Destination Wedding

by Diksha Basu

  “No,” Bubbles said. “Shefali, that’s not how it works.”

  “That’s exactly how it works,” Shefali said. “I’m not here to get felt up.”

  * * *

  —

  “HAVE YOU DONE THIS sort of thing often, then?” Radha asked Mrs. Sethi, about twenty feet away from the bride and groom. They were sitting around a large, wrought-iron table on the main Colebrookes lawn for the haldi ceremony lunch.

  “Been on dates around Delhi? Not too many,” Mrs. Sethi replied. “I’ve had two other setups but one of those didn’t even progress past an initial first phone conversation and the other one fizzled after a first date. Actually, it fizzled during the first date when the gentleman said he didn’t think women should date after being widowed. Not sure why he was working with a matchmaker for widows, in that case. Sometimes I think I should do one of those 50 Dates in Delhi–type of experiments and write a book about it. All of the twenty-, thirty-year-old girls are writing books like that but they all have the same experiences. A widow should write that story.”

  David used both hands to tear a naan in half and then pushed open the middle like it was a pita and put a spoonful of black daal into it followed by two pieces of paneer tikka and two slices of tomato and two slices of cucumber.

  “You work at an Indian restaurant?” Mrs. Sethi asked, frowning at the naan in his hand.

  “Contemporary fusion Indian,” Radha said while David took a large bite of his Indian pita. She looked over at him and smiled. Last night, when he had returned to the cottage, disheveled and carrying bags of dhokla, she was so relieved, so happy, she couldn’t even be annoyed. She depended on him less than she had Neel, so she also got annoyed with him less, and that was wonderful, unencumbering.

  “They do things like Indian tacos,” Radha added as David chewed and nodded.

  “And gulab jamun cupcakes,” he added, having swallowed enough to be able to speak again. “Those are my favorite. Although after this trip, I think your classic hot jalebis with vanilla ice cream may be the winner.”

  David set about using a fork to refill the pita with the daal and half-bitten paneer tikka that had fallen out onto his plate.

  “I think your book sounds like a wonderful idea,” Radha said to Mrs. Sethi. “A Widow’s Guide to Dating in Delhi. Sensational.”

  Mr. Das returned to the table holding his plate filled with food from the stalls that lined the edge of the lawns. He sat down at the table near Mrs. Sethi and looked over at David’s pita.

  “What a brilliant idea to stuff the naan with the food,” he said. He tapped his finger against his temple and said, “You can tell this is the manager of a top Indian restaurant. Always innovating.”

  “Mrs. Sethi was just telling us about the book she’s writing about dating in Delhi,” Radha said, putting a forkful of slow-cooked mutton curry and rice into her mouth.

  The speakers suddenly screeched loudly and a momentary silence fell over the crowd in response.

  “This paneer is far better than what we serve at our restaurant,” David said. “How do I go about meeting the chef of this place?”

  “This is such a lovely place,” Mrs. Sethi said. “I’m so glad you invited me along, Neel. I’ve only ever been to Colebrookes once for a Diwali celebration. I kept meaning to look into getting a membership but I never got around to it. I’ve heard they only open up the membership once every two years.”

  Nono came over to their table, her driver standing two feet behind her holding her red Prada purse, identical in every way except color to the one she had the previous morning, and her gin and tonic. She was wearing a red handloom sari with a dark red blouse and large red sunglasses that covered half her face.

  “I’m worried they’re serving Bombay Sapphire out of the Tanqueray bottles but other than that, this is a lovely afternoon, don’t you think?” she said to the table. Without waiting for a response, she continued, “Ah yes, the strange family with all kinds of new partners. And the daughter with the plans to expose the caste system.”

  “Nice to see you again, Nono,” Radha said, preemptively silencing Mr. Das. Nono would eat Mr. Das alive if they got in an argument over Tina and she wanted to protect him. “Did the flowers arrive like you expected?”

  “Did you know that Ethiopia is the world’s biggest exporter of roses? I’d never have guessed. Anyway, that’s where they’ve come from. We chartered a refrigerated plane so do take special note of the roses tomorrow night.”

  Nono turned to her driver and took a large sip of her drink and handed the glass back to him. She stood still, savoring the sip and looking at the four of them. Nobody spoke but David continued to eat.

  “You people warm my heart,” she said. She waved her cane in their direction and added, “Not everyone here approves of you but I do. My only objection is this fool stuffing his daal into his naan. That’s not how we eat, my dear.”

  “Well, Nono,” David said. “Then you’re missing out.”

  “You may well be right, young man,” she said and David laughed and said, “Nobody has called me young man in a very long time.”

  “It’s all relative,” Nono said and turned again to take another sip of her drink and look out over the lawns.

  “Weddings celebrate new beginnings,” Nono said. “But they also mourn the passing of the old. They’ll never be unmarried again—the only remaining options now are divorced, widowed, or dead.”

  “Or married,” Mr. Das said.

  Nono leaned forward and stroked his cheek with her wrinkled hand, patted it twice, and said, “Our resident optimist. I like you.”

  She pointed at Mrs. Sethi and said, “And who are you?”

  “Mrs. Jyoti Sethi,” Mrs. Sethi said, holding her hand out for Nono to shake. “I’m a friend of Neel’s.”

  “A friend?” Nono said with a smile. “Delightful. Tell me, how did you meet each other?”

  “Through a friend,” Mr. Das said as Mrs. Sethi said, “Through a matchmaker.”

  Nono laughed and said, “Bring me up to speed while I smoke a cigarette. Do any of you mind if I smoke while you eat? If you do, you can sit at that empty table just over there. My son won’t let me smoke anymore. He won’t let me do anything for this wedding except the flowers and even that I’ve heard him whisper to his wife to double-check everything I do.”

  Nono hated how invisible old age had made her. At least she still held most of the family’s money but she knew her son was determined to get a power of attorney and lay claim to the family fortune and stick her in a home, but she was not about to go down without a fight. She hated being old—people either walked on eggshells around you, worried that you would be easily offended, or they simply didn’t see you.

  Nono lit a Marlboro Red, took a slow drag, and said, “So, Mrs. Sethi. Tell me everything.”

  “We met through a matchmaking agency for widows,” Mrs. Sethi said. “I prefer not to hide it. I think it’s quite wonderful that such services now exist. In fact, Nono, if you’re interested—”

  “Absolutely not, darling. That’s a wonderful thought but I don’t ever want another man in my life, thank you very much. Being alone is the best thing to ever happen to me. But continue, how did you find this matchmaker?” Nono asked.

  “She herself is a widow,” Mr. Das said. “And she’s married to my sister’s neighbor’s brother-in-law. My sister insisted on putting us in touch.”

  They all turned to Mrs. Sethi. Mr. Das realized he had never actually asked her how she found Mrs. Ray’s Matchmaking Agency for Widows.

  “I’m quite pleased to say I was the very first client to reach out to her. I was googling options…and Mrs. Ray has a very basic website up with her phone number and I called her.”

  “What exactly did you google?” Mr. Das asked.

  “Oh, online matches for our…our generation, o
r something like that,” Mrs. Sethi said quickly. As loud and proud as she was about her life, she didn’t want to admit that she had googled “Delhi lonely widow” and, worse still, that a lot of porn had come up.

  Nono pressed her cigarette out and stood.

  “All of you enjoy your lunch, then. I must go find my son before he makes another horrid décor decision without me. He wanted a flower wall with the couple’s initials on it. Tacky. I’ll see you all tomorrow. Same people, same setting, slightly different clothes.”

  The four of them watched Nono walk away and Mr. Das frowned and said, “You’re writing a book about dating in Delhi?”

  “I’m not, actually,” Mrs. Sethi said. “I was just saying I ought to because at least it would be original. Haven’t we all had enough of hearing twenty- and thirty-year-olds go on and on about their love lives?”

  “Why does anyone need to go on and on about their love lives? Why can’t some things just be done in private?” Mr. Das said. “I don’t think I’d be comfortable with you writing a tell-all book about your personal life.”

  “Well, Neel, I’m afraid your comfort would not be a huge concern of mine in this case. No longer needing permission to do anything is one of the best things about growing old, don’t you think?” Mrs. Sethi said. “If I write the book, I’ll give you a different name and I’ll make sure there’s a disclaimer in the front that certain names and identifying factors have been changed.”

  Radha laughed loudly at that while her ex-husband frowned.

  “Make sure you write about his Fitbit, though,” Radha said. “Drop a few crumbs.”

  “I’ve eaten too much,” David announced. “Radha, are you done? Let’s get a coffee and walk off all this food.”

  Radha was tempted to sit and watch her ex-husband have an uncomfortable conversation but walked with David to the café counter instead. She wondered where Tina was and why she wasn’t at the haldi lunch.

  Tina wasn’t at the haldi lunch because she was lying in bed, stuck between rushing to the bathroom and curling up in bed and clutching her cramping stomach. Rajesh had dropped off Electral, a fresh coconut, and a plate of toast for her. Sid texted to ask her if she got home safely and she couldn’t bear to tell him she was rolling around on the bed, miserable.

  “One more gulab jamun?” Mrs. Sethi asked Mr. Das. She would never write the book. She liked Mr. Das, she liked his whole family, she was enjoying the midday sun and Colebrookes, and she had made her point about not needing his approval and she wanted to return to the pleasant afternoon. She missed having family around.

  “You never told me how your husband died,” Mr. Das said suddenly.

  “Heart attack,” Mrs. Sethi said. “His third. Nothing terribly notable. We had gone for an evening walk and when we came home, he sat down and clutched his chest. He knew what was happening. He told me not to bother calling an ambulance or a doctor and to stay near him. He collapsed to the floor and then he died. That’s all there was to it and I hate talking about it or thinking about it.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mr. Das said.

  Mrs. Sethi nodded.

  “Calling Minal was almost harder than watching him die,” she said.

  She looked across the grass at families of all shapes and sizes sitting around their tables. In unguarded moments Mrs. Sethi often had panic attacks and she could feel one coming on. She knew she was supposed to honor her husband’s memory, think about him often, but for her, survival meant trying to never think about him. She refused to be made to feel guilty about this. Her mourning was her own.

  “I’m going to get one more gulab jamun,” she said and got up.

  Minal told her to always change her physical state when she needed to change her emotional state—“Stand if you’re sitting, sit if you’re standing, squat if you need to, do a push-up, a jumping jack, anything”—so she walked briskly to the dessert counter and asked for another plate of gulab jamuns with extra syrup. When she returned to the table she felt calmer.

  “I’m sorry I asked. I shouldn’t have,” Mr. Das said.

  Mrs. Sethi smiled at him.

  “You have every right to ask. I still have a hard time with it, it’s silly. But he was a good man.”

  “Tell me a nice memory,” Mr. Das said.

  “Are you sure?” Mrs. Sethi asked.

  He nodded.

  There were so many, Mrs. Sethi thought. He had never bought her jewelry or held doors open but he always made her laugh. But how do you tell someone about the small moments of laughter? Mrs. Sethi used to be an anxious flier and her husband knew that. He always held her ears shut tightly during takeoff because that was the hardest part for her and he had read somewhere that avoiding listening to the sound changes of an airplane could help some fearful fliers. She came to love that ritual. She would clutch the arms of her seat while he held her ears shut, no matter what time the flight was or how tired he was. Once they had enough money to start flying business class, he would still lean over the large space between them, his back straining and hurting, and hold her ears. Then they would both order a cocktail and settle in for the flight. After his first heart attack, when he was only forty-two, he bought her a pair of Bose noise-canceling headphones and said, “Put these away in the cupboard. You won’t need them yet but when my heart goes, you can put these on your ears to block the sound. You better not stop traveling.”

  Mrs. Sethi had been annoyed at that, his attempt at humor just days after a heart attack. But now she used those headphones every time she traveled.

  “That sounds like a nice marriage,” Mr. Das said. “You were both lucky.”

  “I didn’t always recognize it,” Mrs. Sethi said.

  She looked over at Mr. Das, his face handsome in the afternoon sun, his hair still thick, his skin not yet shriveled. His eyes were kind, lines forming around the edges that made him look like he was always smiling. Even though she was searching, she hadn’t really expected to like anyone but here she was, falling in love with a man who lived across the world.

  “I cheated on him once,” Mrs. Sethi said. “I’m not proud of it but I’d like you to know. It was brief, hardly a few weeks, with Minal’s school principal.”

  Mr. Das put down the glass of water he was drinking from. His body suddenly felt hot and heavy. He removed his blazer and placed it behind him on the chair.

  “It was awful. I hated the affair, I hated myself,” Mrs. Sethi said. “When it was over, I made Minal switch schools and hated myself for that even more. It’s one of the few things about me that Minal doesn’t know. I told her we changed her school because her old school still allowed corporal punishment. Minal had been slapped once by a maths teacher. But I didn’t move her until after the affair. You know how it was back then—teachers occasionally slapped kids. In my day, there was still caning. Seems so crazy now, doesn’t it?”

  “Did you tell him?” Mr. Das asked.

  Mrs. Sethi pushed the plate of gulab jamuns aside and said, “I did. And he forgave me eventually. I don’t know if I ever forgave myself but he did. Like I said, he was a good man. And, listen, not to defend myself, but I had the affair when things were going dreadfully for us. He had been traveling for work and was not at all present and had left the lion’s share of parenting on my shoulders and I was exhausted and tired and had no support and I was angry. Minal was going through a difficult phase at the time.”

  In fact, it had started, like some silly movie, in the school principal’s office when Mrs. Sethi had been called in because Minal had been caught stealing a classmate’s scissors and then been caught using those scissors to cut the skirt of another classmate’s uniform. Mrs. Sethi had met Apaar Pathak, the school principal, in the past and always found him very dashing, and that afternoon, before she knew it, they were kissing atop his large wooden principal’s desk. In a way she was glad it had happened because it saved her m
arriage. Mr. Sethi stopped traveling as much and he started taking Minal to see movies on the last Sunday afternoon of each month. For a year following the affair things were fragile but they gradually filled the cracks of their marriage and ended up stronger than ever. Apaar Pathak had died soon after in a car accident on Nizamuddin Bridge but Mrs. Sethi didn’t know that for many years.

  Mr. Das looked at his watch and said, “I should go check on Tina.”

  “The BRAT diet for upset stomachs,” Mrs. Sethi said. “Bananas, rice, apples, and toast. I also have some Digene in my purse.”

  She pulled out a foil strip from her bag and handed it to Mr. Das.

  “Should I wait for you here?” Mrs. Sethi asked. “I have to go vegetable shopping at INA. You could join me. And then we could even hop across to Dilli Haat for a cup of tea and maybe some momos even though I’ve eaten so much I can’t imagine eating anything else.”

  “I should probably take a short nap. Jet lag,” Mr. Das said. “I’ll give you a call later, though.”

  “Am I seeing you for dinner tonight?” Mrs. Sethi asked. “There are no wedding activities, right?”

  “Right. Actually, I’m not sure. I may have to see my sister, Shefali’s mother,” Mr. Das said. “I’ll be in touch.”

  He pushed his chair back and walked toward his cottage, leaving Mrs. Sethi sitting alone at her table watching him walk away.

  She took a deep breath. She was too old to hide things, she told herself. If her late husband could handle her affair, a prospective new partner should be able to also. She felt her eyes fill with tears and pulled her sunglasses off her head and onto her face. How silly, she told herself—she barely knew the man, he had made it clear he could never live in Delhi, and she knew she could never live in America. She didn’t even know why she had felt compelled to share the truth about her past. Mrs. Sethi blinked hard and fast and walked out toward her car. She looked back once over her shoulder and saw Mr. Das turn a corner and disappear.

  Marianne was sitting on the porch of her cottage drinking a sweet-and-salty fresh lime soda and playing with her phone. She didn’t want to go back to the haldi until Rocco or Kai joined her and she could throw her head back and pretend to laugh at their jokes if Karan saw her.