by Moondi, Romi
My sister meanwhile, with her hundred or so bangles on each arm, slowly massaged her stomach. “Fine, give me that samosa.”
I eyed the greasy samosa on the plate. “What else have you eaten today?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing since three a.m.?”
“No.”
“Then you probably shouldn’t be eating fried dough filled with spicy potatoes.”
“GIVE IT ME!”
Uh-oh, Bridezilla’s back.
I handed her the plate and watched her take a bite with fascination. I watched her chew, swallow, pause…then puke it all out into the nearby waste bin. A few children screamed and ran away. It didn’t seem like the right time to say “I told you so.”
I handed her a tissue instead.
The door opened a second later and my brother nodded his head.
Time for big sis to get married…with some nice rancid vomit breath.
***
In the traditional Sikh temple, the men sat on the floor on one side and the women on the other. In every wedding ceremony I’d been to, I would pray for it to be over as my butt would get all sore and my shoulder muscles would burn. This wedding was no different, except I wanted to get this over with so I could focus on my many duties at the reception, like emceeing the entire thing and making a speech. It’ll be fine, half the audience barely understands English.
I watched my sister walk around the temple altar for the fourth and final time, with her soon-to-be husband leading the way. He was dressed in a traditional Indian “kurta” (long golden shirt, matching pants) with a turban and a beard he’d tried to grow. That turban would be getting tossed and the beard shaved clean by the time of the reception. This made me very glad, since right now he was channelling the “creepy uncle” vibe.
They sat back down in their spots, and with some final words of blessing in Punjabi, the ceremony was over. There wasn’t any applause or loud “woohoos” as the couple made out, because first of all applause never happened in a serious temple, and second of all Indian couples didn’t really kiss each other in public.
Instead it was all about “CASH MONEY,” as a throng of guests lined up to drape garlands over the bride and groom, and more importantly to give them cash. Considering this monetary windfall, and then more cash in envelopes when the guests made their way to the reception, my sister and her husband had a shot at breaking even from this wedding.
The Indian wedding: a very well thought-out business plan...
***
I slowly inched away from the kitchen, while my mother still sat at the table...wailing. I could barely see her, as other aunties and a few of the grannies surrounded her in a hug like it was a rugby huddle. Crying was like vomiting to me, meaning that if I saw someone doing it, whether on TV or in real life, my body wanted to do it too. I tried to maintain my composure by clearing my throat multiple times, but this sob-fest wasn’t anywhere close to done.
No one had died today, but ten minutes earlier at precisely three p.m., the caravan of husband and wife had officially left my parents’ driveway. An hour before, family members and friends had welcomed the new couple back here, with tea, Indian sweets, laughter, and (more) money. In stark contrast, the scene was now post-apocalyptic. This was no surprise in the Indian world, because as soon as the daughter left, the mother’s marathon weep-fest was required to begin.
I had seen this three p.m. weep-fest several times, at aunts’ or second-cousins’ weddings. I assumed the emotions were genuine, but that didn’t make it any less theatrical.
Even though I hadn’t earned my role as a “hugger” of the weeper (you had to be married for that), I felt bad for running out of this scene.
On the other hand it was extremely awkward.
I inched even further away from the kitchen, and a second later my prayer for escape was answered.
Ding-donnnng!
I sprinted for the door, and when I opened it I was greeted by two Pakistani women.
Hair and makeup at your service!
I wasn’t sure if Muslim weddings included weep-fests as well, but when I gestured to the kitchen and the sounds echoing out, they nodded and seemed to understand.
I thought about how early I needed to be ready, in order to make sure everything was on time at the reception hall. Then I thought about my mother, still wailing in the kitchen and wanting us to share in her misery.
In a moment of true narcissism, I signalled for the girls to keep quiet, and snuck them upstairs to my room.
Sorry mom, but I am NOT half-assing my hair...
***
After weeks of soaking up the sun in whatever increments of time I could manage, I at last looked like a girl who belonged in a gold and pink saree. The dark pink and silver embroidery glinted off my medium brown skin, while my matching chandelier earrings popped from within my mass of curls.
“There’s only one problem,” I said, as I batted my fake eye-lashes at the mirror (Indian weddings of direct family members: the only time I fake it out with “falsies.”)
“What is it?” one of the stylists asked.
“What if it falls?” I pulled at the part of my saree that was wrapped around my lower back and hips. There were many ways to wear a saree, some of which didn’t show one’s back or stomach flesh at all. Today I had chosen against the goody-goody option. Sorry, dad.
My stylists assured me I was safely and expertly pinned, but would the paranoid me who thought her saree would fall off when she rose to make her speech believe them?
Seven more safety-pins later I was out the door...
***
The banquet hall was a sea of white and purple, the colours that matched my sister’s beautiful white and purple wedding dress. All the silver embroidery went perfect with her shiny tiara. As for the purple and white flower arrangements, the purple and white wedding cake, purple and white seat covers...even Anil’s purple tie against his sharp Armani suit, well everything matched my sister’s perfect vision.
My sister’s actual vision however, was seen through squinted eyes at the moment, as she glared at me with that familiar Bridezilla murderous intent.
I helplessly raised my hands, and then focused on practicing my speech at the podium where I stood.
But how could I focus on my speech, when a stupid Indian stage mom was ruining the night? I checked the clock on the phone and frowned, wondering when the hell the stage mom’s kids would finish their Bhangra dance performance. We were on the ninth costume change by now, everyone was bored, and the stage mom kept lying by telling me each song was the last.
When they finally left the stage to the tune of some lukewarm applause, it was time for my important speech. Anil’s brother-in-law was supposed to be doing the other half of the speech, but he’d told me he was too nervous thirty minutes before, so now I had to improvise and add him into my script. That weasel.
I started with the usual intro, then went straight into the meaty stuff.
“My sister and I…are loud.”
There were some laughs.
“We do not get along about who should do the laundry or who should do the dishes…”
Even more laughs.
…but somehow, I’m going to miss her.”
From there I transitioned to a bunch of cheesy lies about how I’d miss her. I added in some nice stuff about Anil, then some improvised crap that his brother-in-law would have said, and just like that the speech was done.
Afterwards an overseas uncle grabbed me by the shoulders. “That speech was first-class! You remind me of Indira Gandhi on that podium. You are just like her!”
“Thanks,” I said. “You know she was assassinated right?”
He stared at me blankly.
***
I was back at my podium in relative darkness, while the spotlights and the smoke machine joined my sister and her husband in their first married dance. It wasn’t some cheesy Celine Dion song they chose, but instead the unexpected “Lovesong�
� by The Cure. I was so impressed by that choice, and I doubted it had been my sister’s pick, so maybe it was a sign that my brother-in-law was actually cool.
I turned my gaze to the first table, which was packed with my parents, aunts and uncles. They watched in awe as the two kids danced, and my mother and father were beaming with pride. I’d never seen them even close to this happy before. It occurred to me then how wonderful this day could be, not only for the couple in love, but for the parents who could finally stop worrying about their daughter’s future.
I wanted to give that relief to my parents too, but more than that I wanted to feel what was happening on that dance floor. I wanted it so badly, that I started to wonder if it was time to stop chasing long-distance fantasies, and time to settle down with anybody decent I could find.
I wiped away a tear.
Chapter Nine
It was August now, the wedding had been over for a month, and I finally had my life back. If you could call it a life, given that I was twenty-nine years old and lived with my parents, like any proper unmarried Indian girl.
My sister and her husband were back from their jealousy-inducing honeymoon in Italy and Paris, and finally had some pictures and video to share with my parents. The video was edited of course, to take out any scenes with alcohol (even after marriage the charade continues). I’d sat around for Venice and Rome, but snuck away during the Vatican City tour out of boredom (sorry to whichever Pope is in charge, but you’re not that interesting).
Instead I was in my room, doing a final read of the proof for “Year of the Chick.” I’d had the copy mailed to me at work, since the cover with its Indian bride and groom X-ed out would certainly cause a scandal. I didn’t need my parents sniffing out the anti-arranged-marriage propaganda, so the less they knew the better. I paused for a moment to cradle the book in my hands. I also smelled it, hugged it, and felt it up a little. I’d been doing this a lot since it arrived last week, and aside from my cat Tommy, I’d never loved something more. The quest to fall in love seemed so trivial right now, in the face of this dream to share my writing with the world.
In the midst of my spinster trance, my phone buzzed to life with an instant message from James. This was definitely a surprise, since we’d gradually drifted apart with my book now wrapping up. The message was an even bigger surprise: Are you free for a phone call?
For two months now, I’d buried the memory of Erik and the sound of James’s voice deep in fantasy land. Fantasy land was now a place with a big “NO TRESPASSING” sign, which was exactly what I needed to brace for the reality of becoming a self-published author.
I bit my lip as I stared at James’s message. What if he has something encouraging to say?
I listened hard to measure the downstairs noises. My sister’s narcissistic vacation anecdotes were in full force, with my dad’s boisterous laughter quickly following. Seems safe enough.
Deciding that the chance for some encouragement far outweighed any dwelling on the past, I dialled his number and waited.
“James Caldwell.”
That voice. Like silk.
“Hi,” I said.
“How are you?”
“Good thanks.” I glanced at my book. “Nervous.”
“I think I know why that is. How much longer until the release date?”
“Less than a month!” My heart was beating fast at the idea of being “out there” as an author.
“Well I’ve read the book so I know the quality is there,” he said.
“Because you helped me whip it into shape!” I smiled. “I won’t ever forget that.”
“Good, I wouldn’t want you to.” He laughed gently.
“I guess it would be easy to forget things...we don’t talk as much as we used to!” My smile faltered. “Which is fine,” I quickly added.
“It’s odd though, isn’t it? How we’ve settled into comfortable silence...”
Comfortable? Never knowing if we’ll meet again is COMFORTABLE?!
“Yeah, it’s like we’ve finally found our rhythm,” I lied.
“Or maybe not,” he said.
Huh?
“Well pick one!” I said, as he laughed.
“I just mean that it’s nice to chat, just as it’s nice to have breaks.”
“You sound like Confucius.”
He laughed again. “Then let me clarify. I mean that once your book is out, I’d enjoy hearing about what it’s like to be an author. The ups, the downs...”
I frowned. “The downs? Like what?”
“Well that’s easy,” he said. “The way you’ll have no audience to start with, that moment when you get your first scathing review, wondering if you’ll ever sell more than twenty books...”
“Hey!” I reminded myself to never use James as a counsellor for the sad or terminally-ill. “Why are you so quick to ignore the ups?”
“Because the ups don’t make you who you are,” he said. “Dealing with the low points is the true measure of character.”
“Right...” I set down my book which was suddenly scaring the crap out of me.
“I am teasing you a little though,” he added.
I grabbed my book and gave it another hug. “That’s not funny!”
“Not even a little funny?”
I smiled. “So what’s going on with you? I’m so out of the loop.”
“Oh I will catch you up on that another time, but right now you need to put the final touches on that book.”
He was right, even though not knowing about his life made him seem more far away. Or maybe that’s where he needed to be.
“Well I’ll keep you updated,” I said. “But you can e-mail me too you know, ‘cause even though things are crazy, I still answer the A-list e-mails!” But I’d prefer audio recordings so I can hear that accent.
“I will keep that in mind,” he said. “Keep your head up Roms, good things are to come. Even if it’s bumpy at first.”
I knew he was talking about my book, but I applied his words to the realm of love, and I sure as hell hoped he was right.
We exchanged quick goodbyes and that was that. James was immediately replaced with my cat Tommy, who hopped up on my bed and settled into my lap, all eighteen pounds of his black and white furry self. When I said his name he started purring heavily. I wish I could make a guy do that. I stroked his fur and tried to figure out this thing with James, this once-in-a-while contact in my life. At least last year when we’d e-mailed every day and talked on the phone, I was able to believe he was actually in my life. But now he was more like a ghost. Not a fatherly ghost like Bill Cosby in “Ghost Dad,” but more like a Patrick Swayze ghost in the movie...”Ghost.” Maybe one day we would sexily do pottery together, with “Unchained Melody” playing in the background.
Maybe not.
All I knew for sure was that a relatively harmless ghost was a good distraction from a very flesh and bones Erik Thomson. And so, if James and this book could keep my mind off of Erik ‘til I finally forgot him for good, maybe it was okay as a therapy trade-off. It’s like drinking whisky to get off crack. Sign me up.
I returned my focus to the book and Tommy, both of which would put me on the fast track to spinsterhood. Before I could completely commit to it though, I had wingman work to do for Amy and Eleanor...
***
Amy’s condo was right by the Harbor Front, so I thought it would be nice to walk it from Union Station. The calm sound of waves hitting the boats reminded me of a guy named Andrew from several years back. He was the office transfer from Boston in my previous job, the one who had told me he liked me but oops: he had a girlfriend back home. Wow, that sounds familiar. I could remember how we’d acted when he’d admitted he had a girlfriend. How we avoided each other so we didn’t break any rules. And then he left.
This made me think about how I’d tried to forget Erik, and how he seemed to have done the same about me. We had two mutual friends, but neither of us had tried to get in touch since my trip back in May. At
first I’d thought this was the best thing for everyone involved, but now, as I walked along the lakefront and thought of Andrew...I wondered.
Where is my ghost-like James to distract me now?!
Luckily I was spared from any further dwelling on the past, when I turned on the next street and saw Amy’s building up ahead.
Time to get psyched for a night of fun...
***
I knocked on the door three times.
“Come in!” said Amy from somewhere inside. I opened the door to find her scurrying out of the bathroom in nothing but a towel.
“I’m not late!” she said, from inside her bedroom now.
I rolled my eyes and a few seconds later I was standing in her tiny living room. Amy had decorated everything in a modern purple and black. It was colourful enough for a girl, and neutral enough to have a guy move in some day. Except that’s not what Amy wants.
I found Eleanor on the couch looking totally hot, in her green ruffled tank-top and dark skinny jeans. Her brown hair was perfectly curled and fell a little past her shoulders, as she casually sipped a glass of red wine.
I smiled. “You started without me.”
“You’re Asian, you can’t keep up.”
I nodded . “Fair enough.”
“You look gorgeous by the way!” she said.
I spun around in my long strapless sequined navy top, paired with black tights and strappy matching sandals.
“By the way don’t worry,” I said. “I was wearing a sweater when I left the house.” I’d told my parents I’d been invited to a two-day conference, with dinner late at night and meetings very early in the morning. With a free hotel room, why would I risk coming home in the wee hours? They agreed. Another thread intricately strung in the web of lies.