“I’ll be there!” he said.
At home, Masi and Katrina had worked their magic to make Vinnie look outstanding. Everything might be falling apart, but our bride was going to look perfect in every way.
“Mini!” Masi said. “Go get changed, beta. We’re late! We’ll have to go ahead, and your dad and you can catch up later.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’m going! But I have to tell you…”
“Not now!” Masi said. “We’ll talk at the temple.”
So even though everything about the wedding and the mehendi—the date and time and venue—was up in the air, we still had to get to the one event that was going off without a hitch—the janvasam. They all piled into cars and headed for the temple.
Dad and I would have to catch up, like Masi said.
I wore the gorgeous sari that Ragini Aunty had given me. It was a luscious double weave—pink from one angle, purple from the other—and shot all over with sprays of gold. I had a basic pink blouse that went well with it, as did Nani’s anklet necklace.
The Sri Balaji temple in Sherwood is the hub of the Indian community in New England. I hadn’t been to it since my mother’s death. None of us had. Because that’s when my dad decided that the idea of a concerned and compassionate deity was laughable in the light of recent family history. And in case we’d ever doubted it, there was (drumroll) the uninvited hurricane at Vinnie’s wedding.
Still we went. And as we turned off Route 128 and the whitewashed spires of the temple came into view, I felt stirrings of childhood nostalgia. This was where I had my first dance performance at the age of five. It must have been even more powerful for Dad—I could almost hear him freeze as we stopped at the temple.
I cast around for an icebreaker.
“Look, Dad!” I said. “The car blessing spot!”
That was where the priest would come out and perform a prayer for an automobile, sprinkle holy water on its hood, and break a coconut in front of it for good luck. I remember coming there after we bought the minivan. Mom had insisted.
Needless to say, my Mini Cooper had not had the treatment, and neither had Dad’s Lotus Esprit.
There was a sign in the car blessing spot that said THE TEMPLE IS CLOSED TOMORROW AUGUST 27 DUE TO THE HURRICANE.
“Want to update the minivan’s blessing?” I joked.
“It’s cheaper than insurance!” Dad said—a Mom quote—and he even cracked a smile. It had been a good day when the minivan was blessed. We had lunch at the Dosa Temple afterward and felt safe driving home in our newly blessed car.
“Come on,” Masi said. They had been waiting in the parking lot for us to arrive so we could make our entry together.
A whole contingent of Iyers was waiting for us at the front of the temple. I laughed at Vinnie’s face because Manish had decided to go topless after all.
“Hey, Manish has some decent abs under the scrubs and lab coat! Who knew?”
“Will you stop it?” Vinnie said, red in the face.
I guess on the right guy the outfit does look nice. Vir, for example, with his swimmer’s physique. He’d look like a model wrapped in a bedsheet. Why could I not get him out of my head?
“Vanakkam, vanakkam,” Venkat Uncle said. Which is a Tamil greeting that we were now getting familiar with.
They walked us to the long room that ran along the length of the temple. It had been set up with rows of chairs.
“Mini,” Bauji said. “I called Alan Brown and Richie. They’ll be at your house at six-thirty in the morning. What time did you say Talbot Rental opens?”
“Seven,” I said. “Do they have something big enough to carry everything back with them?”
“Yes,” Bauji said. “They have a pickup truck, and I’ll bring mine.”
“When can they have the tent up?” I asked. “I’ve asked Sher-e-Punjab to bring lunch at noon.”
“They’ll be done by noon,” Bauji said.
I relaxed enough to finally look around. Bade Bauji was sitting in the front row, the red turban on his head adding a few inches to his tall frame. Beeji, Dad, and Masi were sitting next to him.
Ragini Aunty was holding Vinnie’s arm and chatting with a priest. It was Krishna Ji, the head temple priest, the one she said was an Iyengar. He had really gone gray in the last seven years, but otherwise his face was the same—kind, wrinkled, smiling, with a white V on his forehead like the Hare Krishnas. I guess they stole it from the Iyengars. Except Krishna Ji’s V also had a single yellow line down the center.
“I didn’t know the girl Manish was marrying was Vinnie,” he said. “Ragini Amma, I’ve known this family for a long, long time.”
I was smiling without meaning to. He was always so sweet to both of us. “How is Rama Ji?” I asked. “Very good,” he said. “Okay, the mahoorat is now, kutti, let’s start the Nichayathartham.”
They had set up for the ceremony with a red carpet, gold chairs, a gold-and-white brocade backdrop, and stacked pots with mango leaves and coconuts atop—definitely Shoma Moorty’s handiwork! It was traditional, but it had a bright and happy wedding vibe.
Manish and his family sat to one side of the priest and Vinnie and Dad to the other. In the center was the small fire pit for the homum. “Amma, please,” Krishna Ji said to Masi. “You come and sit and complete the rituals for the girl’s mother.”
“Sure,” Masi said. “Vinnie is my daughter too.”
“Pssssst,” someone said in my ear.
“Yes?” I turned around to see an imposing woman in a dazzlingly bright yellow sari. “Come with me.”
Her tone was pretty authoritative, so I followed her out. She pulled me into the main temple hall. “I’m Radhika, Manish’s mom’s friend. You are Mini?”
“Yes,” I said. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“We were thinking.…” An older
