundy fanfolded napkins (how did Bauji’s guys manage that?) and bushels of colorful chrysanthemums in place of centerpieces.

  “It’s a miracle!” I said faintly as Alan and Richie beamed at me. These guys were clearly in the wrong damn profession.

  Also, the buffet table was covered in a floor-length cloth, and arranged on it were sparkling silver chafing dishes filled with mouthwatering curries, rice, and naans—I could smell them even though the lids were shut. Sher-e-Punjab for the win!

  This atheist was so going to do kar seva at the local Sikh temple in thanks.

  Wahi Guru Ji ki fatheh!

  “We put the lights up too,” Alan said. “But we haven’t turned them on yet.”

  The trees were festooned with string lights—they looked bright and festive and would be beautiful in all the pictures once Sol got here with her camera. If we still had power.

  Bauji had ridden back with me in the minivan, and he looked proud of his crew.

  “So, basically we’re in good shape, right?” I said to no one in particular, hoping they couldn’t sense the panic I was wrestling with.

  But Preet, Shayla, Rachel, and Ernie Uncle, who had finally checked his phone messages and, realizing he’d missed the wedding, had headed directly to the house, and even little Rahul—looking adorable in a Nehru-collar kurta—were looking at me with goofy grins, the way people look at adorable babies.

  “Awww, check you out!” Shayla said. “The girl in the red sari!”

  “There are nine more of those at this wedding,” I said, but I was flattered.

  “So the tent’s up, the food’s here.” Shayla laid a friendly arm over Preet’s shoulders. “Preet here talked to the caterers, and she organized everything. They let her have the chafing dishes and extra serving spoons and stuff to make it easier to serve the food. And I’ve walked Yogi. We’ve pushed back the furniture inside too so there’s plenty of room for everyone to move around. Both our moms have vacuumed everything, and cleaned the bathrooms, and put out fresh towels and stuff.”

  So that was where Amy and Sue had vanished to!

  “So, what else do you need?”

  “Alcohol!” said Bauji. “We don’t have any alcohol!” Other people might say beer, wine, or champagne, but Bauji went straight to the point in his businesslike way. And he was right—we didn’t have a drop of alcohol.

  “There’s a liquor store at the intersection of Routes Nine and Twenty-Seven,” I said to Alan. “Do you know it?”

  “Sure do,” Alan said with a grin.

  “We need their best champagne for the toast—lots of it. And beer—any idea what type, Bauji?” I asked.

  “We’ll get a selection of beer and wine,” Alan said. “They’ll take back what we don’t use if we’re buying bulk. What else?”

  “Sparkling cider for the people who don’t drink,” I said. In any Indian group there’s bound to be a few of those. “That’s all!”

  That was when I noticed that my car was parked on the curb instead of blocking the driveway. That had to be Ernie Uncle’s work. “Did you jump-start the Mini?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I heard the Lotus got BeDazzled—what did Vinod say to that?”

  “It’s standing in for the wedding horse,” I said, grinning. “It had to have some bling.”

  He just rolled his eyes—like Dad. “Mini, you have plenty of room on the street for parking but not if you have over fifty cars,” he said. “Do you need people to valet the cars?”

  “That would be awesome!” I said. I hadn’t even thought of that.

  “I’ll call a couple of my guys,” he said, pulling out his cell phone. “It might cost you, though.”

  “It’s cool.” I grinned. “We’re good, Ernie Uncle—Dad’s start-up just got funded!”

  A couple in a Honda Accord pulled into our driveway. The woman in the passenger seat was wearing a sari and carrying a baby—we had our first guests.

  “
I can greet them for you, but what do I say?” Shayla hissed into my ear.

  “Just say ‘Welcome and come inside,’” I said, as nervous as her.

  “Inside?” Shayla said. “I thought they were eating in the tent?”

  “We can put the appetizers in the house and move them out for the lunch after Vinnie and Manish arrive,” I said.

  Soon the house was full, the samosas were nearly gone, and I was starting to panic. “There’s more downstairs!” Preet said. “Go fetch them!”

  In the laundry room I found buckets, no, really, buckets of extra curry, and platters of samosas and chutneys. And they were heavy and hot—there was no way I could carry them up. I stuck my head out of the laundry but couldn’t see Dad, or Vir, or Bauji, or even Chintu or Mintu. “Excuse me!” I said. “Could someone please help carry out some food?”

  A tall boy who was clearly related to Manish, given his familiar smile, and one of Vinnie’s med school friends took charge and carried steaming-hot samosas out to the hungry hordes.

  In the kitchen Preet manned the sink, washing used snack dishes—Amy and Sue dried them. Around them people were eating, chatting, laughing, and mingling. In spite of the tight squeeze, everyone had a smile on their face.

  “This is going better than I thought,” Amy said with cautious optimism.

  “Sweets!” I said. “We don’t have them! We canceled the cake!”

  Rachel was the one who remembered. “Didn’t your Beeji make something—those yellow ball things?” she asked. “They’re sweet, aren’t they?”

  “Laddoos!” I said. “I have hundreds of them and they are nut- and gluten-free—we’re saved! Come with me!”

  Manish’s cousin and Vinnie’s friend helped Shayla carry the laddoos from the garage, where they were stacked in the largest, ugliest plastic Tupperware boxes you can imagine—Beeji specialized in them.

  In a flash of inspiration, I found Mom’s crystal three-tier dessert stand, washed and dried it, and took it out to the tent, ducking through the drizzle that had started up. I set it up on a side table next to the buffet. “Help me stack,” I said, and cracked open a Tupperware box. Shayla helped me cover each tier of the dessert stand with golden laddoos.