Indie Girl (13 page)

“And you? You think you have something better to do by rushing off and cleaning some boy’s bottom?” he asked, now getting irritated. “How will it look that you just eat and run? And what will we tell everyone when they ask where you have gone? And what makes you think that we will want to tear ourselves away and drive forty miles to take you somewhere you shouldn’t even be?”

“So you’re telling me no?” I asked, tears beginning to gather in my eyes.

“It is just too rushed,
beta,
” my mother said, her tone softer than that of my father. “We will barely have any time there if we have to leave by one to take you somewhere. You just tell Aaralyn that this time, you cannot come.”

I burst into tears on the spot. Dinesh came up from behind, the childish smirk gone from his face, and wrapped his skinny arm around my waist. When my father left the room, my mother approached me, and gently swept a tendril of my hair behind my ear.

“Indie, I have tried to be supportive of your choice to do this work. You know this, yes?” Her face was soft in the pale glow of an overhead lamp, and her fingers smelled vaguely of turmeric. “I can see your father’s side, but I can also see yours. We have always made it possible for you to go and help that woman, even when she calls you at the very last moment. But tomorrow, Indie, it is just not possible. You have to remember your obligations to us as well.”

I nodded silently, wiped away my tears, and went upstairs to call Aaralyn back.

“We have a family function to attend tomorrow,” I said to her. “Even if I can leave early to get to you by two, my parents want to stay. Basically, I have nobody to drive me.” I felt foolish, like a useless, dependent child.

Aaralyn sighed deeply.

“Well, I can’t find anybody else at this late stage, so we’re going to have to try and make this work, aren’t we?” she asked, her voice irate. Why was she blaming me?

“I guess I could send a car for you. But can someone at least pick you up from here after?”

It felt odd getting all dolled up in gold and silks in the middle of the morning, at a time when our neighbors were working in their gardens or going for a jog or reading their papers at the nearby Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf.

At home, we were emerging from our bedrooms in full regalia. My mother had opted for the cream Banarasi silk sari on my recommendation. It came with a thick gold border in a paisley pattern, and small fleur-de-lis-type patterns all over the rest of the fabric. My mother, of course, had no idea what either of those terms meant.

My father appeared in an embroidered beige silk
kurta
with a matching waistcoat and pants. His hair was slicked back, he had replaced his glasses with contact lenses, and all in all looked very handsome. Even Dinesh, who was wearing a micro version of my father’s outfit, looked the opposite of his usual scruffy, skateboarding self.

I, of course, had sat in front of my closet for fifteen minutes earlier that morning, trying to figure out what to wear. I had to take into consideration not only the fact that the entire community was going to be there, but that it was going to be in a temple—which meant that as much as I wanted to, I couldn’t really jazz up any of my outfits like I usually did. And although I rarely wore a sari, I had a few hanging in my closet, gifted to me by my relatives in India who hoped ardently that I would one day grow my hair long, dump the rubber wristbands and mohair shrugs, and become, as they liked to say: “a graceful Indian girl.”

No time like the present,
I thought to myself.

When I stepped out of my bedroom, my mother actually gasped. There was no up-and-down staring and a “what are you wearing?” look on her face. There was no exasperation from my father, who hated my oversize sweaters, thick belts, and the way I mangled a
dupatta.
Even Dinesh, who never really noticed me at all, said, “Hey, Indie, you look nice.”

I had decided to wear a
lehenga—
yet another permutation of an Indian ensemble. It was a full-bodied ankle-length skirt teamed with a short, fitted blouse and a large piece of sheer fabric draped across it. The one I had chosen was in a
bandini
design—a very traditional Indian print that had recently become popular in the West; it was like tiny, multicolored polka dots, arranged over the crushed silk fabric, with gold beads sprinkled
over them. I had put on a fairly ornate gold necklace and earring set, a
bindi
on my forehead, anklets at my feet. Even my shoes—raw silk embellished with beads—had been bought in Calcutta and were as conventional as they come. I usually paired them with clam-diggers and a draped tee, but now, adding the finishing touch to my thoroughly traditional gear, I had to confess that they actually looked very attractive.

“Now
this
is more like it,” my father said, walking around me as if I were a piece of art that he was considering buying. “All these lovely clothes that your relatives have bought for you over the years—at long last they are coming to good use, not being taken apart in the usual nonsensical way.”

“Thanks, Dad,” I said.

I was in a very good mood. I was going to the wedding, thereby pleasing my family, and then would be picked up by Aaralyn’s driver Aldo at one p.m. My father had agreed to fetch me from Brentwood at seven, giving him more than enough time to socialize at the wedding and lunch.

Everyone was happy.

Of all the “inkys,” Rinky was the least obnoxious. Maybe it was because she was the oldest of the trio, but she had always seemed to have more common sense than the other two put together. And unlike her two younger
sisters, she also displayed more of an interest in the world around her, occasionally stopping to glance at the
Daily News
or even turning her radio to 102.7, with all its pop music and gossip news. I had always thought there would be some hope for her.

We made our way into the main hall, which was slowly filling up. It was part of my nature to take in what the other women were wearing, and I was pleasantly surprised. Astounded, actually. Here before me were not just the typical saris and
salwar kameez
ensembles, but an array of terrifically fashionable Indian clothes. I had known that India was becoming a bonafide fashion capital, that there was even an Indian Fashion Week, just like they have in London, Milan, New York, and Paris. And there were plenty of girls here who obviously followed those trends as much as I followed Western ones. There were flowing palazzo pants with lace inserts paired with short embroidered tunics, and heavily embellished halter-neck blouses set off with a simple sari. One woman was wearing a satin
ghagra choli—
a cropped top, flared skirt, and matching shawl—that was in the most divine shade of chocolate, studded with turquoise stones and accented with raffia. Being surrounded by women in the latest styles fresh off a Delhi designer catwalk, my outfit suddenly felt dated and boring. I knew I should have mixed it up a bit, added a bit of my own attitude to it, instead of wearing it traditionally.
Obviously, classic Indian garb just wasn’t cool anymore.

It was just before eleven, and there was no sign of the couple, although the priest was sitting cross-legged on the floor, preparing for the ritual: arranging pieces of red cloth, a brown-haired coconut, chunks of rock sugar, a tin of ghee.

“Come, let’s all sit together,” Rinky said, tugging at my hand.

We found empty spots on the cold marble floor, and virtually piled up on top of one another, all of us a flurry of silks and brocades and jangling jewelry. The inhabitants of the hall were in full conversation mode, jovially greeting one another and exchanging news about their health, the weather, a relative visiting from India, gas prices. They could have been anywhere, instead of in this hall that was slowly growing warmer and more crowded.

The thing hadn’t even started yet, and I couldn’t wait for it to end. I anxiously looked at my watch—it was eleven fifteen. I had left a change of clothes in the car and was hoping to have a few minutes sometime before Aldo showed up to get into them.

“What’s the rush?” Rinky asked, obviously noticing the anxiety on my face. “Going somewhere? Meeting somebody?”

“Kind of,” I replied. “I do have somewhere to get to in a couple of hours.”

“How’s your babysitting job?” she asked, not making much of an effort to hide the look of condescension on
her face.

“It’s not a job, really. And it’s fine,” I replied, trying to uphold my dignity. “The people there are very nice.” I thought of Cayman for a minute and smiled to myself.

“I know your parents don’t think very much of it, but it’s good that you’re doing what you want to do,” Rinky said, her tone suddenly changing and becoming more serious. “It’s a little unusual for us type of girls, but there’s really nothing wrong with it.”

“I know that,” I said, appreciating her efforts. “What about you? How are your plans coming along to visit India this summer? That all sounded pretty cool, what you wanted to do there.”

“It’s happening,” she said, flipping her hair with one hand. “We’ve made our bookings and everything is set up. Although of course, with India, you never know how anything is going to turn out.” She paused for a second, as if recalling something related to what she was doing, but not quite.

“Oh, but it should be interesting at Mother Teresa’s mission in Calcutta while we’re there. Trixie Van Alden is stopping by.”

I drew in a sharp intake of breath. Trixie Van Alden was the name on everyone’s lips these days. An Oscar-winning A-list star, she had been in all the headlines lately because she had run off with a much-married megastar. They were now engaged and were planning a
wedding later in the year, the photographs of which were estimated to cost in the millions of dollars, if not more, for any publication who could afford them. But even more significantly than the mystery date and venue of the wedding was what Trixie Van Alden was going to wear; every fashion designer from Giorgio Armani to Roberto Cavalli was flinging frocks at her, desperate for her to choose one of them. The last I had read in
Celebrity Style
a few weeks ago, she was leaning toward Christian Lacroix Couture. It was an unconventional choice. But Trixie Van Alden was an unconventional woman.

“Why is she going to a mission in Calcutta?” I asked. The room had begun to quiet down because the couple, at last, had entered. Rinky and her sisters were fixated on them, gazing at Sumitra’s heavily embroidered red-and-gold sari, and at Aditya’s thick silk burgundy
shervani—
the traditional bridegroom costume. They were arranging themselves on the floor atop rugs, preparing for the ritual of endless Sanskrit words that I would never be able to comprehend.

“Rinky, why is Trixie Van Alden going to Calcutta?” I asked again. But the three sisters all looked at me simultaneously, each one raising a finger to their lips, and let out a long “Ssshhhh.”

It felt interminable. When, finally, the bride and groom stood up to walk around the fire, I figured that possibly,
at long last, the ceremony was drawing to an end. Finally, there would be lunch—and more important, a chance to finish my conversation with Rinky.

The priest finally stood up, signifying that the ceremonial part of the day was over and it was now time to congratulate the couple and their respective families. Rinky, who by now had attached herself to her own parents, began moving toward Aditya and Sumitra, joining the crowd that was working its way toward them.

But my curiosity had obviously gotten the better of me. I grabbed on to Rinky’s hand, my palm clasping the dozen glass bangles wrapped around her slender wrist.

“Come on, Rinky, you didn’t tell me the whole story. What is Trixie Van Alden doing in India?”

Rinky blinked.

“Oh,
now
you’re interested in talking to me, are you?” There was a sarcastic note to her voice, but she kept a smile on her face, softening her tone.

“Look, I’m just interested, all right? Fine, don’t tell me if you don’t want to. See if I care.” I knew I was sounding petulant, but I didn’t want to give Rinky the satisfaction of seeing how much I wanted to hear what she had to say. It was like we were still in preschool.

“Well, you know Madhu Sharma, the lady at the India Association here who helps organize for Americans to visit one of the missions in Calcutta?” she whispered.

I nodded vaguely. Madhu Sharma was one of those
bossy Indian ladies who always wore her hair in a bun and talked in an unnecessarily loud voice. She looked down on girls in the community who expressed any individuality whatsoever—and so never seemed to particularly like me. She was holier-than-thou, showing up at all the religious festivals, annoying even the priest with her demanding ways. As Rinky mentioned her name, I saw her across the hall, holding on to the bride’s sari and clutching the gifts that came the couple’s way, having made herself the chaperone for the day. I couldn’t imagine what she had to do with a big-time movie star.

“Madhu Sharma was called by Trixie Van Alden’s assistant,” Rinky continued. “It seems that Trixie was going to India anyway, and wanted to do something charitable, so Aunty Madhu suggested the mission. She was going to be in India for her wedding dress.”

My head spun. I was riveted. Suddenly this whole conversation seemed so out of context. Ordinarily there would be no reason in the world why Rinky—or anyone here for that matter—would be talking about a major Hollywood star. But Trixie Van Alden and couture wedding gowns? This was a miracle.

I was salivating. I couldn’t wait a second more to hear the rest.

“Apparently this actress has all these famous designers who want her to wear their dresses for her wedding, right? I’m sure you know all about that,” Rinky said dismissively.

“But her assistant told Aunty Madhu that she heard about a village in India where the women sit for hours a day and do all the beading and embroidery for the big fashion brands and are paid practically nothing for it. So Trixie is going to go there directly and have a gown made, so these women will get all the publicity. And she’s going to pay them what she would have paid for a dress from a fancy store. Aunty Madhu was very impressed. Of course, Trixie will take her own seamstress along. She’s not going to trust some
darji
operating out of a shack, is she?”