Sister of the Bollywood Bride

by Nandini Bajpai

  “Warding off the evil eye!” Masi said. “Vinnie, come! We have one more outfit for you to try!”

  “I don’t need another outfit!” Vinnie said.

  “It’s for the reception!” Masi said. “Mini, go get it!”

  I knew what it was, of course—but we had not told Vinnie about finding Mom’s lehenga. I followed them upstairs and grabbed it out of my closet, where it was hanging shrouded in a plastic dry-cleaning covering.

  Vinnie pulled the plastic off. “No way!” She had tears in her eyes this time.

  “Way!” I said. “Masi fixed that too. Go try it on!”

  We waited for her to get into it, and then she was back, encased in the raspberry-pink-and-silver outfit.

  “How does it look?” she asked.

  “Brilliant!” I said.

  It was very vintage—like something Madhuri Dixit would have worn—but Vinnie’s fresh young face updated it immediately. There was a lump in my throat. It wasn’t that she looked like Mom exactly, but there were flashes of Mom in the way she moved and smiled and sounded, even. And with that lehenga on, there was no mistaking it.

  “Do that thing with the evil eye, Masi,” I said. “Do it immediately!”

  If we were lucky, it might turn the storm that was coming into a bit of light rain.

  “It’s very grand!” Ragini Aunty said. “It will be beauuutiful, Padmini. Beauuutiful.”

  “I didn’t even know this was here,” Manish said. “Vinnie played field hockey and soccer here, Amma.”

  It wasn’t time for the wedding rehearsal—that was on Friday—but most of the immediate family was here now, so we brought them to River Bend anyway. Vinnie and Manish, Masi, Beeji, Bauji, Bade Bauji, Dad, Ragini Aunty, Venkat Uncle—and me.

  “The mandap will go here,” Vinnie said. “Shoma Aunty will be draping it in rust and dark red sheer fabric, and there will be flowers above the mandap on all four sides.”

  “Will there be banana trees, and a kalash with mango leaves and a coconut on top?” Ragini Aunty asked. That was the traditional configuration—Vinnie didn’t love it, so we had nixed it—but how to tell Ragini Aunty that? Vinnie looked uncertain, so I stepped in.

  “Of course there will, Aunty,” I said. It wasn’t a lie, precisely. There would be mango leaves and coconuts and a stack of shiny brass pots—just not front and center. We’d bury it behind the orchids that Vinnie liked so much. That would keep them all happy.

  “Group photo!” Manish said. And everyone arranged themselves into two lines in front of the graceful marble fountain—they finally had it working, thankfully—and smiled dutifully for the camera. Ragini Aunty in her bright red Kanjivaram sari, Beeji in a very Punjabi lace salwar kameez, Bade Bauji in his homespun cotton kurta, and the rest of us in jeans.

  “Let me,” Jen Courtney said. Manish explained the way the camera worked and then took his place in the family lineup, his arm around Vinnie in spite of the presence of all the parents and grandparents and a great-grandparent. To their credit, they took it in stride.

  Everything looked perfect, even the clear blue sky.

  “Say cheese!” said Jen.

  We were invited to Beeji’s for dinner. I was on the phone the whole way, trying to get hold of the remaining two bridesmaids who did not have sari blouses as yet. With less than four days to go! I left messages on the phone, via email, on their FB pages, and with their mothers. “Please call today!” I said into the phone. “Otherwise you won’t have a blouse to go with your sari for the wedding!”

  “We’re here!” Dad announced, and we spilled out of the minivan onto Beeji’s driveway. Dad, Masi, Vinnie, me, and Yogi, of course. “Something smells good!”

  My grandparents’ house is in the neighborhood my dad grew up in. Bauji builds huge mansions in wealthy suburbs—the kind with four-car garages and floating walkways and two-story atriums with crystal chandeliers. Once in a while when he has one sitting on the market he contemplates selling off the split-level and moving into it. But it’s so not him. This house, where Dad planted the now-towering pine trees on either side, and helped Bauji put in the garage, and filmed sci-fi pictures with a Super 8 camera in the backyard—this is them. That’s why they’re holding on to the house, even though they live in India most of the year now.

  Bauji did gut the interior and remove a few walls and put in granite, hardwood, and marble to upgrade the place whenever his building crew had downtime. The new granite-and-rosewood kitchen with the recessed lights and slide-out pantry wasn’t really Beeji’s cup of tea. But she could make magic in any kitchen anywhere.

  Knowing Beeji, I was expecting an extravagant spread with the newest KDH spices showcased in every dish. She didn’t disappoint.

  Chana masala, with fresh bhatooras, okra, kadhi, pulao—no meat dishes because the Iyers, who were also invited, were vegetarian.

  “They don’t eat this and don’t eat that,” Beeji muttered. “Har tarah ki allergy pal rakhi hai. Hamari kuddi inni lambi chaudi, aur unka munda…”

  “Beeji!” I warned.

  “Ki hoya?” Beeji said. “Sehat nai banti vegetarian khane se. Vinnie, you make sure you feed your kids proper Punjabi food, okay?”

  “Beeji!” Vinnie said. “Don’t you dare say anything like that when they come!”

  “And I’m making laddoos,” Beeji said, uncovering a couple of platters with the flourish of a sorcerer. “For the wedding!”

  “Laddoos,” I said, gazing incredulously at the hundreds of fist-sized golden-yellow balls that had magically appeared on trays all over Beeji’s kitchen. It was clearly a work in progress. There was a giant pot full of fresh golden-brown boondis soaked in syrup on the countertop that were yet to be rolled into proper fist-sized laddoo balls. “You’re making laddoos for the wedding? What are we paying that Sunny Sondhi for, then?”

  I mean, the woman had just gotten here—how did she even make this much food in such a short time?

  “But there should be some homemade sweets from the home, no?” Beeji said. “This is Vinnie’s favorite.”

  “It is good hospitality,” Bade Bauji put in unexpectedly. “Anyone can buy sweets, but…”

  “We know!” I said. “Homemade Is from the Heart!”

  But poor Beeji looked winded. It was completely unnecessary for her to have cooked dessert for an entire wedding party before she was even over her jet lag.

  “Beeji, no one makes sweets at home anymore,” I said. “Even in India they get a halwai to make it if they really want it fresh. And anyway we’ve ordered a massive wedding cake.”

  “Those South Indians,” Beeji said. “Some of them don’t eat eggs, you know. And Manish is allergic to nuts, and with that kind of thing it’s better to have homemade—always. These caterers put nuts in everything. In sweets more than anything.”

  For all her complaining about their dietary restrictions, she had the needs of the “South Indians” in mind—typical Beeji.

  “And that’s why Curry Cuisine is bringing gulabjamuns for them,” I said. “They catered for Manish’s sister’s wedding, remember, and Manish ate their dessert and survived. Let’s just put this away for now, okay?”

  Beeji looked mightily offended, so I added, “I’ll help you squeeze the rest of them after they’ve left. Just please go get dressed, and Vinnie and I will set the table and everything.”

  When we were full of Beeji’s, in Ragini Aunty’s words, “excccellent cooking,” we turned on the Weather Channel and watched the forecast. Yeah, the storm was definitely headed our way. The Massachusetts Emergency Management Agency bunker in Framingham was being prepped in case the governor had to head there to coordinate the response. All the New England states were bracing for impact. If we were lucky, it would swing west and inland and miss Westbury, or it would swing east and out to sea, but right now it looked a lot like it was beating a path to Vinnie’s wedding mandap. Yikes!

  “We have a rain plan,” Vinnie said. “Right, Mini?”

  “Yes, they h
ave a tent that we can set up for the ceremony. It’s semiattached to the Carriage House, where the reception is going to be held. We’ll just have to put the dance floor in the tent and put the mandap on top of it and the white chairs for the guests grouped around it. And when it’s done we’ll have to skip cocktail hour and go straight to the reception.”

  “The rehearsal is on Friday at River Bend,” Vinnie said. “We’ll talk about it then.”

  Dad’s cell phone rang and he walked out of the room, only to return two minutes later grinning from ear to ear.

  “Great news,” he said. “Intel Capital finally called, and… they’re giving us all the funding we asked for!”

  “That’s awesome, Dad.” I hugged him. “That’s epic!”

  “You can spend anything you want for the wedding now,” he said. “And I won’t say a thing!”

  Maybe the tide was turning for our family after all.

  I ran upstairs and fetched a platter from Beeji’s kitchen.

  “Laddoos for everyone!” I said.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I. CAN’T. EVEN.

  I can’t even begin to explain what it was like when we found out that the dang hurricane was headed straight at us at the exact place and time of Vinnie’s wedding. Just like that. BAM.

  The only hope left was for it to weaken into a big rainstorm instead.

  If I were the praying type, I would have been praying, but what was the use? Miracles had stopped working for the likes of us a long time ago.

  All we could do was wait. We’d know within hours, definitely. Until then there was nothing to be done except wring our hands, write place cards, and go on as if a storm the size of Texas wasn’t barreling down on us at 120 miles an hour.

  So when we headed to the wedding rehearsal at River Bend on Friday there was a lot weighing on our minds.

  Instead of just the event manager, there was a group of people waiting for us at River Bend.

  “This is my boss, Karen Cummings, the general manager of the Massachusetts Botanical Society,” Jen said. “I thought we should have her in on the discussion in case we need to get her approval for anything. We’ve been monitoring the weather too.”

  “It looks like the storm will hit on Sunday for sure,” Karen said. “We will do everything we can to make sure your event still runs smoothly, but as of now the outdoor part of the event has to be canceled.”

  Vinnie and Manish held hands tightly—they were so adorable. “Of course,” Manish said. “We want everyone to be safe.”

  “Can we move to the rain plan?” Vinnie asked. “Move the wedding ceremony under the tent and skip cocktail hour to go right to the reception?”

  “That would be the best solution,” Jen said. “The only problem is…”

  “If the storm is predicted to have winds over fifty miles an hour,” Karen said, “then we have to pack up the tent.”

  “Pack up the tent?” I asked. “But it had a concrete floor, it had metal scaffolding. It’s not like a pop-up tent or anything. I’ve seen it up in the snow!”

  “Yes, it’s pretty sturdy,” Jen admitted. “But fifty-mile-an-hour winds are too much for it to withstand. We can’t take the risk of it collapsing on a party of people.”

  “Of course not,” Dad said. “But this is hypothetical, right? If the storm takes a different track, we’re good.”

  “That’s correct,” Karen said.

  “If we do have to take the tent down,” I asked, “where can we have the ceremony?”

  “Well,” Jen said, sounding apologetic, “an open fire is not allowed inside a landmarked building. And all the buildings at River Bend are historical landmarks. They can have candles, yes, but not an actual fire or anything.”

  “So we can’t get married at River Bend at all?” Vinnie asked.

  “If you promise that the fire will be very, very small, we could make an exception,” Karen said. “It’s a very unusual situation, and we want to be as accommodating as we can.”

  “Am I late?” A tall young man in a business suit walked through the double doors of the Carriage House. He had a pleasant face, but the resemblance to Sunny Sondhi was unmistakable. “I’m Vicky Sondhi, from Curry Cuisine.”

  “Was Mr. Sondhi too busy to come?” Dad asked.

  “My dad’s busy, so he sent me,” Vicky said. “I guess we have a weather situation on Sunday. Just want to make sure we’re on the same page as everyone.”

  I’d been thinking about the timing of the wedding—maybe that was the solution. We had scheduled it for three PM with the reception at seven PM. It was traditional in the North to have weddings in the evening.

  “How about we reschedule the wedding to nine AM?” I asked. “We can have the reception at noon and serve lunch instead of dinner? We have the grounds and buildings booked for the day, right?”

  “That may not be a bad idea,” Jen said. “The storm is supposed to hit hardest late afternoon and evening. By then your guests could be on their way home if you’re lucky.”

  “Can you serve lunch instead of dinner?” I asked Vicky Sondhi. It was great that he was here after all. “It’s just a six-hour difference, but it would solve everything. We’d have to call the bus transportation company, and all the guests, and the bartender, and the priest, and Shoma Moorty. She said there was a big wedding in Boston on Saturday. Remember, the horse was booked for it too?”

  “The Bernstein-Patel wedding.” Vicky Sondhi nodded knowledgeably. “Everyone’s talking about it. All the wedding horses nearby are booked for it. They’re going to have a ten-horse parade—the groom is an equestrian, and his whole family rides.”

  I tried not to laugh at the thought of a whole bunch of guys riding up on white horses, doubtless wearing red turbans too. What had stopped them from hiring the elephant? “Good for them,” I said. “We have to call Shoma Aunty, but if she’s good with coming out early and getting the decorations done, we’ll handle everything else. How does that sound?”

  “Excellent,” said Vinnie.

  “I don’t know,” Manish said. “I have some friends coming in from California on Sunday afternoon. They won’t be able to make it.”

  “How many friends?” I asked.

  “Six or seven,” Manish said.

  “They’ll have to miss it, then,” I said. “Odds are that their flight will be canceled anyway, so there’s no point waiting for them.”

  “Not so fast,” Manish said. “Let me think about it.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I do think they’re closing Logan Airport for the storm, though, Manish. Can they take an earlier flight?”

  “Maybe… I don’t know,” Manish said.

  Leave him alone, Vinnie mouthed at me. Fine, I mouthed back at her.

  “How about you guys continue discussing this?” I said. “I still have a lot of work to do at home for the mehendi.”

  The mehendi was still tomorrow, and I didn’t have Shoma Moorty to help decorate the house. Masi was at home, busy stitching the blouses for the remaining two bridesmaids. Beeji was making laddoos for absolutely no reason except that it made her feel like she was doing something.

  I ordered five gorgeous umbrellas via Dad’s Amazon Prime account. Thanks to their free next-day delivery, at least we’d have some umbrellas that wouldn’t clash with our Mallika Motwani couture. Then I snapped shut my laptop. I had had enough. First I was going to walk my dog. Then I was going to get my hair done. They had my cell phone number. If something went wrong, they could always find me.

  I had booked Katrina, my regular hairdresser, to come to the house to get Vinnie ready—but she wasn’t coming until 4:30 PM. I wanted to be done before then so I could help get Vinnie dressed without worrying about myself. So I went to the mall, walked into Mane Event, and got an appointment with a random hairdresser. Not the smartest of moves, usually, but for some reason it paid off. The hairdresser was an excellent listener.

  I hadn’t even known how stressed I was until I started to talk to her abo
ut Vinnie’s wedding and the storm, and Mom’s jewelry, and my family, and Vir, and so on.

  “Don’t you worry, it’ll all come together,” she said.

  “So many of the guests are stranded in airports all over the country,” I said. “My grandfather and my two little cousins are in London—their flight has been delayed too. I don’t want them to miss the wedding.” I leaned my head back so she could shampoo my hair.

  “Whoever is meant to be there will get there,” she said, rinsing out my hair in warm water. “Don’t you fret. It’s better that everyone’s safe on the ground somewhere, isn’t it?”

  “Absolutely,” I said. “There are a lot of people who were coming to the wedding who have had flights canceled: from Miami, Dallas, San Francisco, and Chicago. Airlines don’t want to take a chance.”

  “But your ninety-two-year-old great-grandfather got here from India,” she said.

  “Right, because he came early,” I said.

  “Just take it one step at a time,” she said, wrapping my head in a towel and pointing me to a chair. “What’s next?”

  “The janvasam at the temple—that’s tonight,” I said.

  “That’s the engagement sort of thing,” she said. “And then?”

  “Then the mehendi tomorrow,” I said.

  “At your house?” she asked.

  “Yeah, but we’re prepared for that. They’re delivering the tables and chairs tonight and we’re setting everything up in the morning.”

  “And the wedding is on Sunday,” she said.

  “Sunday morning now,” I said.

  “So three events in three days,” she said as she clipped the last rollers into place. “Just take it one step at a time.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “You have half an hour under the dryer,” she said, turning on the domelike dryer over my head. “Read a magazine, and I’ll get you some tea.”

  I had five minutes of peace—the calm before the storm—before my phone rang. It was Vinnie. Vinnie sounding strangely calm and clinical as she broke the horrible news. Massachusetts had declared a state of emergency and all state parks were to be closed on Sunday—including River Bend. There was no venue anymore.