He left West Punjab with nothing after the partition of India. All their family property was lost after West Punjab became part of Pakistan. He started from scratch in the refugee camps in Delhi, setting up a business that sold preground spices to housewives. And then his Punjabi spices became famous! He pioneered the selling of boxed spices, basically. People could use them at home to make their own dishes taste amazing because, as the KDH tag line says, Homemade Is from the Heart. He expanded their line to all kinds of Indian dishes—chana masala, rajma, muttar paneer, sambar, tandoori, and so on. And through it all, Bade Bauji always wore the simple homespun Gandhian fabric—khadi—that he had put on as a symbol of the independence movement in the 1940s. Except now he was wearing Levi’s to avoid getting stopped and searched in an American airport. I bet he looked adorable, though.
“There he is,” Dad said, smiling. Bauji was wheeling the cart with Beeji and Bade Bauji—who looked elegant in khakis and a bomber jacket.
Beeji was in a starched salwar kameez, ambling along like a ship in sail. No concessions made there—and I wouldn’t want to be in the shoes of any security person who decided to frisk her!
“Peri pona, Bauji.” Dad swiped a hand in the direction of Bade Bauji’s feet. I made a halfhearted attempt to follow suit, feeling kind of ridiculous. I meant well, but it just didn’t look or feel right if I did it.
“No, no, beta,” Beeji said. “No need. How are you, Mini? You are looking fine!”
Beeji was an odd mixture of very traditional and very American. She’d lived here for forty years until Bauji decided he wanted to help modernize the KDH Spices grinding operations and also help launch the new Ayurvedic spices line.
Bade Bauji examined me carefully. “You look like your mother,” he pronounced at last in his slow, deep voice and careful English. “You have your father’s height, but you are Megha through and through.”
“Thanks!” I said. I knew I always liked him.
“Minnni!” Bauji said. Bauji had not changed. Same lantern jaw, same big grin—he looked like the builder he was, even though he had now decided to dedicate his life to researching and bringing Ayurvedic spices to the world. A strange thing for an engineer and builder to be into, but, hey, whatever works, right? “How’s the house looking?”
“It could do with some work!” I said. This was our old joke. Dad couldn’t be bothered fixing anything around the house, so Bauji always sent his old subcontractors over to help out whenever anything was seriously in need of fixing. When the boiler died, when the water pipes froze, when the toilet made a weird whistling sound as it flushed, when the door stuck, when the roof tiles blew off—it was Bauji’s trade friends who showed up and fixed the plumbing, retiled the roof, and hammered open the door.
Bauji and I had also convinced Dad to replace the windows, finish the three-season porch, expand the deck, and take care of various other home improvement projects. It was his way of being there for us even after moving away. I missed having him around.
“I’m here now,” he said. “If there’s anything you want done before the wedding, we still have time!”
Vinnie was here!
Manish picked her up at the airport and brought her home after a visit with his parents in Newton. He even came into the house and gingerly petted Yogi with latex gloves on. Even though Vinnie said it was stupid to risk breaking out in hives five days before the wedding, he scored major points with me and Dad. He was trying, I had to give him that—he was definitely trying.
As soon as he left, we went upstairs with Masi and looked at the dress. Vinnie hadn’t even seen it yet, except in pictures and video.
“Masi, what if it doesn’t fit?” Vinnie said.
“Arre!” Masi said. “We’re here, no? We’ll make it fit!”
“Okay, but what if I hate it?” Vinnie said.
“That we can’t change now,” Masi said.
“But you won’t,” I added. “I promise, Vinnie!”
“Okay,” she said. “Here goes!” She opened the box and lifted the tissue.
Silence.
“Well?” Masi said.
“Say something!” I said, dying of suspense.
“Masi!” Vinnie looked stunned. She opened her arms, at a loss for words, and squeezed Masi. “It’s so much more beautiful in real life. Thank you, Masi! Thank you!”
“Put it on first,” Masi said, all smiles, “before you start thanking me!”
“But it’s so, so beautiful,” Vinnie said, cradling the dress.
“Yes, we all agree it’s beautiful,” I said. “But put it on, Vinnie. Now. We want to see—does it even fit or what? Okay, go!”
“Okay, okay!” Vinnie grabbed the box and vanished into her room. Masi grabbed my hand and squeezed. “I’ve dressed so many brides, beta, that it’s all old to me now. All this fitting-shitting.” How I kept a straight face while she rhymed fitting with shitting, I don’t know, but she was obviously sincere, so I did. “But this is Vinnie, and I’m nervous. I’m actually nervous about this. What if she hates it, huh? Haven’t been this nervous since I made Megha’s lehenga all those years ago.”
I patted her hand, but I was a wreck myself. Masi might have designed it, but I’d picked it out and convinced Vinnie it was the one. What if she did hate it? The door opened.
A vision in gold and red stood in the doorway, looking like she’d stepped out of a Bollywood movie. Kajol in Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge, Alia Bhatt in Humpty Sharma Ki Dulhania, or Koyal Khanna in Meri Bollywood Wedding… all nothing to my sister, Dr. Vinnie Kapoor! I’m biased, clearly, but she looked fantastic.
The choli fitted her perfectly, setting off her curves; the old gold glowed against her tanned, toned arms. There was a small amount of bare midriff before the lehenga hugged her at the waist and flared out in
