Dolly nods. She lets them in, dropping a bracelet as she does so. The woman is a fountain showering silver all over. Dini picks up the bracelet and gives it back. This, perhaps, is what it means to be a grip.
“What I want to know,” Dini says, “is why didn’t you return Mr. Soli Dustup’s call?”
“Calls,” says Mr. Dustup, muscling into the conversation. “Many calls you didn’t blinking return.”
“What calls?” says Dolly. “My phone’s been lost for weeks. No one’s been able to phone me. That was the start of everything . . . going so terribly wrong.” She wrings her hands. “Oh, it’s the planet Mercury playing tricks on me!”
How well Dini knows that gesture! It is like in MJTJ when Dolly’s character thinks it is all over.
“Oh, Dolly,” Dini says, picking up a bangle that has just landed on the floor. A large bangle it is too. Quite heavy.
Mr. Soli Dustup says, “You never even phoned me back. You treated me . . . why, you treated me as if I were one of those pestering reporters from Filmi Kumpnee. You were star among my stars, Dollyji! Together we could have climbed the Dream Mountains of the fillum business. Why did you have to go and spoil it all?”
Dolly clasps her hands together, and it’s right out of the MJTJ scene by the waterfall, the one just before everything is solved and everyone’s heart is filled with complete joy. She says, “Kasme, vaade, sab toote pade hain!” And oh, Dini can feel the pang of those promises, promises, all lying about broken.
“Chickoo Uncle,” Dini says. This is his cue.
But Mr. Chickoo Dev does not seem to be paying attention. He just stands there staring at Dolly as if he has never before seen such a dreamy-beautiful sight. Which is understandable, naturally, but Dini wants to say it does not do him any good. There is a time when a Person has to Act. Dini thinks even Priya would agree with her here.
But then she sees that Dolly is staring at Soli Dustup. Her mouth is open. Her jaw has dropped. There is something about Swapnagiri, Dini decides, that makes this happen here, much more than you would expect in an ordinary day anywhere else.
Dolly says, “You phoned?”
“Ring-ring-ring!” Mr. Soli Dustup begins. “If I phoned once, I blinking phoned a hundred times. Ring-ring . . .”
Priya makes a sound like an exasperated monkey that has been duped out of its share of chocolate. “Stop him,” she whispers.
Chapter Forty-four
Ring-Ring-Ring
IT IS CLEAR THAT SOLI could go on adlibbing this dialogue for much too long. No sense of timing, that man.
Chickoo Uncle has found his words again. “I want to tell you—,” he says timidly.
Dini hates to interrupt. She knows she should give the scene to the two people who need to be in the spotlight, but someone has to push the story along so it can even get there. She says, “Excuse me, Chickoo Uncle, but I have to ask. Dolly, when did you last see that phone?” She sounds like the police constable in MJTJ when he has the nerve to take Dolly herself in for questioning, but never mind. Some things cannot wait.
Dolly narrows her beautiful eyes. She puts a finger to her perfect chin, thinking.
“It was that day,” she says, and she is looking at Chickoo Uncle. “That day before we took your car down to the city.” Her voice is not shattery exactly, but it’s a little quivery.
This is it. The big plot point to this fabulous filmi scene. “Mr. Chickoo Dev, Chickoo Uncle,” Dini says, and she is just about yelling from the excitement of it. “Can you go take the car seats out?”
“Car seats?” says Chickoo Uncle. His timing’s getting better, even if he’s not up on the direction of this scene. But then he gets it. He does. “Car seats?” he says again. “You don’t mean . . .”
“Yes!” Dini shouts. “Now! Trust me.”
Chickoo Uncle runs out of the Blue Mountain School guesthouse as if monkeys are after him.
Soon glorious, musical clankety-clangs break out, of car seats coming loose. In a few minutes Mr. C. Dev (Chickoo to his friends), of Dev Tea (Private) Limited, owner of Sunny Villa Estates, appears in the doorway. In one hand he is clutching a small silver phone. In the other is a bag of the finest dark chocolate with crushed rose petals.
“Yesssss!” Dini says, and Priya hisses along for company.
Dolly takes the bag with one hand and the phone with the other. She sets them both down. Then she picks up the phone. She flips it open.
“The battery is dead,” she says, as if it is a thing of wonder.
Dini says, “You have songs for your ringtones, don’t you?”
Dolly clutches the phone to her heart. “Yes,” she says, “all songs from MJTJ.”
“Ohhh!” says Chickoo Uncle. Dad would say that all is clear as the light of day.
“Exactly,” Dini says. “Those mournful songs. That was the phone ringing.”
“That was me,” says Mr. Soli Dustup, “trying to phone you. Plug it in, plug it in. It’ll be shipshape very soon. You have a charger?”
“Somewhere,” says Dolly vaguely.
“Stars,” says Soli Dustup fondly. “It’s why they need people to manage them.” He turns to Dini and says in a whisper, “It’s not just the female leads, mind you. Those hero types are even worse.”
Next Dolly peers into the bag. “Oh,” she says in a trembly kind of way. “For me?”
Chickoo Uncle nods.
“I love-love-love crushed rose petal chocolate,” says Dolly.
“I know,” whispers Chickoo Uncle.
“I am so sorry for the terrible things I wrote to you,” says Dolly. “So very, very sorry.”
Chickoo Uncle runs a distracted hand through his mop of hair. “No, I am very, very sorry,” he says, “for the terrible things I wrote.”
“No, me,” she says.
“Me, me,” he replies. They could clearly go on for hours. Dini can tell that they really want to burst into song, a good filmi song like
“Sunno-sunno! Dekho-dekho!” But in spite of this wanting to move the scene forward, they seem unable to stop repeating themselves.
There is so much that Dini wants to tell Dolly. But pacing is everything, and now is not the time for that. “Come on,” she says to Priya. “Let’s go outside and see what a yellow electric car looks like without its seats.” Because when two people are on the brink of fixing past mistakes, it is really best for everyone else to simply get out of the way.
Priya makes a sound like an engine coming to life and heads for the door. Mr. Soli Dustup coughs. “You too,” Dini tells him.
As Dini and Priya hurry Mr. Dustup out the door, Dolly and Chickoo Uncle seem to be cooing at each other like two of those pigeons you might see around the Gateway of India in Bombay that is now called Mumbai. Or around the Washington Monument.
Chapter Forty-five
Lal and Lila
“WHAT?” LILA SAYS. “You know him? That man with the purple face?”
“Shh,” Lal says, looking round in case anyone has heard. “Yes. Something like that.”
They are enjoying a tour of Swapnagiri in the Mountainview Tours minibus—operated by the nephew of the Open Arms owner. Lal has just told Lila about his business relationship, so to speak, with Mr. Dustup.
“Something? Nonsense.” She is brisk and efficient, Lal’s new wife. He is only just beginning to notice that. A commendable trait. “What a silly man,” says Lila, “not to recognize you right away.”
“I am only a postman,” says Lal humbly.
“You are a very fine postman,” says his loyal wife.
“Besides,” Lal points out, “he was talking so much, he probably wasn’t paying attention.” It is easy to talk over Lal’s humble voice. He does not say that, but it is true.
“Next time you see him, you should tell him,” Lila says. “I’ll help you.”
Lal gazes in loving admiration at his wife. How lucky he is, he thinks, to be here with her in such a dreamy place. Look at the blue sky. Look at the matching
blue of the hillsides, all covered with those beautiful little flowers. Look at the chocolate in that Dreamycakes Bakery.
His thoughts only intensify as the bus zigzags through the town. How kind a person is this minibus driver, who has taken such care to point out the local sights. The fine views. The two garages. The shops. Temple, church, mosque—one each. And that modest but heartfelt monument to the Indian postal system, the Swapnagiri Post Office.
“Do you think there could possibly be . . .,” Lal says to Lila as they drive past the post office.
“A job?” she says. “For you? Here? Why not?”
And on the spot they decide that if by some miracle there is a job opening in this post office, they will seriously consider leaving Mumbai that used to be called Bombay, for this most delightful of places.
Lal says, “But my mother . . .”
“She can come stay with us here,” Lila says.
Lal thinks his mother would like that. She will have lots of room here to hang out the clothes that she starches so lovingly. In Bombay that is now Mumbai, the neighbors complain that she is using up too much room on the community clothesline on the eighth-floor terrace roof of their building.
Of course, the saffron in Lal and Lila’s halva, the cashew nuts in their rice pulao, the icing on their cake, would be if they could just see Dolly.
What they do not yet know is that the saffron and cashew nuts, the icing, is waiting for them at the front desk of the Open Arms.
“A man phoned for you,” says the woman at the front desk. “He talked very fast. Here is his number.”
Lal phones the number. “What? Who is it?” Lila wants to know when he hangs up.
Lal shakes his head as if he can’t believe what has just happened. “It’s Mr. Soli Dustup,” he says. “He says we should go to the Blue Mountain School guesthouse right now. There is someone there he wants us to meet.”
When Dini stops to think about it, coincidence is too simple a concept. It’s much more complicated than that. It is as if all these people have arrived here at this moment for so many different reasons, and yet they are all meant to be here somehow. Their being here together makes this scene what it is.
Here, for example, just off the bus from town, is this couple in highly starched clothes. They may be getting off a local bus, but really, like Mr. Dustup, they have come to Swapnagiri all the way from Bombay that is now called Mumbai. As Dini tells everyone for the sixth time that day about how she first wrote to Dolly from Takoma Park, Maryland, the starchy-shirted man cries out, “That was you!”
“What was me?” says Dini, puzzled.
“You wrote a letter to Dolly Singh,” he says, “Famous Movie Star, Bombay, is it not so?”
Dini has to admit that it is indeed so.
“I delivered it,” he says modestly. “I put it most carefully into the proper occupant box. It was quite full at the time, so I was especially careful.”
“Thank you,” says Dini. She never thought she would meet the person who put that letter in Dolly’s mailbox with his own two hands. There is that coincidence thing again, and yet it is not random. There was no other way this story could have played out.
Lal’s wife nudges him. “And you’ve also delivered . . .,” she says, looking pointedly at the filmi executive person in the room.
Lal picks up his cue. “Yes, I delivered letters to Cuffe Parade flats for six months only, Mr. Soli Dustup.”
“Array!” cries Mr. Dustup. “That is where I have seen you before.” He waves his hands so excitedly that he seems to turn suddenly into a human windmill. “Who would believe it?” he cries, quite beside himself with emotion. “My blinking postman has come all the way to this Godforsaken place.”
“Wow, wow, wow,” Dini says. “It’s a movie!”
Priya makes a soundtrack for opening credits.
“This whole thing could be a movie, could it not, my friends?” says Soli Dustup in a tizzy of delight.
Veeran the driver shakes his head from side to side in that way that means, Yes-yes-yes. Such things happen in the movies, and they happen in Swapnagiri. It is that kind of a place. Where else could a broken postal machine and car seats and a cell phone all figure in a story about making friends and healing broken hearts?
“I wish we didn’t . . .,” Lal begins.
“Have to go back to Mumbai,” Lila finishes for him.
And Dini knows. She knows that everything is now falling into place with that certain feeling you get from the endings of only the very best movies. All the story lines are coming together, pointing with a happy sigh in the right direction.
She says, “They’re looking for a postal carrier here. At Swapnagiri post office. You should apply.”
As is the custom in the finest of movies, Lal and Lila find themselves wiping tears of pure joy from their cheeks.
Finally, when all the stories have been told and all the hugs and tears have been hugged and shed, Mr. Soli Dustup lends Dini his cell phone, which is called a mobile in these parts, and Dini makes a phone call.
She hits all the zeros and ones that you need to enter to make an international call. She has to tell Maddie’s mom, who answers the phone, that everything is just fine and there is nothing to worry about. It is just that she has the best-best-best news for Maddie, and sorry that it is 2 a.m., but sometimes time just will not wait.
When Dini says, “Maddie, I want you to say hello to Dolly Singh,” Maddie’s confusion turns to shock, then turns again into a shriek of pure delight. Dini hands the phone to Dolly. It is the kind of superfine moment that calls for a shot-reverse shot, where the camera switches from one face to another and back again, because how else can the audience get the big picture?
“Wowie, wowie, wowie,” Maddie says to Dini moments later. “I talked to—Dini, did I just talk to—is this real? Tell me it’s real, Dini.”
“Yes,” Dini assures her. “It’s real, Maddie.”
“You did it, you did it,” Maddie says. “You found her, you found her. I knew you would. I knew you would.” Maddie seems to need to repeat herself at this moment. Sometimes happiness has this effect.
Dini smiles, even though she knows that this is not an Internet video call and Maddie cannot see her smiling. Even though a smile is a silent thing, it is clear to her that on the other side of the world, at the other end of the phone connection, Maddie is smiling too.
Chapter Forty-six
Dancing With Dolly
IT TAKES DINI a while to fill Mom and Dad in. Even after they’ve been introduced to Dolly and heard the yellow car purr away, rid now of that dreadful noise, heard the happy news of Dolly’s reengagement to Chickoo Uncle—even after all this, Mom and Dad keep asking Dini questions like “What did the noise in the car have to do with it?” and “Who’s Lal?”
But eventually it is all sorted out, and even those in the audience who can’t keep up with the fast pace of things have been brought, so to speak, up to speed.
And so the day dawns of the big celebration at Mr. Chickoo Dev’s cottage number 1.
Mr. Mani has been working since daybreak to set up the refreshments.
Dini and Priya have been working with Dolly to string flower garlands all around the outside of the house. Sampy has set up a green and silver arch over the gate. The whole place looks like a movie set.
“Keep an eye out for monkeys,” whispers Mr. Mani, casting a suspicious eye about as he carries covered dishes into the lush green garden and sets them up on tables. “I have baked a most gigantic, superfine chocolate cake for the occasion. I have to take pictures to send.”
“To Guinness World Records,” breathes Dini.
“Why don’t you take the cake inside?” Priya asks. “The monkeys can’t get in.”
“But I want to take its picture outside against this background,” says Mr. Mani. “Simian villains.” He grinds his teeth at the very thought of them.
“Don’t worry,” Dini says. “We’ll keep them away from your cake.”<
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Lal and Lila bring along a new friend. He is also Lal’s new employer—the Swapnagiri postmaster. He seems to have been followed here by a peacock. It dances around the garden, shuffling its tail occasionally. Priya in turn echoes that sound, much to the peacock’s surprise. It blinks at her with a Haven’t-we-met? look on its face.
Lila has invited the tea-and-spices-shop man and his wife, who have offered her a job in the shop, which she has gladly accepted. They are talking to Mr. Mani about new and innovative ways to use their superfine pepper and other spices.
Dolly has invited Mrs. Balu, the principal of the Blue Mountain School.
“You,” says Mrs. Balu, “are the young lady who wrote that most impressive essay that was formatted like a movie script.”
Dini admits that was her.
“You,” says Mrs. Balu, “are a talented young lady. We are most happy to have you in our school.”
“And my friend Priya,” Dini says. Priya makes her flute sound, followed by drums.
“You,” says Mrs. Balu, “are very impressive. A human sound system. Our drama teacher will be thrilled. You know, I always find that the new school year is so exciting.” And she goes off, rubbing her hands, to get herself some of those curry puffs with potato and onion and a hint of chocolate.
Mom has invited all the doctors from the clinic, who in turn have invited all their patients, who in turn have brought their husbands and parents and in-laws. And the babies! There are babies everywhere, gurgling and cooing and climbing all over the furniture and getting underfoot and babbling at the goats, but no one minds in the least.
Yes, indeed, goats. The goatherd has brought his precious animals. Someone told him that there was going to be a party, and that no one would mind if his darlings did a little cropping of the grass outside cottage number 1. The goatherd has also brought a handful of kurinji blossoms. “Rare good luck,” he says, giving Dini one. “They bloom only every twelve years.”
The Grand Plan To Fix Everything Page 13