“You’re welcome,” he said.
Back in the bride’s-side parking lot I finally got a good look at Vinnie. I needn’t have worried because of course Masi had done a spectacular job—Vinnie looked ravishing. She didn’t look overdone like some brides. Despite all the gold and red, her look was simple and classic—contemporary chic with a hint of traditional. Timeless.
Best of all, her gold lehenga with the cranberry-red veil set off Mom’s jewelry to perfection. Masi, Beeji, her bridesmaids, and half the aunties were fussing around her, and for a moment I felt left out. Then Vinnie caught sight of me, and her face lit up.
“Mini, where have you been?” she demanded.
“Taking care of stuff,” I said. “You look ready to get married, Dr. Vinnie!”
“You better believe I am!” Vinnie said. “Did you get a look at Manish?”
“I did,” I said mysteriously. “But I can’t tell you anything.”
A flash went off next to my face, and I looked over to see an intense young woman behind a huge camera with an extra-large lens attached.
“Sol?” I asked. This had to be Manish’s friend Sol, who was to do the photography and videography. What a relief! By the look of her equipment, she was more than qualified.
“You’re the sister.” Sol had no trouble identifying me. “So can we finally take group photographs?” I didn’t realize they’d been waiting for me. Sol was already giving directions.
“Vinnie in the center, Dad to the left, Mini to the right, Aunty left, grandparents right,” she directed.
All of Vinnie’s bridesmaids were picture-perfect in their red saris—and they had twenties-style headbands and fascinators in their hair.
Where on earth did they get those?
“I had some made,” Masi said. “With the leftover material from Vinnie’s lehenga. Your designs inspired me, I guess, and the girls thought they were fun so they decided to use them.”
“Wow,” I said. “Just wow! But where’s mine?”
“Right here,” Masi said. She produced a hair comb with an antique gold flower mounted on it and pushed it into my hair. Her hands were gentle as she fastened it expertly with a couple of bobby pins.
“Ready?” Sol asked, and Masi nodded. “Okay, perfect. Say ‘To hell with the hurricane!’”
We had time for a few more photographs, and then dhol beats announced that the groom’s party was advancing up the hill.
“The baraat is coming,” Dad said. “Places, everyone!”
Beeji and Masi were going to greet Manish with a lighted lamp and place a ceremonial red tilak on his forehead. And then Vinnie would make her grand entrance flanked by her bridesmaids.
“Is that Dad’s car?” Vinnie asked. “He let Manish use it?”
The Lotus was climbing the hill slowly and smoothly without stalling out once. Vir was at the wheel, evidently. Red roses and gold tassels hung festively from the sleek hood of the race car—Shoma Moorty’s work. I could hear Dad make a strangled sound in his throat at the sight. Driving was not the only thing Vir had done well—both he and Manish were wearing flamboyant red turbans. Ahead of them came two real Punjabi Dholis with large wooden drums and a bunch of Iyer relatives dancing in a happy, if not very Punjabi, way.
Someone handed Manish his varmala and he turned around to wait for Vinnie’s entrance.
“Come on, girls!” I said. “Now!”
Vinnie’s bridesmaids and I held the ceremonial red-and-gold canopy high above Vinnie’s head. Vinnie walked beneath it holding her varmala garland, Dad beside her, and we started out toward the groom’s party.
I could hear gasps of admiration. Vinnie looked every inch the glowing bride, and I think the bright red the rest of us wore added to her splendor.
In the background Sol was clicking away earnestly. Then Vinnie garlanded Manish and the ceremony was underway.
Shoma Moorty had done an outstanding job—the mandap was just the way Vinnie wanted it. Beautifully draped in tasseled silk, with a flower-bedecked welcome arch and a red carpet down the center aisle. I looked back from the mandap and saw row upon row of smiling faces. Beeji, Bauji, Bade Bauji, Dad, Vinnie’s friends from high school and med school, old teachers, Beeji’s Arya Samaj friends, the Tamils from the Iyers’ side. And—it took me a moment to place her—the bank teller from the Westbury Bank of America branch. She had been at the temple to pray and found herself caught up in the wedding. She had been happy to stay.
In the confusion, no one asked Krishna Ji to perform the ceremony the Punjabi way, so he went ahead and followed the Tamil ceremonials instead.
There was a bit when Manish opened an umbrella and pretended to go off to Kashi and stay a bachelor, until he was persuaded to come back. And another when they reenacted the garlanding ceremony but both Vinnie and Manish were lifted up by family members to make the garlanding more difficult for the other person—like a sort of competition. Vinnie didn’t get very high with only Dad and Bauji holding her until Vir, Chintu, and Mintu pitched in.
And there was the part when they had Vinnie sit on Dad’s lap—not something they do in Punjab, but sweet anyway. They also did some of the more familiar rituals—the seven steps around the fire and so forth.
And before we knew it, they were done!
“You’re all invited to our house for the reception,” Dad said. “The address is posted on the temple bulletin board.”
So it was.
I had been getting texts throughout the ceremony. Shayla and Rachel had gone over to our house soon after they got my messages just to keep an eye on things. Then they promptly called in their moms, so Sue and Amy were there as well. Everything was going well, they reported. The tent was up, the tables set, the flowers arranged. Shayla had walked Yogi—the poor dog had no idea why he had been abandoned since early in the morning and why strangers were swarming over his yard and putting up large, scary things.
But I was
