Sister of the Bollywood Bride

by Nandini Bajpai

  “Really?” It was a compliment—we both knew it. “Thanks for saying that.”

  “Your sister takes after your dad,” she said, “soccer player and smart, and all.”

  “Hey, I’m smart,” I said.

  “Yeah,” she said. “But”—she gave me the once-over—“you have style. Like I said… you’re like your mom.”

  Couldn’t argue with that.

  “Masala chai?” she asked.

  “Sure,” I said, looking around the large, sunny space.

  She padded off to a kitchenette.

  Her office was hung with giant pictures of wedding mandaps. They looked like Bollywood sets, glitzy and completely over the top. No way Vinnie would get married in something like that.

  “So, Vinod doesn’t want to pay for Vinnie’s wedding?” she said. “I should call him and straighten him out.”

  “You have Dad’s number?” I was shocked.

  “If it hasn’t changed,” she said. “It’s been years, though. How’s he doing? Since Megha passed, he’s not been in touch with anyone.”

  I guessed that by anyone she meant anyone Indian. “I know,” I said. “He didn’t really feel like going to, you know, Indian get-togethers, for the longest time. Dad doesn’t cook, for one thing.”

  “Or return phone calls,” she said. “No, I understand. It’s always the women, beta, that keep the social circle going.”

  “Vinnie kept in touch with some of her Indian friends,” I said, a bit defensive. Vinnie had grown up in and out of all these Indian people’s homes because Mom was around for practically her whole childhood. It was me who was stuck with Dad and his lack of desi social skills. After Dad stopped going to the gatherings Mom used to take us to, and hosting any of his own, we gradually stopped seeing any Indian people at all.

  Vinnie kept in touch with her friends via emails and Facebook, and she made even more Indian friends in med school, but my friends gradually became school friends and neighborhood friends. It didn’t help that I dropped Indian dance too. Without Mom or Vinnie to ferry me there after school, and no one close enough to carpool with, it was too hard to stay in the class.

  Dad still feels bad about that, I think, since that was another one of the things Mom and I shared.

  “Never mind, beta,” Shoma Moorty said. “At least she found an Indian boy. That’s more than so many of our girls are doing now.”

  “I guess,” I said. Though what was wrong with a non-Indian boy, I couldn’t fathom.

  “So where are you thinking of booking?” she asked, handing me a cup of steaming masala chai that she had conjured out of her kitchenette. “Does she want to be closer to Newton or Westbury? There’s the Newton Grand, or the Crowne Plaza, and the Westborough Villa has really reasonable rates.”

  But Vinnie wanted an outdoor wedding. The picture she’d sent me that morning of her and Manish on a hiking trail at sunrise flashed before my eyes. Vinnie was SO not a cookie-cutter, five-star-hotel-ballroom-wedding kind of girl.

  “I don’t think a hotel will work for her,” I said. “Someplace natural and green, and outdoors. All this”—I gestured, somewhat apologetically, at the walls of glitzy Bollywood sets—“this really isn’t her style.”

  If Shoma Moorty wasn’t willing to offer anything other than the mandaps on display, I would try making one. A basic bamboo structure and a ton of fresh flowers ought to do it. Rachel’s aunt had had a homemade canopy for her wedding—I think the Jewish name for it was huppah. We could probably even rent one from a temple, come to think of it.

  But to my surprise, Shoma Moorty didn’t look at all offended. “I give them what they want,” she said. “Most people want what they see in the movies. All gold-shold, and tamasha.” She shook her head. “What to do? It isn’t my job to judge.”

  “Really?” I said.

  “Yeah. And don’t rule out hotels, beta,” she said. “Most outdoor locations don’t have waitstaff, or linens, china, and silverware—you have to truck everything in. Some insist on their preferred caterers, so you can’t have Indian food. But hotels usually allow Indian caterers, and some have gardens available for the ceremony. That can work out really well.”

  “Do you have a list of hotels I can research?” I asked. “Dad and I can shortlist them for Vinnie, and she can pick the final one.”

  “Sure, I’ll email you a list. What’s this?” She pointed at my sketchbook. She had a good eye, that woman.

  “I have some ideas about mandaps, Aunty. Can I call you Shoma Aunty?”

  “Of course,” she said. “I’m older than you, aren’t I?”

  I opened my little folder and pulled out a sketch or two. “These are some of my ideas. This one is a basic bamboo structure draped with sheer tasseled silk drapes. And another idea is to have four real trees be the basic structure of the mandap and have flower garlands to connect them together.”

  “Hmm,” she said. “I could do the first one really easily. I have a simple mandap that we could cover with silk. I have the sheer drapes in old gold and I’d add a cranberry-red fabric for a pop of color. Can I keep this picture?”

  “Sure!” I said. I was thrilled that she was open to trying it.

  “How much would it”—I gulped, dreading the price tag—“how much would it cost?”

  She tilted her head and considered. “For the mandap, and the wedding garlands—I have them flown in fresh from India—and some table centerpieces, and a guest book…” She paused. “Five thousand, beta, for you.”

  I was frozen to the spot because it was a lot less than I expected. She must have given us a huge discount. “Okay, I’ll let Dad and Vinnie know.”

  It was hard to start narrowing down venues when I didn’t have a final guest list—but I had to make a start somewhere. From the list of hotels Shoma Moorty sent, I marked off three venues that fit Vinnie and Manish’s requirements:

  1. Reasonable cost.

  2. Close to Westbury and/or Newton.

  3. Catering by an outside vendor (Indian) allowed.

  4. Outdoor garden or patio for the wedding ceremony.

  This last one was the hardest. Most hotels didn’t have a garden large enough for a mandap and all the guests. The ones that did tended to be in Cape Cod or Western Massachusetts—too far to work for us—but after a dozen phone calls and massive amounts of Googling I found three that looked promising. I set up appointments for us—Dad was supposed to come check them out with me, but of course he canceled.

  So there I was at the Newton Grand grown-up and organized (I hoped) in a sleek blowout, dress pants, and pumps.

  I clutched my folder nervously and approached the front desk. I had taken ten pictures of the parking lot and the lobby. Evidently Ragini Aunty, Manish’s mom, liked the Newton Grand, and it was halfway between Westbury and Newton, so at least it worked location-wise. But how much would it cost?

  “I have an appointment with the event manager,” I told the receptionist.

  “Mini Kapoor?” she asked, and I nodded. “She’ll be right down.”

  When the event manager showed up I was relieved to see that she was quite young. Right around Vinnie’s age.

  “Hi! Is it Mini?” She took me under her wing. “Let’s start at the ballroom, shall we?” And soon we were examining the ballroom, which could accommodate two hundred to five hundred guests, and yes, the linens, silverware, and waitstaff were included in the price. We could book hotel rooms for out-of-town guests at discounted prices, and they would throw in a room for the bride and groom for free. My head was spinning with the details she tossed out—how on earth did she have everything memorized?

  I took notes and snapped pictures diligently. It was right on the highway, but that probably made it easy to get to, and Vinnie would love the view over the Charles from the big windows!

  “Where is the garden?” I asked. The garden would make or break the deal.

  “Come right this way,” the event manager said. We took the elevator down to the ground level and
walked outdoors.

  A neatly mowed strip of grass rolled gently down toward the river. It was small—that was my first impression. There were pretty azalea bushes, and tall pines overhead, and the water of the Charles lapping the end of the lawn, but when you turned away from the river the hotel loomed over everything. I tried not to let my disappointment show. It could work—maybe—but it was far from perfect. I clicked a bunch of photographs, angling the shots away from the building.

  “Nice, isn’t it? We’ve had lots of Hindu weddings here.” Her upbeat attitude was starting to annoy me. Especially since two mosquitoes had bitten me on the ankle in the five minutes we’d been standing there, even though I was wearing full-length pants. The pretty backdrop of the river definitely had a downside—it turned the garden into bugsville. “This space works really well for the moondaap.”

  “Mandap,” I corrected automatically.

  “Right!” she said. “Would you like to go over the rates now?”

  The pumps might have made me look older, but they killed my feet. I limped back to the parking lot, got into the car, and yanked off the heels so I could massage my ankles. I had to get going if I didn’t want to be late for work. Luckily the hotel wasn’t too far from home. Well, if you drove like a normal person—which I didn’t! Couldn’t wait for the day driving would feel as natural as walking. Definitely wasn’t there yet.

  That’s how I took the wrong turn at the intersection with Route 128 and ended up on the highway instead of going over it—it was confusing, okay? Next thing I knew, cars were zooming alongside me at warp speed and I was either going to have to speed up or get run over. I shifted into fourth gear and caught up with the rest of the roaring traffic. I looked for the next exit, but I was in the wrong lane and there was a huge tractor-trailer in the next lane blocking it. Dang! I kept going. How far could it be to the next exit?

  I stepped on the accelerator and suddenly I was enjoying myself instead of panicking. I liked the feeling of zipping along in my Mini. That thing could go! I turned up the volume on the radio.

  However, the gas gauge was dipping into dangerous territory—way less than a quarter tank of gas—even though my reserve light had not as yet turned on. I had to get off the highway and figure out how I was getting home. And get some gas, in case I was actually, like, lost. And call Dad so he wouldn’t freak. And also break it to my boss that I wasn’t going to get to Ace.

  I managed to get into the rightmost lane, in position for the next exit. The reserve tank light was now on—blinking red on the dashboard. Great—now I had less than a gallon of gas left!

  I pulled off onto Route 2. Where was that—Lexington? I grabbed the cell phone—no bars, no service whatsoever! Where was I, and why hadn’t I brought the GPS like Dad had asked me to?

  I kept driving, and a street sign went by that looked familiar. Wasn’t Ernie Uncle’s garage somewhere here? Sure enough, there was the sign for ERNIE’S AUTOMOTIVE—the place where I learned to change oil and a flat tire and helped Dad fix the radio on the Mini. The red neon sign that said OPEN was like a homing beacon.

  I pulled in, parked, and got out on shaky legs.

  I wandered onto the shop floor—a couple of cars were up on the lifts getting some work done—and opened the door to the office. “Anyone there?”

  “Heeey, Mini.” It was Ernie Uncle, wearing neat blue overalls, his broad face lit up in surprise. He did a double take when he saw my outfit. “Whoa! You look fancy! Car doing okay?”

  He had no idea how happy I was to see him.

  “Car’s fine, but it could do with some gas,” I confessed. “It’s running on fumes!”

  “Minnnni!” he said reproachfully.

  “Look, I’ll be more careful in the future, okay?” I said. “And my cell has no service. Can I use your phone?”

  “Sure you can,” he said.

  “Thanks!” I dipped a hand into the candy he always keeps on the check-in counter, feeling like a kid again. “Dad?” I said when he picked up. “Dad, don’t get mad! I’m at Ernie Uncle’s. I took a wrong turn onto the highway. No, I’m fine. I just want to let you know because I’ll be late and I didn’t want you to worry. No, Ernie Uncle is filling up my gas; will you pay him next time you’re here?… Yes, I know how to get home from here!”

  I also called Sonal, who was far more understanding than I deserved, then left the office to find Ernie Uncle.

  He was all excited about some Indian car he’d just been working on.

  “It was an Indian SUV,” he said. “The Mirchandani Stinger. Am I saying it right?”

  I shrugged. “Don’t ask me!” I said. “I’ve heard Dad talk about them, though. They use them in the army, I think. The Indian army.”

  “Neat little thing,” Ernie Uncle said. “It’s no Hummer, of course, but it’s well-built. Anyway, what I want to tell you about is the guy!”

  I raised my eyebrows. “What guy?”

  “The guy who brought it in. His dad owns Mirchandani Motors, dude!” Ernie Uncle said. “Good-looking kid—can’t be much older than you. He’s coming back on Saturday.” He rocked back on his heels, looking proud of himself. “Want me to introduce you?”

  “No way!” I said. “Will you please stop acting like my grandmother? She wanted to set me up too—with Chintu Patel.”

  Ernie Uncle waved off Chintu Patel impatiently.

  “This guy isn’t just Indian, he’s nice, incredibly smart, and probably very rich,” Ernie Uncle said.

  I laughed. He really was acting like my grandmother, which was both hilarious and endearing. “I really appreciate the thought, but. Not. Interested!”

  “Fine,” Ernie Uncle said, resigned to my indifference. “Hey, do you need any help with the wedding? Anything we can do?”

  “No, we’re good,” I said.

  He nodded. “You’re all set with the car. Give me a call when you get home, okay?”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I will!”

  I could see him grinning in my rearview mirror as I turned back onto the street. I had to add three more names to the guest list—Ernie Uncle, his wife, and his daughter. That made 183. Yikes!

  Chapter Eight

  “Well?” I waited for Vinnie’s reaction.

  I had just uploaded two hundred pictures of the Grand onto Facebook Messenger for her to see. “Do you think it’ll work?”

  I didn’t mention the mosquitoes—yet. Why muddy the waters before giving the place a chance?

  “It’s nice.” Vinnie didn’t sound too thrilled. “It would be really convenient, and the price isn’t bad.…”

  “But…?” I said. I could tell there was a but.

  “But it’s not really atmospheric,” Vinnie said. “You know?”

  I sighed. “I know,” I said. “Onward, I guess.”

  “But it is such a good rate,” Vinnie said with forced cheerfulness. “Maybe we should just book it anyway?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “Let me check out the other options.”

  “But it’s taking up all your time,” Vinnie said.

  “So?” I said. “We’re not booking anything until we find the perfect place, okay?”

  “Okay,” Vinnie said, and that was that.

  I Googled venue options until I was cross-eyed, and fell asleep exhausted. This was so much harder than I thought it would be.

  In another week things were no better.

  The Westborough Villa had the most delicious chocolate walnut cookies on the planet, and a really cute patio, but though it had some pretty flower beds, it was completely paved over with no grass lawn. It also had a fabulous view—of the parking lot! The Four Seasons and the Boston Taj were just too far from Westbury, and too damn expensive. The Hyatt was where Manish’s sister got married a year ago, and though I loved driving down Memorial Drive to look it over, and it had a lovely view of the Charles and the Boston skyline, it really didn’t have a garden option, so it wasn’t for Manish and Vinnie.

  By the time I had been throug
h five hotels and their event managers, I was feeling like a pro.

  But still no deal.

  It was thanks to Yogi that we cracked the venue in the end.

  I came home from yet another venue-scouting trip to find Yogi looking all hangdog and miserable. Usually he jumped up and fawned all over me, but today he barely lifted his head. Guess he thought I was going to ignore him again.

  “Aww.” I stroked his soft ears. He gave me a look of utter resignation. That settled it. I was exhausted, but I couldn’t let him down again.

  “Just give me a minute!” I dragged myself off to my bedroom and changed into shorts, a tee, and running shoes. I slapped together a sandwich in the kitchen and wolfed it down with a glass of cold milk, then grabbed Yogi’s leash. He leapt off the couch, ears up, tail lashing. Now he got it. He could smell honest intent a mile away.

  “Where to?” I asked as we set off. “Fellsway College or River Bend?”

  We hadn’t been to River Bend in a while, what with work, wedding research, and SAT prep. Shayla probably thought I’d abandoned her for the summer.

  I cut through the scenic but narrow Pond Street and turned into the River Bend reservation—the home of the Massachusetts Botanical Society. There was a pretty little bridge over the Charles before a long one-way loop took us past the stately old manor house—its last owners had donated their estate to MassBot—and finally to the canoe launch site’s parking lot. The place is really beautiful and peaceful—usually. Not that day, though. Camp Woodtrail was in full swing and the grounds were overrun by kids, kids, and more kids. I slowed down to ten miles an hour so they could see me coming.

  “We—are—TI—GERS!” chanted a bunch of ten-year-olds. “Mighty, mighty TI—GERS!” I peeked around the crowd of kids and spied Shayla leading them on, along with a couple of other camp counselors. She was yelling louder than the rest of them, her face red with heat and effort.

  I slowed to a stop, rolled down the window, and waved at her frantically. “Shayla!” I said. “Here!”