The Hindi-Bindi Club (38 page)

Ajoba
didn’t even open his eyes when he said, “What do you think, you get it from your mom?
Hut,
you get it from your
aji
!”
Aji
blushed ten shades of crimson and raised her
palloo
to cover her face.

“K
uryat sada mangalam…shubha mangala savdhan…”
My stomach growls. I’d kill for a smuggled
jalebi
! The golden, sticky sweet and other treats await—we scheduled our traditional Maharashtrian vegetarian lunch feast earlier, around brunchtime, so John and I can break our fasts, and everyone can rest before the Christian ceremony in late afternoon. (For that, John will change into a tux and I a pale pink gown embroidered with Swarovski crystals.) Our evening reception follows—non-veg—at a five-star hotel designed after a
maharaja
’s palace.

At the
mandap,
I’m dressed in traditional Maharashtrian bridal attire. My hair up in a chignon, decorated with
véni,
strings of fragrant tuberoses. Diamond
kudi,
custom-designed by my mother, adorn my ears. My
sari
is a regal, silk Paithani. Mustard yellow with a forest green
zari
border and signature peacocks on the
palloo
.

Did you know there are ninety-seven ways to drape a
sari
? I do now. That said, I don’t know if I’ll ever manage to tie even one style unassisted. Mom,
Aji,
aunts, and cousins attempted to teach me, but like French-braiding hair, I’m hopeless when doing my own. Luckily, I have a family of experts.

While Mom dressed me,
Aji
told a story about Lord Krishna cutting his finger while visiting his sister. “Immediately, his sister ripped the
sari
she was wearing—a beautiful Paithani—and tied the strip around his finger, saying, ‘I have all the best
saris,
but Paithani, being best of the best, is most worthy to bandage my brother’s bleeding finger.’”

Traditionally, Paithani
saris
were draped in a trouserlike style called
nauvari,
but Mom draped me in today’s most popular
pachvari
style. As I stood in ankle-length petticoat and belly-baring blouse, she went to work, my lower half first.

Starting at one end of the
sari,
she tucked the corner into the waistband of my petticoat at my naval, instructed me to hold it there, circled behind me, and returned to my naval. One loop completed, she folded graceful pleats, clipped them at the top with a barrette—I tucked the cinched packet into my waistband—and safety-pinned the pleats midthigh, so they stayed nice and neat when I moved.

For the second round, she raised the
sari
higher, so it covered the small of my back, curved around my side with the fabric up to my armpit. Coming around the front, she draped diagonally across my chest, like a seatbelt’s shoulder strap, covering my stomach, breasts, and left shoulder—with my long
palloo
cascading straight down behind it. Another safety pin inside my blouse at the shoulder, and I was good to go.

“Look at me,” I said in wonder. “I look Indian!”

“Yes, you do,” Mom said with pride.

Aji
’s eyes watered.
“Ai gha…”
She sucked in her breath—the same sound I make when I’ve eaten something spicy and need to cool my mouth.
“Kithi sundar, maji pakhru.”
She cupped my face.
“Umchi gunachi mulgi.”

How beautiful, my butterfly. Our sweet, good girl.

At my
gadhagner
ceremony, where close relatives presented me with gifts,
Aji
gave me her
tanmani
jewelry set and her
patlia
—old-fashioned gold bangles. When I touched her feet, she had this same reaction:
“Ai gha…”
She sucked in her breath, laying a hand on my head while blessing me,
“Akhanda saubhagyavati raho.”

Stay married forever.

“Kuryat sada mangalam…shubha mangala savdhan…”

When I move my arms, my bangles
ting-ting-ting
with music. Traditional bridal green glass, interspersed with gold. Almost three dozen: six gold on each arm, ten
chuda
on my left, eleven
chuda
on my right—an odd number for luck.

Though
mehendi
and
chuda
ceremonies are supposed to be all-chick affairs, our visiting male guests, anxious to soak up the culture, wanted to come, too. We opened the party to everyone and had that much more fun—the guys even lined up for their own temporary henna tattoos! A shamrock. A cross.
MOM
in a heart.

Uma Auntie said, “A granny with a big red
bindi
declared it to be the best
mehendi
party she’s ever attended!”

Saroj Auntie said, “Some uppity-nosed lady was passing not-so-nice comments when her husband declared
‘chalta hai’
and put forth his hand.”

John explained this Hindi expression is used when giving advice. The rough translation: Whatcha gonna do? Let it go. Deal.

The next day at lunch, when the power went out, John’s father raised his stainless steel tumbler in toast, saying,
“Chalta hai.”

Glasses lifted with laughter and jubilant echoes of
chalta hai!
My father, too, joined in; but I could tell from the look on his face, he wasn’t thinking of the blackout, even before he raised his gaze skyward.

“Kuryat sada mangalam…shubha mangala savdhan…”

M
om’s strategic
sari
-draping technique gives me plenty of wiggle room. I can kick as high as a cheerleader without any worries that my
sari
’s going to fall down. I demonstrated to Preity and Rani.

“Way to go, Meenal Auntie,” Preity said. “Now our lovely bride can dance until dawn.”

Rani snickered. “Don’t get your hopes up there, sparky.”

“Oh, ye of little faith.”

“Oh, me of mucho experience.”

Preity laughed. “Hold on to your conch shell, Jaded One. Just when you think you have this one figured out,” she said, tipping her head toward me, “she throws you for a loop.” And sure enough, at the
sangeet
held on our exquisite mosaic-tiled rooftop terrace, Rani ate her words.

W
e couldn’t have custom-ordered more perfect weather for the
sangeet
. Warm and dry with a fantastic breeze. Stars from every constellation R.S.V.P.’ed, and the crescent-shaped moon appeared close enough to jump and touch. Flower beds lining the
gachhi
’s perimeter brought the entire florist shop home, a riot of colors with intoxicating fragrance—
raat ki rani,
gardenia, hibiscus, roses, tuberoses, and marigolds. Strings of tiny white lights illuminated handmade, paper lanterns—red, orange, and yellow with star and moon cutouts. Musical notes of
filmi
songs,
bhangra,
and laughter floated in the air.

Preity, Rani, and I each dressed in pastel-colored, gauzy georgette
saris
. Together, we resembled three scoops of assorted melon sorbet: watermelon (me), honeydew (Preity), and cantaloupe (Rani).

Dancing with John, I smiled across the dance floor at Rani, shrugged, nonchalant. Later, I explained, “John loves all kinds of music, all kinds of dance. His passion’s contagious.”

Vivek lifted his collar and pretended to hide. “Borderline T. M.I. Please don’t go there.”

The Mrs., wearing a gorgeous salmon-and-turquoise
ghagara-choli,
playfully socked him. “Speak for yourself, Vivek.”

“And me,” Nikhil Tipnis backed him up. “Don’t make us stick our fingers in our ears and start la-la-la’ing.”

The first thing Nik said to me when he got to India for the wedding was,
Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m
really
glad it didn’t work out with us.
And I said,
Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I
really
am, too.
He told me all their friends agreed: The life was back in John’s eyes for the first time since Madelline died, and it had to take a pretty special person with an amazing heart to do that. When I heard that, I got all choked up and couldn’t speak for the longest time, but when I finally pulled myself together, I told Nik that was the greatest compliment I ever received.

Rani and I went to sit, catch our breaths. “Kiran, Kiran, Kiran.” She shook her head. “I always knew you had it in you, but if I didn’t see it with my own eyes…Preity’s going to be bummed she missed it.” Rani gestured toward her, clear on the other side of the
gachhi,
sitting on the swing. “Hey, if Preity didn’t actually
see
you dance, is she still entitled to bragging rights? You know, if a tree falls in the forest, and all that?”

“You’re a nut,” I said. “And I love you.” Just saying it made my throat tight. “Damn it, I
don’t
want to cry right here in front of everyone.” I fanned myself with my napkin.

“No, you
don’t
.” Rani started fanning me with
her
napkin. “The night’s still young. And more importantly, I’ve only had one drink. So go fetch Little Miss Muffet from her tuffet and let’s dance.” She hugged-and-shoved me on my way.

The wooden swing, the size and shape of a picnic table top, hung from the concrete rafters. Preity wasn’t on it by the time I got there, having been accosted by an auntie every fifth step. She stood by the marigolds, gazing up into the night. Nearing, I heard her talking. To herself? No. Under that minklike veil of hair, she had a cell phone in her hand, tucked to her ear.

“I know,” she said, her voice soft and dreamy. “Me, too…But remember, whenever you miss me too much, just look up at the sky, and know that’s what I’m doing, too. When I remind myself we’re seeing the same view—the same sun, moon, and stars—then you don’t seem so far away. The world isn’t so big. I can be here, you can be there, and our hearts are still side by side.” She kissed the air, disconnected. Dropped her head back, winded.

I shouldn’t have still been there. I was mortified that I was. And I was stuck, because the second I moved, she’d hear me. I should have left when I realized she was on the phone, but my God, what human with a pulse could leave in the middle of
that
?

“Kids?” I asked, belatedly wondering if I should’ve coughed or cleared my throat first.

“Eric,” she said, not the least startled, or embarrassed I heard her private conversation.

“Is that what I have to look forward to, I hope?”

Her lips curved, and with the milky moonlight bathing her up-tilted face, she looked ethereal as an angel. “If you want it…and you work at it…and you never take what you have for granted. It probably doesn’t hurt to have a lucky star or two, either.” She winked and escorted me back to the dance floor.

T
he priest calculated the precise time when the stars would align in our favor, the
muhurta,
to be 8:15
A.M
.

“
Don’t
be hung over,” I told Vivek, plucking the drink from his hand before he took a sip. It didn’t pass the sniff test. He protested he was a guy, he was allowed, this was India, yadda-yadda. I handed the cup to Rani. “Welcome to the Modern India.”

“Now, don’t pout, V,” Rani said, just to get a rise out of him. “I’m an
artiste
. People expect me to be a lush. And wax poetic. And be eccentric. Talk about pressure. And with only one out of three, you can see why
I
need this drink more than—”

“No, you don’t.” Bryan took the drink and acted like it was his, smiling and nodding at Patrick Uncle and Uma Auntie, who were looking our way at that moment. “You triple-check the eccentric box, hon. That’s the one that
really
counts.”

“Honest? You’re not just saying that because you love me?” Rani batted her eyelashes. “I just feel I could do better if I applied myself. You know there’s
always room for improvement
with this overachieving crowd.”

At that, we all cracked up.

I glanced past Vivek, did a double take, couldn’t believe what I was seeing. “You guys! Check this out! Behind you!”

John-
baba
had the Hindi-Bindi Club—including
my
mother!—
his
mother, and Rani’s Anandita-
mashi,
country line dancing in their
saris
!

“Good God!” Vivek laughed.

“For sure!” Bryan agreed.

“This guy’s
definitely
a keeper!” Rani clapped her hands.

An auntie came up to me. “Where on earth did you find him, Kiran?”

I smiled. “My mother introduced us.”

Preity sidled between Rani and me, linking her arms with ours. “So, shall we join in, then?”

Rani and I turned to her. Simultaneously, we said, “You bet!”

It was while we were dancing, all of my favorite people in one place, on a beautiful night under the stars, that I spotted my father on the sidelines, alone, looking like he would rather have been in surgery, or anyplace else that wasn’t
there
. And there it was again, a pinprick of sadness, reminding me of the hole in my heart only my father could fill.

N
earing the end of the
sangeet,
John and I managed to steal ten precious minutes alone. Vivek and Anisha kept guard for us while we necked in the shadows like two teenyboppers.

“How much longer?” I whined. “Are we almost there?”

“Soon.” John lifted one of my
mehendi
-decorated palms to his lips. “Soon.” He knew I was sad about my dad and trying hard not to be. Slowly, he traced the outline of my upper lip with the pad of his index finger, dipped his head so his mouth hovered over mine, and whispered exactly what I needed to hear,
“Kai bai Punyachi tariff, lavanga nighalya bareek…”

We laughed—the low, intimate laughter of lovers who have a repository of inside jokes. That’s what I love most about him. About us. He’s strong when I’m weak, and I’m strong when he’s weak. We balance each other on the two-person bicycle of life. And, we can always make each other laugh—life’s best medicine.