Sister of the Bollywood Bride

by Nandini Bajpai

  “Everyone they see?” I was horrified.

  “It’s a holdover from when everyone lived in one village and knew everyone else,” Vinnie explained. “It’s not like everyone at the temple thinks they’re invited, unless they also get a card.”

  “Are you going to do the ceremony?” Masi asked.

  “Good luck dragging Dad into a temple.” I snorted. “Have you leveled with Manish about us? He should know he’s marrying into a family of raging rationalists.”

  “Of course I have. And Manish isn’t really religious or anything,” Vinnie said. “I don’t know about his parents, though. I think they might be a bit orthodox.”

  “Hmmm,” I said. This meeting was going to be a disaster. I could feel it.

  “Here she is!” Masi said, and Ria the assistant sashayed into the room in the antique-gold outfit. I was trying not to get too excited about Mallu Masi’s designs while she was watching, but I couldn’t stop smiling at how incredibly perfect for Vinnie this lehenga was. I felt like standing up and applauding.

  “Wow!” Vinnie was speechless. “What do you think, Mini?” At least as far as style is concerned, she always looks to me.

  “It’s outstanding.” I gave her two thumbs-up, smiling from ear to ear. “I knew that one was right. I just knew it!”

  “Will it look like that on me?” Vinnie asked. I leaned over and whispered in her ear, so I wouldn’t offend the helpful Ria. “It’ll look better on you, I promise. Your arms and shoulders are so much more toned and tanned than Ria’s. That old-gold color always looks amazing on you. And it’s made to go with Mom’s jewelry.”

  “Really?” Vinnie’s eyes were shining.

  I gave her a squeeze. “Really.”

  “What are you girls whispering about?” Masi demanded via video chat. “D’you like it or what?”

  “I LOVE it, Masi,” Vinnie said. “That’s the one—I’m sure. Could I please, please have it?”

  “Of course you can, darling.” Masi smiled magnanimously. “Get this one altered to the measurements I gave you,” she ordered some poor off-camera underling. “It has to be couriered to this address. Quickly, okay? They need it NOW.”

  “Vinnie, read this!” I clicked on a bookmark in my web browser. “We can order your wedding garlands from India via FancyFlowers. Shoma Aunty said it might be easier if we order the varmalas ourselves.”

  Apparently, a florist exists that ships handstrung garlands straight from India to Canada and the US every week. Vinnie could choose from dozens of wedding garland designs. Who knew?

  “Niiiice!” Vinnie said. “But I hate this one!” The garland Vinnie hated was made with banknotes as well as flowers! “And what is this one?” Another garland, this time with twenty-four-karat gold-plated beads threaded in with the flowers.

  “We can order jasmine strings for the mehendi!” I said, inspired by the gorgeous flowers and reasonable prices.

  “We’re having a mehendi?” Vinnie asked.

  “We most certainly are!” I said. “You can skip some ceremonies if you like, but how can you have a Punjabi wedding without a mehendi and sangeet?”

  “How can you have an American wedding without a bachelorette party?” Vinnie countered.

  “We’re combining them,” I said. “And having it at home! Unless you think your girlfriends won’t want to do the mehendi?”

  “Oh, they will!” Vinnie said. “But won’t it be expensive?”

  “Sher-e-Punjab is giving us a great rate,” I said. “And the mehendi lady’s rate isn’t bad either.”

  “We can’t fit everyone into the house!” Vinnie said.

  “I’ll get tables and chairs from Talbot Rental. There’s plenty of room if we set them up outdoors,” I said. We had a one-acre yard, much of it level enough for tables.

  “TamBrahms don’t do mehendi,” Vinnie said.

  “We do!” I said, and set my jaw stubbornly. I was not budging on this one, Iyers or no Iyers. There was no way we were skipping it.

  “Okay, fine—let’s do it,” Vinnie said. “If you think it’ll fit in Dad’s budget. By the way, who’s coming to River Bend? Is it just the decorator and the caterer?”

  “And Vir…,” I added. “I mean, the sound and light guy. I haven’t hired him yet, but he said he had to take a look at the venue to give me a proper quote on the lighting and all.”

  “All right,” Vinnie said. It’s a testament to how distracted she was that she didn’t pick up on how awkward I sounded when I mentioned Vir.

  “I don’t even know if I should hire him, but he’s really, really cheap,” I said in a burst of guilt.

  “Mini, is he cute or something?” Vinnie asked, finally clueing in.

  “No!” I said, but my face was flaming red.

  “Really?” Vinnie raised an eyebrow. “We will see!”

  Chapter Twelve

  The Iyers—Ragini Iyer, PhD, and Venkat Iyer, JD, PhD—lived on Commonwealth Avenue in Newton in a pretty little colonial with well-maintained rosebushes currently in full bloom outside, books stacked on every available bit of space, and musical instruments—both Indian and Western—scattered throughout the house. The instruments looked well used—seemed like anyone in that family could pick up any of those and play at a pro level, including Manish and his sister.

  “Come in, come in.” Mrs. Iyer was the tiniest woman I’d ever met. Vinnie at least didn’t tower over her, but Dad and I definitely did. “Sooo nice to see Vinnie’s family.” I hunched down automatically—Dad did not.

  Mr. Iyer stepped out from behind her. “Welcome, welcome,” he said, beaming. Awww. He had the sweetest face. Manish obviously got his charm from his dad.

  Dad was trying not to scowl, or step on an instrument or book or something. He looked like a bull in a china shop. Along with the instruments, there were also brass statues of Ganesh, and Laxmi, and various other deities. They were adorned with fresh flowers and kumkum, so clearly the Iyers were believers. Dad’s scowl deepened even more.

  “Heyyy!” There was Manish. He put an arm around each of his parents. I had thought he was of medium height, but he was clearly the tallest person in this family.

  “We got you some flowers.” Vinnie looked lovely in the salwar kameez I’d fitted for her. It was a gift from Mallu Masi for me when I was fourteen. I was way too tall for it by then, but she had no clue, unsurprisingly. But after I tweaked it a little it fit Vinnie’s petite frame perfectly. It wasn’t one of Masi’s couture pieces, just something sweet and summery that she had specially made for me when she still bothered doing such things.

  “Yashasvini, you look so pretty!” Mrs. Iyer said. “I’ve never seen you in Indian clothes. You should wear them more often—they suit you!”

  “Thank you,” Vinnie said. “Can I help with the food or anything?”

  “No, no,” Mrs. Iyer said. “I want to tell you, Mr. Kapoor—Vinod, isn’t it?” She looked at Dad for confirmation.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “I want to tell you, Vinod, that we’re so glad these two found each other,” she said. “We’ve had so many proposals for Manish.…”

  “Mom,” Manish said.

  “It’s true,” she said. “So many people had sent proposals from our community, you know, but he had decided long back that it was Yashasvini and no one else for him.”

  Dad cleared his throat. “I think they’re going a little fast myself,” he said. “I tried to talk some sense into them. Why not wait and finish with their residencies before getting married?”

  “Very correct,” Mr. Iyer said, in brotherly solidarity. “I was thinking that also.”

  “Nonsense,” said Mrs. Iyer. And it was suddenly crystal clear who was boss. “There is never a good time to get married. This way they can start a family when they’re done with residency.”

  Dad looked like he was about to explode.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Manish said. He didn’t seem at all upset about his mom’s comment. “We’ll decide that, okay, Mom?
Let’s just take it one step at a time.”

  “Ragini Aunty,” I said, “we’ve booked the River Bend reservation for the wedding.”

  “Yes, Manish told me,” she said. “It sounds very nice.”

  “We’re thinking of booking Curry Cuisine to cater.”

  “Curry Cuisine is exccccellent,” Mrs. Iyer said, brightening up. “They catered for our daughter’s wedding. That Sunny Sondhi makes better payasam than anyone. So delicious. He did a great job for Mohini’s wedding. We had three priests and four hundred people. It was a very grand wedding, very grand.”

  Her enthusiasm made me smile. Would Mom have been that stoked for Vinnie’s wedding?

  “We’re getting Shoma Moorty to do the wedding decorations,” I added when she paused for breath.

  “Shoma is my oooold friend,” Ragini Aunty said. “We’ve known her so long, since when Manish was a baby. Manish is like a son to her. She did the decorations for Mohini’s wedding too. We had a grand entrance and a huge mandap—it could fit eight people—did I mention?”

  “Yes, you did,” I assured her. “Aunty, we were thinking of having Krishna Ji from the Sri Balaji temple in Sherwood to perform the ceremony.”

  “Krishna Ji is wonderful, of course, but how about Sundaraman?” Ragini Aunty asked. “Manish really likes him. He always said to Manish that I will be the one to marry you.”

  “We’ve known Krishna Ji a long time,” Vinnie said quietly.

  It was true. Granted, we had not seen him for years, but he had visited Mom throughout her illness. Even Dad had tolerated him because it was clear that whatever she believed or did not believe, he brought Mom comfort.

  “But he’s Iyengar, you see,” Ragini Aunty said. “Sundaraman is Iyer. Of course it’s up to you, but it’s better if Sundaraman does the wedding.”

  It clearly meant a lot to her, and what did we care about priests?

  “Sure,” Vinnie said.

  “What is your family?” Ragini Aunty asked, her face shining with trust and anticipation.

  “We’re ath—” Dad stopped short as I stomped without mercy on his foot.

  “Arya Samaj,” I said, glad I remembered the name. “We’re, um… Arya Samaji.” It was a semitruth—my Beeji had been a leading light of the New England Arya Samaj scene when she lived here. I smiled brightly before continuing. “There was a lady priest my grandmother liked very much, Pandita Gayatri Vohra, but we’ve lost touch with her.”

  Beeji would have preferred that the Pandita visit with Mom too, but since Gayatri Ji had a full-time job as well as her other priestly duties, we’d had to turn to Krishna Ji instead.

  Meanwhile Ragini Aunty was looking rather stunned. Too late I realized that Arya Samaj was scandalously liberal, by their lights.

  But at least I had prevented Dad from blurting out the even more shocking truth—that after Mom passed, Dad, Vinnie, and I had been nothing but your simple garden-variety Massachusetts atheists.

  “Well, you could get Krishna Ji to be your family priest, even though he’s Iyengar, and Sundaraman could be ours,” Ragini Aunty said. Evidently even Krishna Ji, the Iyengar, was better than a Punjabi lady priest.

  “How many priests does it take to marry two people?” Dad said. “Let’s just go with your guy!”

  “How many…?” Ragini Aunty said. “Oh, that’s funny, Vinod! How many priests! Your father is a real jokester, Yashasvini!”

  Thank heavens Ragini Aunty took everything in such good humor! Vinnie probably looked okay to everyone else, but she was inwardly cringing, I was sure.

  “I’ll go help Uncle,” she said. In the time we’d been talking, Mr. Iyer had made tea for everyone and was carrying in a tray of snacks that looked bigger than him. What a sweetheart! I hoped he had brought up Manish to be as caring as he was.

  “We’re going to do what Vinnie likes, Mom,” Manish said. “She doesn’t like over-the-top movie set decorations.”

  “Or their prices,” Dad mumbled into his tea. I hoped I was the only one who had heard him.

  “Do you have pictures of Mohini’s wedding, Aunty?” I asked.

  “Yes, yes, of course!” Ragini Aunty said. “Would you like to see?”

  “No,” said Manish, Mr. Iyer, and Dad simultaneously.

  “You stay with them, Yashasvini,” Ragini Aunty said. “I’ll show Padmini the pictures.”

  “The clothes, the flowers, the food!” I said. My mind was blown, clearly. “The GOLD!”

  I was still trying to digest the pictures that Ragini Aunty had shown me. Apparently it’s common practice for men to wear only a veshti and be bare-chested at Tamil weddings. So the guys with good bods looked amazing, and the ones without—not so much. “Manish would look great, though, right?”

  “Right,” Vinnie said. “But we should look nice together for the pictures and how will that work if I’m in Masi’s gold lehenga and he’s wearing some minimalist Tamil outfit?”

  “Maybe we could buy him an outfit,” I said.

  “No, your clothes are supposed to come from your mother’s brother’s house,” Dad said with an air of authority. I had no idea if we could trust that piece of information, given that it came from Dad.

  “Now you want to buy them presents,” I said to Dad.

  Dad had the grace to look embarrassed. He had vetoed all my attempts to buy gifts for the Iyers, saying it smacked of tacit dowry demands. As if!

  When Ragini Aunty presented gorgeous Kanjivaram saris to both Vinnie and me, and a thick gold bracelet to Dad, he felt awful. Luckily I had fitted in a trip to our local Indian jewelers—Kay Jee Jewelers—and traded in Mom’s broken and mismatched gold for a gold chain for Manish.

  “Mom didn’t have a brother,” I said. “But Masi is Mom’s sister. That’s close enough, isn’t it? We should pick out his outfit! Then we can make sure that he’ll complement your lehenga. Okay, done! Let’s get his measurements and send them to Masi.”

  Forty minutes of driving later we were at the mehendi lady’s salon. It was a tiny place with a small selection of gifts and jewelry up front and a proper beauty parlor at the back. I grabbed a handful of glittery stick-on bindi packets and a few stacks of glass bangles in vivid pinks, blues, and greens. No telling when we’d need some bright accessories.

  Usha, the woman who ran the place, came out to talk business.

  “We will have about forty people, I think,” I said. “Most of them will get henna, but they’ll be fine with simple patterns. Just a central motif and a few decorations on the fingers, maybe. How much will that cost?”

  “I’ll do the bride’s henna myself,” Usha said. “And bring an assistant for everyone else. The bride’s henna will be five hundred dollars. And we’ll charge by the hour for the assistant.”

  “How long does it take to do a pair of hands?” I asked.

  “Pick a pattern and I’ll have her do it,” Usha said. “You can time her. Here’s the pattern book.”

  It seemed like a good plan to try out the mehendi before we hired the service. I volunteered to be the test subject.

  I picked a pattern from the design book. “This one.”

  The assistant henna lady worked quickly. She had a plastic cone filled with dark green henna paste from which she squeezed a thin string of henna onto my palm. It was like watching someone ice a cake. In no time she had finished an intricate paisley pattern with a peacock feather beside it. It was amazing.

  Vinnie looked at her clock. “Seven minutes for that design!” she said. “Wow!”

  We put down a deposit. The mehendi was on!

  Vinnie had to drive my car because my hand was covered in slowly drying green paste. The design was amazing, though. When we were little, Mom bought us premade cones of mehendi at the Indian grocery store and we tried doing our own henna. It isn’t too hard, actually, if you have patience, a steady hand, and a good eye for design. We weren’t as good as Usha and the other mehendi ladies, of course—there’s a reason they charge the rates they do.


  And it was so weird to me that the mehendi was not an essential part of TamBrahm weddings. In Punjab, where our family is from, get her hands colored is a phrase synonymous with getting a girl married. Not something that can be skipped.

  “So your SAT and all your AP and SAT subject tests are in the bag, right?” Vinnie said as she drove. “Have you started on your essays?”

  Vinnie had written an amazing essay about Mom back when she applied. That was definitely not something I was going to do. The medical stuff was irrelevant for me, unlike Vinnie, and I didn’t want a pity party.

  “Don’t worry about that right now,” I said. I had made no progress whatsoever in coming up with ideas for my essays.

  “You should at least think about it.” Vinnie frowned. “Next thing you know you’ll be staring at deadlines and have to rush to get them in.”

  “Okay, fine,” I grumbled. Vinnie always checked on me, however busy she was. When I was freaking out about taking AP World History, my first AP, she talked me down from rescheduling it. This was when she was dealing with taking the USMLE Step 2 and actually doing rounds in hospitals and stuff.

  By the time we got home, the paste was nearly dry. Good thing too, because I had to get changed. What was good enough for the Iyers and the mehendi lady was not good enough for River Bend. Because Vir was going to be there. So far I’d only run into him by accident, but this time I knew I’d see him.

  Get a grip, I told myself, it’s no big deal.

  I had the henna thing going on, so I thought I’d rock the bohemian look. A swingy summery sundress, dangle earrings, a stack of bright bangles, strappy sandals, a dash of lip gloss, and I was set.

  Chapter Thirteen

  We were an hour early for our meeting at River Bend, because I wanted Vinnie to see the Italian Garden while it was lit up with the afternoon sun.

  The beautiful fountain, the formal flower beds, the Greek goddess sculptures, the brick patio with its carved wood railing—all looked outstanding at that time of day. The old mansion (in bad need of restoration and crumbling on the inside, sadly) made the garden even more regal and Bollywood wedding–ish. I had taken lots of pictures for Vinnie before we booked the place, of course, but it wasn’t like being there.