by Sonali Dev
His finger turned warm on her chin and trailed her jaw. She tried to pull his hand away, but the closeness of his huge, warm, perfectly sculpted body emanated so much comfort she felt drugged, unable to break the contact between them. Her fingers rested on his. “No, it’s too late to turn back,” she said, and he smiled his golden smile.
How could a creature this glorious, a soul this beautiful possibly smile at her as if . . . as if . . . No. He felt sorry for her. That’s all it was. It couldn’t be anything more. Because if it was, they couldn’t be friends anymore. Of course he felt sorry for her. She had been in perpetual need of rescuing ever since she’d met him.
In that case, why let him off easy?
The funniest thought struck her. His eyes narrowed as he watched her.
“We’re halfway there,” she said. “You really should meet Ridhi. In fact, I can’t wait for you to meet her.”
Her big bully was about to be taught the lesson of a lifetime.
14
Samir had never in his life heard a more terrifyingly nasal, a more earsplittingly high-pitched voice. “Mill! I can’t believe you’re here, Mill!” The shrieking girl flew down the wide granite stairs of the colonnaded mansion like a squawking bird and flung herself at Mili. Substantially taller and bigger than Mili, she picked her up and spun her around like a rag doll before plunking her down on the sweeping driveway.
Samir watched in horror as Mili tried to land on her good foot, but she couldn’t quite manage it and stumbled backward. Fortunately he was close enough to catch her. She turned around and gave him one of those grateful looks he despised. He couldn’t find the generosity in his heart to acknowledge it. He was too distracted by the screaming banshee, who wouldn’t stop jumping up and down like a two-year-old.
“Mummy, Daddy, come, look, see. Mili’s here.”
A veritable caravan of people materialized in response to her shrieks. They were all dressed in shimmering gauzes and silks in colors almost as jarringly loud as she was.
Mili beamed as if this was the exact kind of craziness she had been missing in her life.
“Mill, this is Mummy, Daddy, my maasi, my chachi, my chacha, my taaya.” The list of uncles and aunts went on and on.
How so many people had gathered in a span of one week boggled his mind. Mili bent over and touched the feet of every one of the elders she was introduced to, in the traditional gesture of respect, and it was a substantial number. They all hugged her and ruffled her hair as if she were the long-lost daughter of their heart.
Mummyji held her the longest. She pressed Mili’s flushed face against her ample satin-clad bosom and wiped her eyes with the chiffon scarf draped around her shoulders. “Oh, beta, what we owe you! Oh, how much we owe you!” she kept repeating between sobs. Suddenly she grabbed her hapless son by the sleeve and pulled him toward her. “See who’s here. The girl who saved your family’s honor.”
Ranvir blinked and at least twenty distinct shades of pink flashed across his doughy cheeks.
“She’s dark but she’s pretty,” one of the army of aunties said from behind Samir.
Samir ground his teeth. Ridhi started laughing, an astounding neighing sound that made her shrieks sound like music in comparison. Samir plugged the ear closer to her with his finger.
“Mummy, you can’t set Ranvir up with Mili.” More neighing laughter. “At least think before you start your matchmaking. Mili’s ma—”
Mili yanked Ridhi away from her mother, blushing even more furiously than Doughboy. She pointed at Samir, her look exactly that of a child caught with her hand in a cookie jar. “Ridhi, this is—”
Before Mili could say anything Ridhi let out another glass-shattering neigh. “Oh my God! Ohmygod! Oh. My. God. Mili, you didn’t tell me he was going to be here. Oh my God, you were so wrong. He came!”
Mili looked like someone had stabbed her in the chest. Color drained from her face.
Ridhi ran up to Samir and threw her arms around him. “Oh my God. I have been dying to meet you. Oh my—”
“Ridhi, this is Samir, our new neighbor. He drove me here.” Mili cut the madwoman off and Samir wanted to hug her. If that horrendous voice formed the words Oh my God one more time, he would have to dump Mili in the car and head back to Ypsilanti right this minute.
Ridhi jumped out of Samir’s arms as if he suddenly oozed pus and glared at him. “This is the guy who punched Ranvir?” She planted one hand on her hip and gave Mili one of those loaded woman-to-woman looks that women thought were so subtle.
Fortunately, one of the aunties dragged her into the house. “Arrey, enough of your tamasha-drama. Come on inside and act like a bride for a change.”
He had no idea who the white-haired woman was, but despite being blinded by her parrot-green sari and fuchsia lips, Samir wanted to hoist her on his shoulders and give her anything she desired.
Ridhi grabbed Mili’s arm and yanked her into the house behind her. The next time she handled Mili like a rag doll Samir was going to kill her with his bare hands, bride or not.
Samir looked so tortured when Mili grabbed his arm and pulled him into the house behind her she wanted to laugh. Served him right for being such a bully. But one step into the house and Mili knew she would never ever be able to repay him for bringing her here.
It was like stepping over the chasm of time and distance and landing right back home in India. They had arrived just in time for the Ladies’ Singing program that was such an integral part of Punjabi weddings. Mili had never actually been to a Punjabi wedding, but this looked exactly like the dazzling affairs she’d seen in films. The entire brightly lit house vibrated with music, and the sound of people shouting over the music. Someone pulled Ridhi away and started doing a bhangra dance with her in the middle of a gigantic hall, which literally was the size of the entire university union.
Mili spun around a full circle, taking the house in. It was even larger than her husband’s ancestral haveli. And that home was built for joint families. For generations, three to four brothers and their families had lived in the haveli along with the families of the servants who took care of the grounds and the house. All told, a good thirty odd people had lived in the haveli at any given time. Not anymore of course. Ever since Virat’s grandfather had died the haveli had been locked up and left to disintegrate.
Virat and his mother had left Balpur soon after her wedding twenty years ago and never returned. Mili’s husband had been so intent on avoiding her he hadn’t even come back for his own grandfather’s funeral. Not even to check up on the grand old house with its crumbling arches and verandahs. She had done everything she could. She had even bought a bucket of cement and patched up the roof herself when the rains made the kitchen flood. The thought of their family’s heritage being left to rot like that made her so incredibly angry, so sad, she could hardly bear it.
When she and Virat were finally together the first responsibility they would fulfill as a couple was taking care of the haveli. Who else would do it? She had heard there was a half brother but her grandmother never talked about him. In fact, no one in Balpur ever spoke of him.
Samir gave her one of those help me looks as the auntie in the sari the exact green of an Indian parrot pulled him to the middle of the dancing crowd. Another three white-haired women surrounded him, bopping their shoulders and throwing their hands in the air. Mili was about to help him when Ridhi swung her around.
“Have you eaten anything?” She took a bite of the samosa she was holding and then stuffed the rest of the flaky, potato-filled pastry into Mili’s mouth before dragging her toward the sweeping staircase, which of course was straight out of a Bollywood film.
“It’s the sangeet today. You’re my best friend. You can’t possibly be wearing that.” She made a face that suggested Mili needed to be fumigated. “Come on. Let’s see if we can fit you into something of mine.” She dragged Mili upstairs.
Ridhi’s room was another union-sized spectacle with pink sequins, baubles, beads, and
shimmering chiffon everywhere.
“I was in this Bollywood phase,” Ridhi said sheepishly. “I wanted a room that looked like a Bollywood dance number, so Mummy had an interior designer cousin ship all this stuff over from India.” Ridhi threw herself on the huge circular bed in the center of the room with yards and yards of filmy fabric hanging from the ceiling like a royal canopy.
“Was in a Bollywood phase?” Mili teased.
Ridhi made a face and pulled Mili into a closet the size of their entire apartment. Mili’s mouth dropped open.
“Mummy likes clothes,” Ridhi said, riffling through the rainbow of silk and chiffon. “She wanted to be a Bollywood designer before she married Daddy and moved here.”
Saris, salwar kameezes, ghaghras in every color, every shade, and apparently every style covered three entire walls.
“Ridhi.” Mili stood frozen in place. “How did you ever live in our apartment?”
“What do you mean?” Ridhi pulled a few hangers out and placed them on a dress-stand contraption.
“I mean look at this.” Mili swept her arms around the veritable clothing store around her.
Ridhi pulled two kurtis from hangers and slung them on the contraption. “You know what it feels like to be in love, Mill. None of this matters. I didn’t want any of it when Mummy and Daddy wouldn’t let me be with Ravi. It totally drove them nuts when I didn’t take their money, when I worked at Panda Kong. And see, they learned their lesson.” She held a kurti against Mili and frowned. “You are like exactly half my size.”
Ridhi was more than half a foot taller than Mili. She didn’t have an inch of pudginess on her, but she had wide shoulders and lush curves that made her look exactly like those Amazons from Greek mythology.
“I have an idea.” Ridhi turned back to the clothes. “And by the way, what’s the story with this Samir guy?” She slid hangers back and forth, searching for something.
“No story. He just moved into our building. He knew someone from my village, so he stopped by to say hi and we . . . we became friends.”
“Interesting.” Ridhi pulled out two stringy chiffon blouses and pushed them toward Mili. “He doesn’t look at you like you’re a friend.” She wiggled her brows.
Mili crinkled her nose. “Don’t be ridiculous. Some mental stuff happened after you left. He’s just been really helpful.” Talk about understatements.
“Helpful?” Before Ridhi could say more a loud buzz pierced the air.
“Shit.” Ridhi ran to what looked like a hi-tech radio mounted on the wall and jabbed a button. “Ya, Mummy?”
“Ridhika Kapoor, do you have any sense at all? It’s eight-thirty. Your guests are sitting around twiddling their thumbs and wondering where the bride is.” Ridhi’s mom was back in full drama mode. Did she even have another mode? “Where are you? Ravi’s here. The poor child has been sitting here waiting patiently.”
“The poor child?” Mili mouthed at Ridhi. Talk about change of heart.
Ridhi rolled her eyes so far into her head, Mili giggled.
“I’m changing, Mummy. I’m coming. Two minutes.” Ridhi ran back to the closet and thrust a blue chiffon blouse at Mili.
Mili stared at the ball of strings in her hand. “You can’t be serious,” she said to Ridhi. Where was the actual fabric that made up whatever this piece of clothing was supposed to be?
“Hurry up and try it on. It’s a short top on me but I think it will be the perfect kurta length on you, and I’ll give you churidar pants and you’ll have a full churidar suit.”
“But this doesn’t have sleeves. Actually it doesn’t even have shoulders. It only has strings.” Mili held the thing up and shook the strings at Ridhi.
“And you will look lovely in it. Come on, Mummy will kill me if I’m not down in two minutes.” She started pulling Mili’s T-shirt off. “It’s my wedding, Mill. I don’t think you’re allowed to argue with me.”
“Yeah, because otherwise arguing with you is so very productive.”
“I don’t understand why everyone keeps saying that. Now take your clothes off or you’ll get me skinned alive.”
Mili laughed and pulled the strappy concoction on. She had to admit the blue-green was rather lovely and the fabric slithered like cool liquid over her skin.
“OMG!” Ridhi slapped her hands to her cheeks. “So beautiful.” She fanned her face as if she were trying to stop herself from crying, looking exactly like her mother.
She turned Mili around to face a mirror.
Mili swallowed. Beautiful wasn’t quite the word that sprang to mind. “There’s too much skin showing.” She adjusted the bodice and tried to spread the mass of strings over her shoulders so they covered more. The most skin she had ever shown was in her sleeveless kurtas. And those her naani only let her wear because she was an officer’s wife.
I suppose an officer will want his wife to dress like a city girl . . . I suppose an officer will want his wife to read those books . . . I suppose an officer will want his wife to . . .
It was Naani’s excuse for everything. And Mili didn’t feel even the slightest bit guilty for milking it. If it weren’t for Naani’s raging need to turn her into the perfect officer’s wife Mili would never have studied past tenth grade, and she definitely would never have been allowed to go to Jaipur University. As for coming to America, with that she had given poor Naani no choice.
Ridhi slapped away Mili’s hand when she tried to pull the neckline higher and started tying the strings that crisscrossed Mili’s back and held the flimsy thing in place. When Mili was all tied up, there was one thing she was sure of: if her naani ever saw her like this, she would lock her in a room and never let her out until Virat himself came back and took her away.
“May I at least have a duppata or a stole?” Something to wrap around herself and make her halfway decent.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ridhi said, handing her a pair of tights. “If I looked like that in anything I would never cover it up and I would never take it off. What size is your waist, Mill, twelve?”
“How would I know? Who measures their waist?”
“Um, everyone with two X chromosomes.”
“I’m not leaving this closet until you give me a duppata. The entire household does not need to see my chromosomes.” Mili pulled off her jeans and pulled on the tights and inspected the results in the mirror. The tights fit perfectly, gathering around her ankles and snugly hugging her calves and her thighs. But she had to remember never to bend over as long as she wore this blouse.
“And you call me stubborn.”
Mili gave Ridhi her sweetest smile and held out her hand for the duppata. The intercom buzzed again. Ridhi held down the button. “Mummy, I said I’m coming,” she said so loudly Mili wondered why they even needed the intercom.
She shoved a chiffon duppata into Mili’s hands. “Go find your Romeo. I’ll bet he’s looking for you.”
“Ridhi, please!” Mili said as Ridhi pushed her out of the room.
Mili tried to wrap the duppata around herself but Ridhi, the traitorous sneak, had given her a thin skinny scarf. She tugged and pulled it around herself to no avail. What she should’ve been doing was holding on to the railing instead of struggling with the scarf, because with her first step onto the sweeping stairs two things happened. One, her ankle did a funny twitching thing and turned to rubber. And two, she caught Samir looking up at her and her knees followed suit. Her arms flew out like wings, flailing wildly for support, and her body lurched forward into free-fall.
She landed with a thud against his chest. Her breasts flattened against hard muscle. One powerful arm wrapped around her waist while the other arm grabbed the railing and kept them both from falling. She found her nose squished against the exact center of his chest, which meant her lips were also pressed against his warm cotton-covered skin. Rich magazine-fold perfume filled her head. Her senses pushed past the smell, searching for that other scent she knew she would find. The scent of the desert, of hot sand and warm
rain. She breathed it in as her fingers found the bulges on his arms, and held on to them unbidden.
He pulled away and swept her up in his arms as if she were a child. One arm under her shoulders, one in the crook of her knees. No, not quite like a child. Hot need cramped in her belly. A cheer rose from the crowd, followed by claps and wolf whistles. He spun around, refusing to meet her gaze. Color kissed his golden cheeks. With slightly dazed eyes he took in the crowd at the bottom of the stairs.
“Put me down,” she hissed. “What are you doing?”
He glared at her. “What are you doing? If you fall with that ankle, you could damage it permanently. Did you lose your mind when you crashed your bike?” He carried her down the stairs. The crowd parted for them. He dumped her on a puffy bench in the hallway.
“Please,” she said into his ear. “Please don’t make a scene. Everyone is watching.”
He took in the expression on her face. She must’ve looked mortified because when he straightened up and faced the crowd, he had plastered a cocky grin across his face. “She’s fine. Everything’s okay. She was just born clumsy. Nothing more to it.”
The crowd laughed and murmured their concern. Hands patted Mili’s head and everyone dispersed into the kitchen and the living room.
“Born clumsy?” Mili glared up at Samir. But color suffused her cheeks and her eyes did that bashful thing they did when she was pretending to be angrier at him than she was. The ache that had set off in his chest when he’d seen her coming down the stairs struggling with her scarf took on an intensified burn.
It had been hard enough when she wore those boxlike T-shirts on her un-boxlike body. The women he went out with routinely wore a fraction of the clothing her friend had obviously forced her into. But the last thing he needed to see, to know, was that she blushed with her entire body, that the glistening luminosity of her skin wasn’t restricted to her face, to her arms. Shit, he was thinking about the skin on her arms. And he couldn’t believe how bloody erotic the thought was. He felt like one of those lecherous crotch-scratching mawalis who hung around street corners ogling women for sport. How many of those fuckers had he punched in the face?