“You can’t just stand there!” Rachel grabbed me from the edge of the dance floor. “You’ve got to dance!”
“Okay, okay,” I said. Dancing wasn’t really my thing, actually. “I’m doing it, aren’t I?” Even I had a silly grin on my face, just like everyone else on the dance floor.
The music had changed to a slow, sweet song. Perfect for shy middle school kids—including our new Bar Mitzvah, Jason Siegel—to muddle through their first slow dance.
Vir left the console and came over to where I was standing.
He held out a hand. “Would you like to dance?”
“Sure,” I said. I was glad the lights were low because I’m pretty sure I looked horribly self-conscious—is it actually possible to have a whole-body blush? Then both his hands were around my waist, and both mine were on his shoulders. Breathe, Mini, I told myself.
“Do you have grandparents?” Vir asked as a sweet old couple—Jason’s grandparents—swept by on the dance floor looking blissfully happy. He was a good dancer; I looked like I knew what I was doing just by following his lead.
“I have three grandparents,” I said. “My Nanaji is an old army man. He retired back in the eighties, around the time Mom and Dad got married. He’s off traveling half the time, visiting old friends, doing his own thing, though he’s based in Delhi… Gurgaon, actually. So I don’t see him that often, but when he does surface—he’s awesome. But my Nani passed away when I was four.”
I was aware that I was babbling, but I couldn’t stop—sheer nerves, I guess.
“Who else?” Vir asked.
“Dad’s parents, Beeji and Bauji,” I said. “They moved here when Dad was two.”
“Do they still live here?” he asked.
“They moved back to India four years ago,” I said. “To help Bade Bauji, my great-grandfather, with his business. Have you heard of KDH Spices?”
“Kake Di Hatti, right?” Vir asked. “KDH Spices—Homemade Is from the Heart! Don’t tell me your great-grandfather is Kake!”
Kake is Punjabi for a little boy—like “buddy,” or “laddie.” Kake Di Hatti would translate to Buddy’s Shop, I guess.
“No, he’s not Kake.” The idea of my tall, refined, white-haired great-grandfather being Kake made me laugh. “He named it after his son!”
“Your grandfather is Kake, then?” Vir asked.
“No, Kake Tauji is,” I said. It was kind of funny that the name had stuck to my dad’s uncle. I guess people do have buddy uncles too, don’t they? “Will you stop laughing at my family?”
“I’m not laughing!” Vir said. “I think very highly of KDH Spices! Sprinkling some on my food made my boarding school meals almost edible! And I’ve been to the restaurant they have in New Delhi in… what’s that market…”
“Karol Bagh,” I said. I had happy memories of the place where Bauji grew up. Mom had grown up there too, but her family—Nanaji was minor Rajput nobility—lived in the huge old houses around the park, far from the bustle of the main market where the Punjabi refugees got their start. But things reversed over the years—the old houses crumbled, and the Punjabi entrepreneurs made fortunes and moved to South Delhi. “I haven’t been there since I was seven.”
“You should go back,” Vir said. “It’s changed a lot in ten years.”
The music had stopped, but there was a crazy beat pounding in my ears—Vir still had his arms around me. For a minute we just stood there as people milled around us in the dim light.
“Duty calls,” Vir eventually said, and let me go.
Chapter Fifteen
Yogi’s barking broke through my concentration as I carefully took apart a vintage Chanel trench coat. It had no commercial value, since it was torn beyond repair. The Turnabout Shop stock that could not be resold or donated went to me. If I saw something that had a cool cut or silhouette, I pulled out my seam ripper and tried to learn its secrets, the way my dad took apart radios and computers when he was a kid.
“What is it, boy?”
I should have known even before I looked out the window. The DHL van was parked at the curb.
Yes! I tore downstairs. The delivery guy was waiting at the door with a humongous parcel. I scanned the box as I signed for the package. A familiar handwriting stared back at me.
OMG, it was from Masi—it had to be Vinnie’s lehenga!
The box was nearly as big as I was, and heavy too. I got it in the door, tottered upstairs with it, and laid it carefully on Vinnie’s old bed. Yogi sniffed it thoroughly—it must have had some really interesting smells.
“Wait,” I told the dog. “This has to be opened very carefully.”
I sliced through the packing tape and opened the box—scrunched-up tissue paper hid the contents from view. The crisp smell of packaging paper and… sandalwood filled the room. It smelled like India. It smelled like Masi’s office.
Casting off the tissue paper, I got my first glimpse of the lehenga.
Wow! The gold organza fabric was beyond anything! And the exquisite handstitched embroidery made it look so rich, and yet so understated, if it’s even possible for spun gold to look understated. It was stunning!
I lifted it—the weight of it was surprising. Beneath it was the dupatta—a light-as-air red silk, edged with the same old-gold embroidery as the lehenga. It looked like something royalty would have worn two centuries ago, not something Vinnie would wear in a few weeks!
A sense of calm washed over me. It was going to be all right. Whatever else happened with the wedding planning now, Vinnie would be a gorgeous bride. And the dress was made to
