The Bollywood Bride (15 page)

“Please tell me he hasn’t mentioned me.” Ved was the one who had referred Ria to DJ when DJ had been a young upstart, so he knew about Ved and her.

“Not yet. But if anything else puts you in the papers, you’ll become irresistible as a publicity vehicle for him. So please listen to me about the damn bodyguard. There’s too many whackos out there.”

She got up and paced the deck. Inside Vikram shoved the phone in his pocket and stormed out of the kitchen without looking at her.

“Nothing’s going to happen to me, DJ. I’m really safe here. My uncle and aunt literally know every Indian within a two-hundred-kilometer radius. The Indians here don’t even notice me. I am not getting a bodyguard, but you need to make sure the blackmailer stays down.”

“I’m already doing that,” DJ said. “Can you at least promise me you’ll be careful?”

“Of course I will. I’m always careful,” she said, watching the big red truck speed down the street and vanish into the night.

17

W
hen she’d spoken to DJ last night, Ria had fully intended not to leave the house except to go to one of the auntie’s homes. But that was before the shipment of Nikhil’s wedding clothes that she’d ordered before leaving Mumbai was lost and Uma and Jen or the “Stressed-Out Twins,” as Nikhil and Vikram had taken to calling them, had twin coronaries.

Fortunately, Anu Auntie in all her resourcefulness recommended an Indian men’s boutique on Devon Avenue and just like that Ria found herself in the back of Uma’s sixteen-year-old Town and Country watching Nikhil and Vikram on the driveway argue about who would be “caught dead” driving the mommy mobile.

Jen wasn’t going with them. After the altar burned down, and the shipment got lost, Uma, who wasn’t usually superstitious, didn’t want to take any chances with any more bad omens. She had suggested, in a gentle tone she reserved only for Jen these days, that the bride choosing the groom’s wedding clothes could be considered bad luck.

Vikram was going with them because his plan to wear a suit to the wedding was shot down by the Stressed-Out Twins so vehemently that even he knew better than to try and talk his way out of it. Mira was going to meet them at the store and Ria tried to think of a way to put the girl at ease and convince her that Ria was not a threat to her.

Nikhil was back to being his old self again. Anything on the mile-long to-do list made him instantly serious, but the rest of the time he seemed to be walking on clouds, dizzy with happiness. Ria kept expecting him to break into a skip over everything. A spotlight followed him everywhere he went, and it helped Ria focus on what mattered and not on the frown slashed across Vikram’s forehead.

Finally, Nikhil bowed to the bad mood Vikram was sporting and took the wheel.

“It’s good practice for when you and Jen make babies,” Vikram said, still talking about the car and sliding his seat all the way to the back to fit his long legs.

“Oh, we both know who is going to need a minivan to stuff all their kids into. The way you suck up to all the neighborhood kids, I don’t think I’m the one going for Daddy of the Year.”

Vikram grinned from ear to ear, his bad mood melting away. “They’re a great bunch of kids. Did you know they’re on V-learn? Josh said he aced a test on simultaneous equations with it. Isn’t that something?”

Nikhil high-fived him and backed the car onto the street.

V-learn.
The word had stuck in Ria’s head from the day she had spied on Vikram playing soccer with the kids. It had put the same buoyant look on his face that day that he wore now.

“What’s V-learn?” she asked.

Vikram turned to her. “It’s just this thing I’m working on.”

“This ‘thing he’s working on’ might revolutionize education across the world,” Nikhil said.

Vikram shrugged, but his eyes did that thing they did when something was taking up all his attention. “I used to tutor some kids in Brazil and I promised to keep doing it after I left. So I started creating these videos and putting them online for them to watch. And they loved it so much they started sharing the videos with other kids.” He scratched the back of his head sheepishly, but his eyes shone like bright lights.

“And then Vic went all Vic on it and kept adding and adding videos. And now he’s got all these venture capitalists clamoring for it. And he won’t get off his high horse and take help.”

Vikram crossed his arms across his chest. “It’s still not where I want it to be. And I don’t want investors messing with it yet.”

“Vic, you get a million hits a day. You have over ten thousand videos on there. It’s being used on every continent. Dude, VCs will give you all the control you want. Plus Chitra Atya is begging to fund it. Especially with the piece you’re working on with Drew.”

“So, I’m working with Ma on it. I’d much rather do it with her anyway. Plus, I have other stuff going on right now.”

“What kind of other stuff?” Ria was at the edge of her seat. Since when had Vikram become so laid-back about things? The Vikram she knew went hurtling at things with no brakes, no caution.

For a moment he looked like he was going to ask her to mind her own business, but then he shrugged. “Shopping trips with my wimpy cousin who can’t tell his fiancée that he wants to wear a suit to his own wedding.”

Nikhil made an obscene gesture at him.

Vikram steered the conversation toward the weather, the stock market, the price of plane tickets, whatever he could think of. Ria stayed at the edge of her seat, angry at herself for how badly she wanted to know more about the thing that could put that light in his eyes. Even angrier at him for all that loose-limbed indifference, sitting on him like a stolen coat.

By the time the slightly wretched neighborhoods around Devon Avenue came into view, Ria was happier than she had ever been to see the colorful storefronts. She needed to get out of the car. This part of Devon Avenue was Chicago’s biggest Indian shopping district. It was not one of Ria’s fonder memories of Chicago. Uma had dragged her there to buy the more obscure Indian groceries that weren’t available at the local Indian store, but Ria hadn’t liked going. She hadn’t liked the sights or the smells or the oily, disconnected shopkeepers. She had found everything about it disconcertingly foreign. It was neither American like the rest of the city nor Indian like the bazaars back home, but some sort of mismatched mash of the two.

From the polythene-wrapped grain to the candy boxes stacked on metal racks, everything had seemed somehow out of place. The plastic Indianness of Devon had accomplished what nothing else ever did. It had made Ria miss India. Made her miss the noisy market streets, where lentils and grain sat in jute gunny sacks on worn wooden shelves, where grocers scooped the grain with brass measures and folded it into newspaper packages with the deftness of origami artists.

Today the multi-aisled grocery stores on Devon didn’t look that different from the supermarkets that had sprung up all over Mumbai, except that the ones here were less glitzy and busy. Here the world seemed to have frozen in time, suspended in the exact same state she had left it ten years ago. Even the movie posters sharing space with the pictures of ornament-laden gods and goddesses on stark white walls seemed outdated by at least a decade.

Ria pushed her giant sunglasses in place, wrapped the turquoise scarf around her head, and followed Nikhil and Vikram past the grimy display windows. Fluorescent Sale signs festooned everything from mannequins in beaded saris to bushels of potatoes. A mix of techno beats and bhangra music spilled out of open doors, and the smell of frying dough hung heavy in the air.

A few people stopped and stared, and panic prickled up and down Ria’s spine. She kicked herself for not having remembered to ask Nikhil to drop her off before parking. She stepped closer to Nikhil and sped up. Vikram took one look at her and flanked her on the other side, his big body making a better shield than Nikhil’s lean and lanky frame, and relaxing her in ways she didn’t want to acknowledge.

A woman pushing a baby carriage reached into her pocket and pulled out a cell phone. Ria pulled the scarf lower on her head and dug her face into her denim jacket, and ran straight into Vikram, who had stopped in his tracks next to Nikhil. Neither one of them noticed the gathering crowd, too busy gaping at a neon store sign looming over the storefront.

Nikhil turned to Ria. “I swear if you say one word I’ll kill you.” A tone of such cold warning colored his voice that despite the panic that had flooded through her a second ago, Ria almost burst out laughing.

She grabbed his sleeve and dragged him into the store. “Time to get you dolled up, macho man.”

The store was lit like a spa. Gentle sitar music floated out of discreetly hidden speakers. The lounge-y boutique atmosphere contrasted so starkly with the rest of the neighborhood that the three of them actually blinked in unison to adjust to it. Wooden elephants in every size stood on pedestals, brushed chrome shelves stacked with neatly folded
kurtas
, silk shirts and
churidar
pants lined the walls.
Sherwanis
of heavy brocade hung from rods suspended by metal wires from the high ceiling, creating meticulously coordinated rainbows of color sprinkled with flecks of gold, silver, and copper.

One of the shelves was lined with pre-tied turbans in shades of red and gold. If Nikhil had looked horrified before, the sight of the turbans made him look like he was going to have a stroke right there in the store. Vikram put a hand on his shoulder either to give him strength or to draw some for himself.

Ria smiled. They gave her looks of such loathing she should have wilted.

“Oh, come on! You fix dying children for a living, for God’s sake, Nikhil. Stop acting like you’ve entered a war zone.”

Both Nikhil and Vikram opened their mouths like goldfish and then closed them again. She walked up to a rack of
sherwanis,
filed through the ornate suits, and pulled out a maroon one with gold threadwork. “They’re clothes, they won’t bite.” She held up the garment against Nikhil. Both he and Vikram stepped back horrified.

“You’re not serious,” Nikhil said.

“You are here to buy yourself a
sherwani
for the wedding, aren’t you?”

“But that’s red.”

“It’s maroon. Actually, more burgundy.”

Both men looked at her as if she had sprouted a trunk and two tusks like the elephant next to her. She rolled her eyes, went back to the rack, and found a cream one with muted bronze embroidery.

“That’s golden,” Nikhil said, his voice straight out of his whiny brat phase at age ten.

She wanted to smack him. “No, it’s cream with bronze work.”

“That makes it golden.”

She looked at Vikram for help, but it was clear where his sympathies lay.

“You’re not shopping for a tuxedo, Nikhil. You’re shopping for a
sherwani.
There’s going to be color.”

He didn’t respond, and she started to lose her patience. She took a deep breath. No point her acting like a child too. “If you are more comfortable in a tux, why don’t you just tell Jen that?” She threw a pleading look to stop Vikram, but he went right ahead and mumbled the word
whipped
under his breath.

Nikhil gave an incoherent growl and turned on Vikram. “Why don’t we do Vic first,” he said, as though what they were doing involved jumping in front of speeding trains.

Vikram scampered back and almost toppled over the rack of silver
kurtas
behind him. Nikhil strode to the brightest rack, pulled out a blue
sherwani
with a profusion of maroon embroidery, and held it up against Vikram. “Perfect. The
aqua
goes so well with your eyes.” He did his best imitation of Ria.

Vikram’s eyes narrowed to angry slits. His gaze darted desperately around the store and perked right up when it landed on the turbans. He lifted a bright red turban edged in gold and thrust it on Nikhil’s head. “You need one of these too, don’t you?”

Nikhil was about to yank it off when a small birdlike man dressed in an over-starched silk shirt rushed up to them. “Welcome to Komal,” he said, struggling to conceal his irritation behind the stiffest salesperson smile. “Can I help you find something?” He took the
sherwani
out of Nikhil’s hands with exaggerated care and threw a pointed look at the turban sitting askew atop his head.

Nikhil handed the turban over and tried to look dignified. Vikram looked very pleased with himself. Ria suppressed the urge to slam their heads together.

The man walked over to the shelves and put the turban and the
sherwani
away, making a point of demonstrating how these precious garments deserved to be handled. He turned around and addressed them in his best authoritative voice. “Is there a special occasion you are—” His mouth fell open mid-sentence and his eyes went round and dopey.

Vikram and Nikhil followed his gaze and found him staring at Ria as though she were some sort of celestial being who had sauntered into his store and was blinding him with her brightness.

Ria threw a warning glance at the two of them and gave the man one of her perfectly dimpled smiles. Automatically her stance changed. Her back got straighter, her chin higher. She slipped into celebrity mode.

“Oh God! Are you—? You look just like—are you—” His body went slack with something akin to servitude, and he smiled like one dumbfounded by his own incredible luck.

Vikram groaned. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Ria forced herself not to look at him.

“I’m your biggest fan,” the salesman said, taking a step closer to her. “I’ve seen every one of your movies. Right from
Oh Honey
!”

“Thank you. That’s very sweet,” Ria said, her smile firmly in place.

“It is such an honor to have you in our store. We are the best Indian clothing store in North America. We can get you absolutely anything you want. One hundred percent
hot cootoor.
It’s such an honor. Such a great honor.”

“Oh for God’s sake.” Vikram glowered at the man, who looked at him, confused.

“My cousin is getting married,” Ria said gently. “We need some
sherwanis
and
kurtas
. Off the shelf should be fine.”

“Congratulations! What wonderful news!” He turned to Vikram. “Congratulations, sir. You have any color preference?”

Vikram looked at him like he was going to wring his neck. “He’s the one getting married.” He jabbed a thumb in Nikhil’s direction. Nikhil raised his hand like a schoolboy.

“So sorry. My apologies. Do you have any color preference, sir?” The man asked Nikhil.

“He likes burgundy,” Vikram mumbled.