“Have you met her?” I asked.
“Of course,” he answered. “She’s such a battle-ax. How did you get that dress off her, anyway? I know she doesn’t do anything but Indian-style clothes—lehengas, salwars, saris—that kind of thing.”
Battle-ax! A snort of laughter escaped me. He definitely had Masi pegged.
“She sent me the lehenga,” I said. “For the wedding. And she had no idea what size I am, of course. So it was huge! I had to alter it to get it to fit—and there was all this leftover fabric. I didn’t have anything dressy enough for today so I used the fabric to make this.”
“Okay—what?” Vir looked shocked. “How did you get her to ‘send’ you a dress that’s worth lakhs of rupees?” He stared at me critically. “You look amazing in it, but this definitely cost more than your bag from Turnabout—and you’ve been going on about how expensive that was! Wasn’t it a waste of money to buy it if you had to alter it that much?”
“I didn’t have to pay for it,” I admitted.
“And why’s that?” he asked.
I slung my handbag over my shoulder defiantly and raised my chin. In the background I could see cameras flash. “Because Mallika Motwani is my Masi.”
“This is just too perfect,” Vir said. “They’re all set on disliking you, just because I found you on my own, and because Mum likes you.…”
“Your mum likes me?” I asked. Yay. That was good to know!
“Hell yeah!” Vir said. “But my mum and my stepmother—they don’t ever see eye to eye, so I was a bit worried that things could get ugly. But this is good. It could definitely make everything easier.”
“But you said Masi was rude to her,” I said. “How is that good?”
“Oh, it’s good!” Vir said. “She thinks Masi is an artistic genius. She doesn’t get offended when she’s rude to her. Okay, here we go.…”
A tall, slim woman in a deceptively simple georgette sari stood by a man who was definitely Vir’s dad.
“Mummy.” I could tell Vir was uncomfortable saying that word. “Meet my friend Mini. And guess what we just found out? She’s related to your favorite designer.”
“Really!” Vir’s stepmother clutched at my arm, but she was staring at my dress, not at me. “Yes! I remember that embroidery! She wouldn’t sell me the lehenga, darling. Said it didn’t come in my size. I didn’t know it came in a dress! How are you related to Mallika, Mini?”
She finally looked at me, and her gaze was friendly and approving.
Vir hadn’t even mentioned Masi’s name, I realized, but she knew from looking at my dress who he’d meant. Maybe Masi really was her favorite designer.
“She’s my Masi,” I said.
“Wonderful! But I didn’t know Mallika had a sister,” she said. “Is your mother older than her, or younger?”
“My mom was older,” I said. “But she passed away years ago.”
Her eyes opened wide. Her sympathy was genuine. “I’m so sorry!” she said. “I didn’t know.”
“It’s okay,” I said. How could she? It’s not something people talk about.
She inclined her neck graciously. “Well, any niece of Mallika is a friend of mine,” she said, as if that settled everything. “We’re even related, I think. Her husband is a Motwani and they’re cousins to the Mirchandanis—the Sindhi connection, you know.”
All I knew about my Motu Mausa, Masi’s husband, was that he had a contracting business that managed huge projects—government buildings and roadwork and whatnot.
“It’s amazing that you know Masi and Mausa. I mean, there are one billion people in India,” I said. “What are the odds?”
“Yes, but some circles are quite small, you know?” she said. “I’m very glad you and Vir became friends. We were sooo woo-rried about him being soooo far from home. Didn’t know what type of friends he’d make here. His father and I just hoped he would steer clear of the wrong type.”
It occurred to me that Vir’s mom lived here, and yet they had no confidence in her ability to keep him away from the “wrong type.” And what was the “wrong type,” anyway? I could see why Gulshan Chabra and Vir’s stepmother didn’t see eye to eye.
“I’m sure he will,” I said. I guess I had reason to thank Masi for something. The minute Vir’s stepmother knew Mallika Motwani was my aunt, they treated me like—one of them!
“Mini,” Vir said. “This is my dad.”
Mr. Mirchandani was a handsome man. He looked like an older version of Vir, basically. But Vir was browner, taller, and more athletic-looking. His dad was fairer, and his hair was graying at the temples. He had a sharp, intelligent glint in his eye that reminded me of Vir.
“Nice to meet you, Mini,” he said. “Your Masi is a big friend of my wife, it seems. Small world, isn’t it?”
Chapter Twenty-One
“You were wearing a dress made out of the fabric of the lehenga I sent.” Masi was nothing if not direct. Apparently some of the pictures from the event at MIT had somehow made it back to her. Through Vir’s family or the fashion blogger who had been there, I don’t know. “Please explain.”
“I’m sorry, Masi,” I said. “It’s just that I had nothing to wear.…”
“Who made the dress for you?” she said.
“I did! And I didn’t ruin the lehenga!” I said. “I had to take it in, so there was all this leftover fabric. I just used it to make a dress.”
There was silence at the other end.
“You made that dress?” Masi asked.
“Yeah,” I said.
“And ‘took in’ the lehenga?”
“Yes, and I got compliments from everyone. Shayla and Vinnie and Vir and even Dad—not that he knows anything about it. But it wasn’t a bad use of the fabric. I’d have sent it back to you if I knew you wanted it.”
“How did the lehenga turn out?” Masi asked.
I paused, confused. Wasn’t that, like, off-topic?
“Great!” I said. “There’s a
