It shouldn’t have meant so much, but it did.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Do you know I’ve had a ton of orders for this design already?” she asked. “They all want the dress that the Boston girl was wearing.”
“Get out of here!” I said, shocked. “Really?”
“Really,” she said. “Mini, what’s this?” She held up a child’s firoza-blue double-breasted pea coat. “This can’t be yours.”
Oh, no! I snatched it back. “It used to be,” I said. “But I never wore it. Here’s Dad now, Masi. Let’s go eat.”
So here’s the downlow on why I’m still upset with my Masi. The September Vinnie left for college was probably the hardest time in my life. Worse even than when Mom died, because right after it happened I was so numb it didn’t even feel real. And Vinnie was there that spring and summer to cushion me from it. But when she left for college, it really hit hard—and the only thing that kept me going was the promise Masi made me.
She said she would come to visit in December and I would go to India with her. I believed her. Because she had promised—more than once! She was going to New York for work—it was an exciting collaboration with Saks Fifth Avenue. She was finally going to launch a ready-to-wear collection in India and overseas. And after her meetings she would come to Boston and take me back to Delhi for three weeks. I’d miss a week of school, sure, but that was hardly a big deal in sixth grade.
I was so excited about that trip. It was my Golden Ticket. When Vinnie came home for Thanksgiving, she took me shopping for it. I hadn’t had a birthday party that November—Dad and Vinnie took me to see Penguins of Madagascar instead. But Vinnie bought me a double-breasted pea coat—in my favorite firoza blue with bright brass buttons—just for my trip to Delhi. Mom had told us how cold it could be there in winter, and how the houses were not built for the cold weather, and how no one had central heating. I didn’t remember being there in winter, but Vinnie did.
Vinnie went back to college after Thanksgiving, but I looked at my new clothes, and my suitcase, and packed and unpacked them. Then held the jacket to my face and dreamt of India. It felt soft and smelled of pure wool, excitement, and adventure. I just knew that my trip would be incredible! I’d drink ThumsUp in Masi’s office, and visit her sewing units, and babysit my cute twin cousins—it would be epic.
But a week before Mallu Masi was supposed to come to New York she canceled her trip—just like that. No explanation. Nothing.
It was a little bit like that morning I found Mom, all over again. The light went out, and I had to cope.
I finally wore the new clothes to school in January. But I never wore the beautiful blue pea coat. That’s why it still hung in my closet as a warning—never trust Mallu Masi.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I went over to air out Beeji and Bauji’s house and stock up their fridge—it’s no fun food shopping while jet-lagged. Masi offered to help—I had no clue how much help she would actually be. I mean, when was the last time she used a vacuum cleaner—if ever? But she was determined to come along, so I was stuck with her.
“I like your car,” she said. “Your favorite firoza blue with a white roof and racing stripes, huh? It’s cute.”
“Thanks,” I said. A good word about my car or my dog was always welcome—even from Masi.
“I still remember when your Nanaji taught Megha how to drive! He made her use that tank of a car he had—the Ambassador. Did you ever see it?”
“I’ve seen photos,” I said. The Ambassador was the first car to be manufactured in India.
“Yeah,” she said. “He set up gharas, you know, the terra-cotta water pots? Arranged an obstacle course in a field at our farmhouse and made her drive around them. By the end of her first try she had flattened them all!”
“Wow, did she blow a tire?” I asked. It was good to hear something about Mom I didn’t already know.
“No, but she scared a herd of buffaloes!” Masi said. “Nanaji’s farmhand swore they wouldn’t give any milk that day because of it.” Tears of laughter streamed down her cheeks. When she was like that, it was hard not to like her.
Beeji and Bauji’s place looked dusty and smelled stale—it had been sitting in the baking summer sun for months. They should really rent it out—just so it would be looked after. It took three hours of vigorous vacuuming and throwing open of windows and doors just to freshen the musty air inside.
“What’s down there?” Masi asked as I flipped on the light in the basement and walked downstairs.
“Just storage,” I said.
I stared at a stack of suitcases—vintage hardcase American Touristers—and was struck by an idea. Beeji stored her old saris in them. Maybe Mom’s wedding lehenga was here instead of at home? Dad and I had been through every box in our attic and found nothing.
“I’m just going to look in these, Masi,” I said. “If they’re open.”
I took down the first one, snapped the clasps, and lifted the lid. Beeji’s old saris, dupattas, and salwar kameezes, neatly packed. But no bulky silk lehenga. I shut it and opened another one. This one had old linens hand-embroidered by Beeji half a century ago. I passed a hand over them—the tiny stitches looked bright and felt crisp and new, even now—why had she never used them to set a table? Or displayed them in her china cabinet? What a waste!
“Look!” Masi had been opening suitcases too. “That’s Megha’s lehenga.”
Brilliant pink silk spilled from Masi’s hands—Mom’s lehenga. I knew it right away even though I’d only seen it in pictures. The pink was an unusual crushed raspberry spangled with
