My grandparents’ house is in the neighborhood my dad grew up in. Bauji builds huge mansions in wealthy suburbs—the kind with four-car garages and floating walkways and two-story atriums with crystal chandeliers. Once in a while when he has one sitting on the market he contemplates selling off the split-level and moving into it. But it’s so not him. This house, where Dad planted the now-towering pine trees on either side, and helped Bauji put in the garage, and filmed sci-fi pictures with a Super 8 camera in the backyard—this is them. That’s why they’re holding on to the house, even though they live in India most of the year now.
Bauji did gut the interior and remove a few walls and put in granite, hardwood, and marble to upgrade the place whenever his building crew had downtime. The new granite-and-rosewood kitchen with the recessed lights and slide-out pantry wasn’t really Beeji’s cup of tea. But she could make magic in any kitchen anywhere.
Knowing Beeji, I was expecting an extravagant spread with the newest KDH spices showcased in every dish. She didn’t disappoint.
Chana masala, with fresh bhatooras, okra, kadhi, pulao—no meat dishes because the Iyers, who were also invited, were vegetarian.
“They don’t eat this and don’t eat that,” Beeji muttered. “Har tarah ki allergy pal rakhi hai. Hamari kuddi inni lambi chaudi, aur unka munda…”
“Beeji!” I warned.
“Ki hoya?” Beeji said. “Sehat nai banti vegetarian khane se. Vinnie, you make sure you feed your kids proper Punjabi food, okay?”
“Beeji!” Vinnie said. “Don’t you dare say anything like that when they come!”
“And I’m making laddoos,” Beeji said, uncovering a couple of platters with the flourish of a sorcerer. “For the wedding!”
“Laddoos,” I said, gazing incredulously at the hundreds of fist-sized golden-yellow balls that had magically appeared on trays all over Beeji’s kitchen. It was clearly a work in progress. There was a giant pot full of fresh golden-brown boondis soaked in syrup on the countertop that were yet to be rolled into proper fist-sized laddoo balls. “You’re making laddoos for the wedding? What are we paying that Sunny Sondhi for, then?”
I mean, the woman had just gotten here—how did she even make this much food in such a short time?
“But there should be some homemade sweets from the home, no?” Beeji said. “This is Vinnie’s favorite.”
“It is good hospitality,” Bade Bauji put in unexpectedly. “Anyone can buy sweets, but…”
“We know!” I said. “Homemade Is from the Heart!”
But poor Beeji looked winded. It was completely unnecessary for her to have cooked dessert for an entire wedding party before she was even over her jet lag.
“Beeji, no one makes sweets at home anymore,” I said. “Even in India they get a halwai to make it if they really want it fresh. And anyway we’ve ordered a massive wedding cake.”
“Those South Indians,” Beeji said. “Some of them don’t eat eggs, you know. And Manish is allergic to nuts, and with that kind of thing it’s better to have homemade—always. These caterers put nuts in everything. In sweets more than anything.”
For all her complaining about their dietary restrictions, she had the needs of the “South Indians” in mind—typical Beeji.
“And that’s why Curry Cuisine is bringing gulabjamuns for them,” I said. “They catered for Manish’s sister’s wedding, remember, and Manish ate their dessert and survived. Let’s just put this away for now, okay?”
Beeji looked mightily offended, so I added, “I’ll help you squeeze the rest of them after they’ve left. Just please go get dressed, and Vinnie and I will set the table and everything.”
When we were full of Beeji’s, in Ragini Aunty’s words, “excccellent cooking,” we turned on the Weather Channel and watched the forecast. Yeah, the storm was definitely headed our way. The Massachusetts Emergency Management Agency bunker in Framingham was being prepped in case the governor had to head there to coordinate the response. All the New England states were bracing for impact. If we were lucky, it would swing west and inland and miss Westbury, or it would swing east and out to sea, but right now it looked a lot like it was beating a path to Vinnie’s wedding mandap. Yikes!
“We have a rain plan,” Vinnie said. “Right, Mini?”
“Yes, they have a tent that we can set up for the ceremony. It’s semiattached to the Carriage House, where the reception is going to be held. We’ll just have to put the dance floor in the tent and put the mandap on top of it and the white chairs for the guests grouped around it. And when it’s done we’ll have to skip cocktail hour and go straight to the reception.”
“The rehearsal is on Friday at River Bend,” Vinnie said. “We’ll talk about it then.”
Dad’s cell phone rang and he walked out of the room, only to return two minutes later grinning from ear to ear.
“Great news,” he said. “Intel Capital finally called, and… they’re giving us all the funding we asked for!”
“That’s awesome, Dad.” I hugged him. “That’s epic!”
“You can spend anything you want for the wedding now,” he said. “And I won’t say a thing!”
Maybe the tide was turning for our family after all.
I ran upstairs and fetched a platter from Beeji’s kitchen.
“Laddoos for everyone!” I said.
Chapter Twenty-Five
I. CAN’T. EVEN.
I can’t even begin to explain what it was like when we found out that the dang hurricane was headed straight at us at the exact place and time of Vinnie’s wedding. Just like that. BAM.
The only hope left was for it to weaken into a big rainstorm instead.
If I were the praying type, I would have been praying, but what was the use? Miracles had stopped working for the likes of us a long time ago.
All we could do was wait. We’d know within hours, definitely. Until then there was nothing to be done except wring our hands, write place cards, and go on
