“We just won’t have the lighting we planned on,” I said. “But if you want, we can rent the stuff from Talbot Rental. I have Vir’s notes on where to put the lighting so it looks best.”
“He’s a great guy,” Manish said. “I mean, I’ve only properly spent time with him once when we went to the farm, but he’s cool. Why isn’t he doing the lighting, again?”
“Because I fired him,” I said.
“Oooh—that’s harsh,” Manish said. “Bad breakup?”
“Yeah,” I said.
Okay, I wasn’t even seeing him anymore, and now my grandparents knew about Vir! Could it possibly get any worse?
Mallu Masi was not the only one who saw the pictures of Vir and me. Beeji, my grandmother, had turned into a gossip-column follower ever since she had moved to India. But she hardly expected her granddaughter back in the US to feature in them.
Needless to say, she told Bauji. And Bauji gave me a long, stern lecture, via telephone, and now they were both coming a few days early for the wedding—with Bade Bauji, her father, in tow! Don’t get me wrong—I love my Baba and Beeji.
“Mini, you have to be careful who you’re friendly with,” Beeji said on the phone. “That boy is not like you. He’s very wild and he’s had so many girlfriends. Actresses and all. I’ve read in the magazines.”
“Look,” I said, “I’m not seeing him anymore. So can we forget about this?”
“Okay, okay,” she said. “Just be careful, bache, that’s all.”
“Beeji, why is Bade Bauji coming?” I asked. “Isn’t it too much for him? He’s ninety-two, and he’s never even left India before.”
“I told him there’s no need,” Beeji said. “But he wants to come.”
“How did he even get a visa?” I asked. “Isn’t it really hard to get a tourist visa for the US if you haven’t been here before?”
“Of course he got a visa,” Beeji said. “They know he has a big business in India.”
So that was three more confirmed guests to add to the guest list—180 guests invited, 150 confirmed.
As Nanaji says when he’s overwhelmed, baap re! Though neither his father nor mine was going to be any help to me now.
Mallu Masi was the first overseas visitor to arrive.
Dad and I took the minivan to the airport—nothing else could transport the luggage Masi was sure to bring. We waited at the customs gate for her to come into view. After a long stream of British tourists (the flight was from London), she appeared—and she had not changed a bit! Same artfully highlighted shoulder-length hair, same bouncy striding step and smooth olive skin. How could she step off a plane after a daylong journey looking that fresh and unwrinkled?
“Mini!” she said, and grabbed me in a long hug. “Look at you! You’re tall like your dad, but you look just like Megha!”
“Er… thanks,” I said, extricating myself. “It’s good to see you, Masi.”
It actually felt true.
“Mallika,” Dad said, grinning boyishly. Wow, I couldn’t remember seeing Dad smile like that in years. He and Masi had always gotten along well.
“Vinod,” she said. “So good to see you, ya!”
“Wish you’d brought the boys with you,” Dad said. By which he meant Motu Mausa (Mohan Motwani, Masi’s husband) and their twelve-year-old twin boys, Arvind and Avinash.
“Ari and Avi are at school,” she said. “Their school reopened on July first, Mini, otherwise I would have definitely brought them. But they’ll come in time for the wedding, and Nana is coming too! Mohan can’t get away from work, though.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. I haven’t seen Motu in years!” Dad said.
“Nanaji is coming too!” I squealed. “That’s awesome!”
Nanaji, my other grandfather—Mom and Masi’s dad—doesn’t travel overseas as much as he used to. Last time I saw him was two years ago when he spent the whole summer with us. And he’s hard to contact because he’s usually off visiting his army buddies, who have retired to every remote corner to be found in India—none of them have internet access. I hadn’t even known he got the wedding invitation I’d mailed to his Delhi address.
“Of course he is,” Masi said. “Your Bade Bauji can make it, when he’s, what—ninety-two? So why can’t Nanaji?”
The atmosphere at home was suddenly festive. Masi breezed into the house, threw her stuff all over the master bedroom (Dad had lived in his study for the last seven years), put on loud Bollywood music, and forbade poor Yogi to “shed all over my pashminas.”
We ordered takeout and Dad went off to pick it up.
“Show me how you altered the lehenga, Mini,” she demanded. “I just have to see what you did with it!”
“It’s in my closet,” I said. “I’ll get it!”
Before I could get over to my room, she was already there and, having flung my closet door open, was oohing and aahing over various items in it.
“Where did you get that?” she asked.
“Careful,” I said. “It’s vintage.”
“I can see that!” she said.
“And here’s the lehenga!” she said. She pulled it out and examined it with interest. “Nice work, Mini. Clean sewing too. You have a machine that can handle fabric this thick?”
“I don’t,” I said. “But my friend’s mom’s consignment store has everything because they offer alterations, and she let me use their sewing machine. I just have this…”
“Megha’s old machine?” she said, taking in my sewing corner in the far end of the room. “I remember it.”
“I love the lehenga, Masi,” I said. “Thanks for sending it to me. I didn’t realize it was your signature piece, otherwise I would never have taken it apart.”
“Is this the dress you wore when you went out with Vir?” she asked.
A shard of hurt stabbed at me when she said his name.
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, it is.”
“It’s excellent.” Masi turned the dress inside out and examined the stitching. Thankfully, I had sewed it cleanly.
