Where is she? Is she not at the Promenade Hotel, where she is supposed to be? He should have asked, “Where are you? What did you lose and why is that against the law?” He toys with the newspaper lying on his desk. It flops open to the World News page. The headline causes him to teeter on his size-eleven feet. It reads: VISA VIOLATORS JAILED IN AMERICA.
Visa trouble? Could it be? Anything’s possible with Dolly. The article goes on to say that these visa violators are treated well, given a healthy diet and medical care as needed.
Soli gives vent to a desperate moan. The room appears to heave violently around him like an airplane buffeted by turbulence. Is there anyone he can ask for help? Anyone who is there in America, on the scene, so to speak? That girl—what was her name? Dina? Tina? Dini, that was it. She’s there, is she not? He shakes his head. He can’t expect a child—even a bright girl who knows a lot about fillums—to bail him out.
Bail. The word makes him quail. What will the gossip magazines make of this? He rings for his assistant. There is no choice. “Book me a flight,” Soli says, wincing. “To Washington, D.C. And check my papers, yaar. Make sure the visa is still valid.” Governments are fussy about such things.
He braces himself. A long plane trip to America, with Dolly at the other end of it, healthy diet or not—alack and alas, Mr. Soli Dustup does not see soothing effects in sight anytime soon.
Chapter Twenty-One
Not the Same
DINI AWAKES WITH A START, so she must have slept after all. The aggravation and disappointment of the day before have not disappeared, exactly, but Dini has things to do. She begins the day in a mad rush so she can get to work.
That is to say, she puts-stuff-away-calls-Dad-has-breakfast-brushes-teeth-makes-her-bed (sort of, and maybe not in that order, but never mind). Then she gets to work.
Maddie looks over Dini’s shoulder as she opens up her green-and-silver stripy notebook. It’s like old times. Almost. An “Important Grand Opening List” begins to dance onto the page.
Volunteers:
Maddie
Dad
Who else? Chickoo Uncle?
“Put my mom down,” Maddie says.
Dini adds her:
Gretchen (Maddie's mom)
Flowers
Dance steps
Rosewater thingies
“What are rosewater thingies?” Maddie wants to know.
“They’re stunning.” Dini tells her how Dolly was invited to cut a ribbon at the opening of the new wing of Mom’s clinic. She gave Dini a little silver container with rose water in it. Dini got to shake it around so all the guests got splashed with the tiny fragrant drops.
“I could do that,” Maddie says. “Where do we get one of those?”
“Dolly’s got them. And a couple of big brass lamps. You can’t have openings and things without them.” Dini’s glad she got to live in India for ten months and saw an actual opening so she can contribute essential details like this. A clinic is not the same as a film festival, but an opening is an opening, isn’t it? She carries on writing.
Did the police find anything?
Cake
Props?
Clues?
Cake?
“You wrote ‘cake’ twice,” Maddie points out. “Why the question mark?”
Dini erases the second “cake,” leaving streaky marks on the page. She did not mean to write that question mark. There can be no question about the cake. “Maddie,” she says, “that chef could make chocolate cake with rose petals, don’t you think?”
“Sure?” says Maddie. “Hey, Dini . . . ”
“What?”
“Nothing,” Maddie says.
If Dini’s dad were here, he might point out that there is an elephant in the room. Not a real one, alas, but the kind of metaphorical elephant that people do not want to talk about.
Now Maddie is humming a Dolly song and looking at Dini’s list as if there’s something elephantine that she wants to say.
“What?” says Dini.
All in a rush Maddie says, “It’s just . . . just, you know, that my friend Brenna could help out. She could, really. She’d be great and she’s really fun. What do you think?” She waits, as if there is a correct answer and she expects Dini to give it right now.
Oh. Brenna. The new friend Maddie made after Dini went away. “Um,” says Dini.
“I told her all about you,” Maddie says.
Upon reflection, Dini didn’t really want to say “Um.” It’s an iffy thing to say. She didn’t mean to sound iffy. “Um” was not the correct answer. “Sure,” she says now, trying to make up.
This whole leaving-and-coming-back business is more complicated than Dini ever imagined. You leave a place, and when you come back, things have changed. A lot can change in ten months. Take Maddie. She is taller. She has braces. She has a new friend.
And Dini? Dini is also taller, true. But how else has she changed? Has she changed at all? She can’t tell. She’s been running so fast she’s meeting herself and she can’t tell old and new selves apart.
“Brenna would luuuurve to meet you,” Maddie says. “I’ve told her all about you. She’ll come over sometime, maybe during spring break—well, just put her down, okay?”
Dini does.
Brenna (Maddie’s friend)
Nothing wrong with that. Maddie can have lots of friends. Look how many friends Dini made in Swapnagiri. But still, it looks funny on the page.
Chapter Twenty-Two
No Elephants
MR. BAYAN, PROGRAM DIRECTOR OF EDUCATIONAL and cultural events at the Smithsonian Institution, is a busy man. It is early on Wednesday morning, and the catering problem has not yet been solved. Still, he tries to be polite to the meek, halting voice on the other end of his phone.
“Yes, yes, Mr. Dev,” he says. “We’re looking forward to the event. I trust you had a pleasant trip.”
Something about a passport. Lost, but they’re working on getting a replacement. The director makes what he hopes are sympathetic noises.
The man repeats the request.
There is a brief silence, the kind that precedes an explosion—or a dance—in Dolly’s fillums. Then, “No,” says Mr. B. firmly. “A parade was not in the plan. We were told an opening dance, by a children’s group, which is fine.”
The voice on the other end persists. Something about a—what? “Excuse me?” he says, although he heard it quite well the first time.
Mr. B. has to swallow his annoyance. He tries to be diplomatic. He tries to remember he is on the staff of a major museum. He is no longer in the United States Marines. But it’s hard for him when people insist on making ridiculous requests.
“We’ll have a great reception,” he assures the nervous man, the fiancé of this Bollywood star whom they will shortly be hosting. “Music. Dancing. The works.” He hesitates, then adds, “Refreshments. It’ll be grand, don’t worry. But no. You must understand. No elephant.”
There will be refreshments. Of course. He’s working on that problem. He’ll solve it. Of course he will. But an elephant? He shakes his head. What next?
Chapter Twenty-Three
Avoiding Inconvenience
TWO TEDIOUS DAYS HAVE GONE by since Dini’s bout of iffiness. Maddie has been in school. Dolly has filled out forms to get a new passport. Dini has gone from iffy to fretful. Dad’s done his best to help, but his idea of fun is taking Dini to computer stores. Then, on Wednesday, Dad drops Dini, Dolly, and Chickoo Uncle off at the door of the Consular Wing of the Embassy of India in Washington, D.C., where two friendly stone elephants guard the entrance.
“You go in,” Dad says. “I’ll find a parking space. It will be like looking for—”
“A needle,” Dini says sympathetically.
“In a haystack,” he agrees. They both know that needle. Dolly was a needle in a haystack once, when Dini was looking for her.
“You’d better go,” Dini says as a police car cruises by.
Dad nods, eases of
f into the traffic, and is gone.
Passport Section/Consular Wing
Embassy of India, Washington, D.C.
Limited hours
Applications: 9:30 a.m. to 12:30 p.m. weekdays
Pickup: 4:30 p.m. to 5:30 p.m. weekdays
(Please check embassy holiday list.)
To avoid inconvenience,
applicants are requested
to approach the Consular Wing
with a completed application
and all necessary
supporting documents.
Due to restrictions of space and the limited viewpoint available to the person behind the window, the passport section of the Consular Wing of the Indian embassy is not what you might call a hot spot of fun and frolic. “May I help you?” The voice of the person at the window indicates that her day has been full of tedium and she doesn’t seriously expect it to get better.
It must be tough, Dini thinks, to sit for half a day, every day, at a two-foot-by-two-foot window. After a while you might start to think of the whole world as a small square framed in wood. She settles herself into a straight-backed chair next to Dolly’s.
“Passport and cake and what else do the fates have in store for me?” says Dolly. “The Smithsonian told Chickoo they’ve catered the refreshments, but they can’t do the cake.”
“Don’t worry,” says Dini. “I think we found someone who can.” She tells Dolly about the chef who is due back soon and how Dini’s going to talk to him the first chance she gets.
“With rose petal decorations?” says Dolly, surprised.
Dini hesitates for a minute. She thinks of Ollie and Alana worrying what the chef’s going to say about Dolly’s rose petal milk shakes. But then she thinks, How could even the meanest chef say no to a star? So she nods as surely as she knows how. She nods like she really means it.
“Such a relief,” says Dolly, trying to lean back, and failing. “Thank you. That’s one worry off my mind!” She sighs. “But for every worry that goes, there are a dozen more. No parade, no elephant. So depressing and dismaying.” She manages to cross her legs elegantly even in this uncomfortable chair. Dini wishes she could be half as elegant. The thought just makes her slump.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Temporary Papers
IT IS TOUGH BEING A kid in a world run by people who are not kids. Dini has spent the last ten months in India getting over missing Maddie, so she planned to spend the entire trip to America making up for that.
But their calendars are out of sync. Maddie still has a few days of school before spring break. Dini’s school in India is closed this week, and she’s taken a few extra days off next week (and will owe them some homework). All for Dolly’s sake. She reminds herself to breathe.
On Dolly’s behalf, Chickoo Uncle inquires about the status of Dolly’s passport application.
“I am trying to explain, sir, but you’re not listening,” the person at the window says. “We need the old passport along with your completed application for renewal or replacement in order to issue you a new one. Has it been renewed once already? If it has, we can replace. Otherwise we’ll simply renew.” She waits expectantly, as if she has explained it all and she cannot see why this is not crystal clear to the densest applicant.
“But the old passport is lost!” Chickoo Uncle protests.
“You didn’t say that,” the person points out. There is a pause. Maybe the window person doesn’t like pauses, because she fills it up at once with a volley of words: “Paperwork.” “Temporary.” “Signature.” “Six working days.”
Chickoo Uncle droops.
Dolly stirs, fans herself with the end of her scarf. “Chickoo,” she calls out, “sab theek-thaak hai?”
This is the same simple question that Dolly’s character asks in KHSV: “Is everything all right?” The question galvanizes the leading man into action. So Chickoo at this point should really leap up onto a chair, strike a pose, and break into song: “Kasme tootay, vaadey tootay, mera dil bhi toota!”
But Chickoo Uncle is showing no signs of singing about broken promises causing his heart to break. What is wrong with him? Why doesn’t he do something?
Dini catches sight of the digital clock above the window. It is 12:20 p.m. “Oh no!” she cries. “They’re going to close in ten minutes.”
A ticking clock, as any fillum fan knows, can speed up the most leisurely dance number. Dolly leaps into the fray. She approaches that window. No completed application or supporting documents in hand, but oh wow, does Dolly approach that window! She raises herself to her full height, which isn’t much, but somehow she manages to fill the room.
“How did it get lost?” the woman is asking.
“I don’t know and I don’t care!” Dolly says, pumping her voice up with each word. She leans right into the window, never mind that she has to stand on tiptoe to do so. “Tell me where to sign.” Such a storm of beads and rings flings loose that the window person steps back in a hurry.
“Twelve twenty-two,” whispers Dini, right at Dolly’s elbow.
The window person stares. “I know you,” she says, tottering where she stands.
And suddenly it’s as if music fills the air. As if trees loaded with bottlebrush flowers unfurl their branches in the stucco-ceilinged room and dip in a little bow to the clock and the window and the picture of Mahatma Gandhi on the wall. As if the chairs might get up and do a little dance all by themselves.
“Dolly Singh?” the window lady whispers. And stares. Gulps. And stares.
Dolly smiles serenely. “Yes.”
“Twelve twenty-four,” says Dini.
The window lady gets her voice back. What a recovery. And now suddenly she moves at lightning speed. She whips out forms and pens, and makes little x’s in all the places where Dolly needs to sign. Dolly Singh? Vah! Of course she’ll get her an emergency certificate, for ID purposes. “Use it here. Travel home. No problem. Is it true that you’re going to be releasing a fillum here in Washington? Dolly? Really? Array vah!”
Dolly chats happily, signing away as if she were autographing for a fan, which maybe she is.
Chickoo Uncle runs his finger around the inside of his shirt collar in weary relief.
Soon Dolly has completed her form. Her picture has been stuck to the paper, and it’s been signed by all the right people. The woman keeps a copy and gives Dolly one. They will let her use that instead of her passport to travel back to India.
“What about the lost passport?” Dini asks.
“It will be documented in the system as lost,” says the woman.
“What a relief!” Dolly says. “Then it’s all right.”
She says it as if that will take care of it. But isn’t the lost passport still out there somewhere? No one appears to be worrying about that. Maybe, Dini thinks, I don’t need to worry either. All is well, fine, and complete. Like a dance that begins at center stage and spirals out and out until the end, when the center draws everyone back in again, and the lights go down. . . .
And Dini? Right at this moment she is experiencing the odd sensation of being a little—well, unnecessary. Dolly, after all, is managing fine. The clock has ticked itself right out of time and no one is paying attention to it. The window woman is bringing her colleagues to meet Dolly, who is inviting them all to the opening.
Dolly catches Dini’s eye and blows her a friendly kiss. She says, “And my dearest young fans, Dini and her friend Gladdie, will put on a grand opening dance. Isn’t that wonderful?”
The entire embassy staff is now staring at Dini. Someone is bringing cups of tea. Someone else is offering trays of crunchy snacks, all in honor of Dolly.
“Maddie,” Dini says to no one in particular, which is just as well because no one is listening. “Her name’s Maddie.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chef!
OLLIE, LINE COOK AT THE promenade hotel’s Urban Delight Restaurant, is whispering to Alana, the sous-chef, over lunch prep. “There’s all kin
ds of stuff on Twitter about her.”
“Who?”
“Dolly. The Bollywood star. You know. Dolly Singh.” He jerks his chin at the hotel suites in the floors above their small kitchen universe.
“Dolly, huh?” she says. “What are they saying about her?”
“Stuff,” says Ollie mysteriously. “She’s famous. Imagine.”
“Imagine,” says Alana, and her face is terribly close to his and her eyes sparkle in a way that threatens to dislocate his vocal cords.
“WHAT’S going on in my KITCHEN?” The sudden roar makes Alana and Ollie leap back from their cozy chat. Now Ollie’s elbow, hitting a shelf, is in danger of dislocation.
In culinary circles it is well known that Chef Armend Latifi’s anger can make brave souls cower. Alana and Ollie cower now. Cowering is the sensible thing to do.
The chef lifts random lids, opens bags in the refrigerator. He checks suspiciously in each container, each bag. He peers under the counters as if expecting to surprise burglars. What a comedown this is, his frown suggests. Just days ago he was hobnobbing with culinary geniuses at international conventions. Now he has to face a couple of soulless ignoramuses who don’t know a Berliner from a Boston cream pie. “RoseroseROSE petals?” he roars.
Alana looks at Ollie. Ollie looks at Alana.
“Rose petals?” the chef demands. “Whatwhatwhat are you playing at?”
A nervous laugh comes bubbling up inside Ollie. He gulps it back down.
“She requested it specially,” Alana says, startling Ollie into a spasm.
Chef Armend wheels around. “Requested, eh?” he sneers. “Well, let me tell you. I, Armend Latifi, do not take requests. The menu is MY daily masterpiece! Do you understand?” His fist crashes down onto the counter.
Ollie flinches. He does not mean to. Flinching is ruinous to his state of mind, especially with Alana looking.
The Problem with Being Slightly Heroic Page 5