A tall boy who was clearly related to Manish, given his familiar smile, and one of Vinnie’s med school friends took charge and carried steaming-hot samosas out to the hungry hordes.
In the kitchen Preet manned the sink, washing used snack dishes—Amy and Sue dried them. Around them people were eating, chatting, laughing, and mingling. In spite of the tight squeeze, everyone had a smile on their face.
“This is going better than I thought,” Amy said with cautious optimism.
“Sweets!” I said. “We don’t have them! We canceled the cake!”
Rachel was the one who remembered. “Didn’t your Beeji make something—those yellow ball things?” she asked. “They’re sweet, aren’t they?”
“Laddoos!” I said. “I have hundreds of them and they are nut- and gluten-free—we’re saved! Come with me!”
Manish’s cousin and Vinnie’s friend helped Shayla carry the laddoos from the garage, where they were stacked in the largest, ugliest plastic Tupperware boxes you can imagine—Beeji specialized in them.
In a flash of inspiration, I found Mom’s crystal three-tier dessert stand, washed and dried it, and took it out to the tent, ducking through the drizzle that had started up. I set it up on a side table next to the buffet. “Help me stack,” I said, and cracked open a Tupperware box. Shayla helped me cover each tier of the dessert stand with golden laddoos.
A little girl in a firoza-blue summer dress, a golden bindi, and blue glass bangles came over to look.
She had tightly curling dark hair, olive skin, and bright, curious eyes. Eyes that looked red from crying.
“Do you want to help?” I asked, and she cheered up immediately.
“Yes,” she said, and started to arrange the laddoos even more carefully than us.
We turned the topmost tier into a neat little pyramid and let the girl in blue place the last laddoo at the very top.
It looked impressive.
“What’s wrong, honey?” I asked the kid. “You look upset.”
“She laughed at my Hindi,” she said, pointing at a Punjabi woman—one of Beeji’s satsang friends.
“My Hindi sounds funny too sometimes,” I said. “It’s because we grew up here.” She probably got it worse because she was biracial. There was definitely discrimination within our own culture sometimes.
“And I spilled curry on my favorite jacket,” she said. “Mom said it’s too hot to wear it today but I wanted to. And now it’s ruined.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Do you like blue?” I asked.
She nodded.
“Then I have the perfect jacket for you,” I said. “It’s exactly that blue, and it has brass buttons, and I bought it for a trip to India, but I never wore it.”
“I’m going to India this winter,” she said. “I’ve never been before.”
“Then you have to wear it for me,” I said. “Deal?”
“Deal!”
“Mini!” It was Masi, newly alighted from Beeji’s car along with Dad, Beeji, and Bade Bauji. “Is everything under control?”
“Yes,” I said. “The tables and the food are all set. People are having appetizers and drinks. Ernie Uncle’s guys are taking care of the cars and parking. We’re just waiting for Vinnie and Manish.”
“So, why don’t you get changed?” Masi said.
I had to admit it—a full morning of driving to the temple and back, of running around, serving samosas, and arranging laddoos had taken their toll. I was a hot mess—my sari was crumpled, my hair damp, and my makeup smudged.
“It’s okay, Masi,” I said.
“No,” she said. “It isn’t. Look, Vinnie got changed at the hotel room. You go upstairs and put on your blue lehenga and freshen up. I know the house is packed but I’ll make sure no one walks in on you.”
She looked pretty determined, so I gave in.
“Fine,” I said. “I won’t be long.”
It only took me fifteen minutes to get changed and comb out my hair, which—thanks to the vast amount of product the nice hairdresser had put in it yesterday—still looked smooth and stylish once I managed to get it dry.
I opened the blue velvet jewelry box with the gold peacock set in it—necklace, bangles, maang tikka, and earrings. They’d look great with what I was wearing.
This is for your wedding, Mini.
No, today was not the time to wear it—at least not all of it. I fastened the earrings on and put the rest away—they could wait for the day Mom meant them for.
Then I found a little paper gift bag, folded the firoza pea coat into it, and covered it with tissue paper.
Perfect!
“That’s better,” Masi said when I reappeared downstairs. “I’ve been waiting to see you in that dress, Mini. And I’m not disappointed. Now, have you eaten anything?”
“No,” I said. “I’ll have lunch with everyone.”
“Have a vada,” Masi said. “Then you can go help again.”
“In a minute,” I said, looking around for the little girl.
I felt a tug at my skirt and looked down to see her right next to me.
“There you are!” I said. “Here’s the jacket I promised you.”
She rummaged through the tissue and her face lit up when she saw the jacket.
“It’s so beautiful!” she breathed.
“You like that shade of blue?” I asked. “It’s called firoza!”
“Thanks,” said a woman standing next to her—the girl’s mother, I guess. She had a dimpled smile and a Nigerian accent.
“You’re welcome,” I said.
“It’s time someone wore that thing,” Masi said with an impish grin. “You ready for your vada now, Mini?”
“Yes, I am!”
The samosas had finally finished, and a bunch of Beeji’s friends were heating the vadas from the janvasam and serving them up. Masi fixed me a plate with a crisp golden vada and a dollop of chutney next to it. I’d been too busy to eat, so I was super hungry, and it tasted amazing.
Just then there was a commotion
