Chapter Twenty
Chapter
Twenty
“Every time someone steps up and says who they are, the world becomes a better, more interesting place.”
—Raymond Holt, Brooklyn Nine-Nine
Veer got emotional when he video called his brother. They hadn’t spoken on the phone since the Mumbai trip, and although so much had happened after—including everything with Harsha—Veer didn’t know how to express any of it in words.
So all Veer said was “I miss you,” trying to blink back his tears. He sat on the couch next to Mom, who was eagerly waiting for her turn to talk to her younger son before Veer left for the drive to Nandi Hills.
“I miss you both so much,” Arjun said, his voice hoarse, as his eyes shone.
Veer brought the phone in closer to Mom, so she was in the frame too. “So tell us how things are going. How are you doing there?”
“Well, I’m ranking first in class.” Arjun grinned, his voice jubilant. “If I keep this up until I graduate, I could get a really great job during placement season.”
“Oh,” Mom said, putting a hand to her lips, “this is amazing! We’re so proud of you, Arjun. And we love you!”
“There’s something else,” he said, pausing for a second. His eyes darted back and forth. “I’ve…met someone.”
Veer had a weird sense of foreboding, like this was something Arjun had wanted to discuss for a while. That night when they’d last talked on the phone, before Veer cut the conversation short, Arjun must have had something on his mind besides school. Was it this?
Mom and Veer exchanged glances. She grinned and clapped her hands together. “Who is she? What’s her name? Can you send us a picture on WhatsApp?”
Arjun froze, his mouth open softly, and Veer thought he knew what was coming.
“Hello? Did the video glitch?” Mom picked up the phone and tapped on the screen to check when Arjun spoke, his shoulders slouching.
“It’s not a girl. It’s my student mentor, Salman.”
“Oh,” Veer said, smiling. “Arjun, that’s great.” But his stomach twisted in knots, because he knew it wasn’t his approval Arjun was seeking. He turned to Mom, whose face had turned green.
“Mom?” Arjun said weakly.
“Yes, kanna, that’s…nice. Excuse me, I have to go,” Mom said. With her hand back on her mouth, she stood up and went inside her room, slamming the door shut.
“Arjun…” Veer leaned forward on the couch, his lip wobbling. “She wasn’t expecting it. You know that.”
“I was just—” Arjun sighed, clutching a fistful of his hair. “I thought it was better to be honest. Maybe I should have waited. I’m just so excited. He’s my first boyfriend, and I’m so happy.”
“I’m glad you’re happy.” Veer hesitated, then said, “I’ve sort of met someone too. But I don’t think she feels the same way. I, uh, haven’t told her.”
“You should.” Arjun’s eyes softened. “I only told Salman I liked him a couple of weeks ago. I didn’t know if he felt the same way, but he deserved to know, and I trusted him enough.”
Veer knew Arjun was an adult now, but it never ceased to amaze him just how mature and compassionate his little brother had become. He nodded, then lied, “Yeah. Maybe I will.” The wedding ceremony was tomorrow night, and they were driving down to Nandi Hills shortly so Harsha could get there early and take instructions from Neha and the original photographer before he left.
He looked at the wall clock. It was nearly five p.m. “I have to run. I love you. Text me soon.”
He ended the video call before Arjun could say bye, then got up and knocked on Mom’s door. “Mom!” he called out. “Open the door, please.”
“Aren’t you supposed to pick Harsha up to drive to the wedding?” Mom replied in a strangled voice. “She’ll be so upset if you show up late.”
Veer paused. Mom had a point, but he didn’t want to leave her like this. “Do you want to talk before I leave?”
“No!”
He sighed, pushing away from the door. He wanted to stay and console her, explain to her that Arjun having a boyfriend wouldn’t change anything, but he really was running late. As he headed to his own apartment to get dressed, he thought about how to broach his mother’s fears after the wedding.
Because Mom was…Mom. She was traditional and biased because of how she was raised. Veer hadn’t thought of it before, but he could remember her scoffs at movies with gay side characters and her constant assumptions that he and Arjun would have wives.
Arjun had probably kept these moments close to his chest, a reason to hide who he was all this time. “Fuck,” Veer mumbled, his eyes damp again. He wished he could call Arjun back; he wished he hadn’t hung up on him. But it was more important to drive to the wedding venue, embody District Manager Veer for the final time, and get the last of the payments, for Arjun’s sake, if nothing else.
The endgame, as Harsha had said. This was it.
Harsha was trembling and shaking with nervousness up until they pulled into the driveway of the wedding venue in Nandi Hills, at which point the anxiety turned into full-blown panic. It wasn’t her old fears about the truth coming to light that bothered her; she trusted Veer and his acting. It was more so the realization that these were the last three nights of the fake relationship…and god, she had no idea where things would go from here.
And, of course, there was the added problem of having to work with Neha during her worst bridezilla moments—and find a way to capture only her niceness on camera.
Neha had already told security to let them in. Harsha fiddled with her hair elastic while Veer parked the car in between the fifty or so cars that were already here. As they got out of the car, Veer took her hand in his, and she held on tight, looking around. The venue was breathtakingly beautiful, and at this late evening hour up in the hills, the weather was the perfect balance of cool and comfortable. Stars twinkled up above them, mirroring the fairy lights strung around the rich foliage and dense greenery flanking the parking lot. In the distance, loud music boomed from the sangeet, the beats reminiscent of Bollywood dance numbers.
“Sir, ma’am, please come with me,” an attendant said, bowing. They followed him into a smaller cottage that housed the front desk.
“Welcome to Amrutha Rasa,” the receptionist said, smiling widely at them. “We’re still setting up your room, but please go ahead and enjoy the sangeet festivities in the meantime.”
They changed into Indian ethnic clothing in the washroom. Harsha dabbed concealer under her eyes, adjusted the dupatta of her maroon Anarkali suit, and returned to the lobby, where Veer was casually rolling up the sleeves of his cream-colored kurta. She stopped in her tracks, her core clenching. The laidback-man-in-a-formal-suit look had always turned her on, but, gosh, seeing Veer’s muscular frame in a well-fitting kurta did something to her.
He noticed her and grinned. “You look great,” he said. “Got your camera?”
“Oh, right.” Harsha let out a soft whoosh of breath and took her camera out of her tote bag. She wouldn’t be capturing anything tonight, but she wanted to make sure her camera settings were in line with the current photographer’s style. If the wedding album looked too different from one day to the next, people would notice.
They left the rest of their luggage by the front desk and were directed to the large outdoor venue where all four nights of the wedding would be hosted. A dark ebony signboard with the words Neha Weds Rohan on it was nailed to the top of the archway they walked under as they headed toward the source of the fast-paced music.
Given Uncle Madhu’s position in Bollywood, the wedding guest list was surely at least two thousand people, considering how most Indian weddings were focused more on building clout by inviting friends and family of the parents rather than the bride or groom, but the sangeet looked a lot more intimate—relatively speaking, at least, with seating for about two hundred people only. A couple she didn’t recognize were up onstage, dancing to a recent Bollywood song; in the front row sat Neha and Rohan.
“Let’s go,” Harsha said, tightening her hold on Veer’s hand. As they approached, Neha noticed them. She wore a glittering saree that started out purple at her chest and then gradually lightened to pink and orange shades. Sweat beaded her forehead; she had probably finished her big couple’s dance with Rohan already. “Hi!” Neha squealed, enveloping Harsha in a tight hug.
Harsha turned her body slightly so as to avoid damaging the camera. “Hey,” she said when they broke apart. “The place looks beautiful.”
“Doesn’t it?” Neha gave Veer a polite smile and turned right back to Harsha. “Glad you made it on time. The photographer—his name is Milan—is over there with the videography team, who are thankfully staying put. I need the perfect wedding video, you know?” She pushed a strand of hair from her face and rolled her eyes. “Make sure to talk to Milan before he leaves so he can show you the ropes?”
Harsha hadn’t ever done wedding photography before, but Neha’s patronizing tone made her grit her teeth anyway. “Got it,” she said.
“And tomorrow you’ll need to follow me and Rohan around all day until the wedding at six p.m. ” Neha smiled broadly. “I want tons of behind-the-scenes photos!”
“Cool,” Harsha replied. “Guess I’ll get to it.”
“Have fun!” her cousin replied, blowing her an air kiss while Rohan just gave her and Veer a polite nod from where he was sitting, then returned his eyes to his phone screen.
Harsha went to speak with Milan, as Veer trailed behind. She spotted her parents standing near the open bar, Papa downing whiskey while Maa talked to one of her socialite friends. There were quite a few Bollywood celebrities in attendance, the ones who were friends with Uncle Madhu or Aunt Pinky—and Neha, by extension. She snuck a look at Veer, who’d noticed the celebrities too.
Would Veer prefer to socialize with them instead of following Harsha around? It wasn’t like he was the photographer on duty, anyway. Maybe if he schmoozed, he could build some industry contacts. “Veer,” she said, turning back, “you can enjoy the performances and mingle. You don’t have to—”
“Nonsense,” he said, putting an arm around her and pressing his lips to her curls. “Every photographer needs an assistant, right?”
She smirked at him. “So you’re my assistant now?”
He pulled away to bow his head. “At your service, ma’am.”
Harsha couldn’t help but laugh, all nervousness gone. She entwined her arm around his, and together, they went over to speak to Milan.
“Thank goodness Neha found a replacement,” Milan, a thin man in his forties, said as he continued clicking pictures of the stage from all angles, resting his weight on one knee. “Otherwise it would have been my head on the chopping block.”
“Now it’s mine,” Harsha mumbled under her breath.
The performance ended, and the DJ announced a ten-minute break. Milan straightened, groaning when his back audibly cracked. “All right, let’s see that camera,” he said to Harsha.
They talked shop for a few minutes. Harsha noticed Veer dutifully standing beside her the whole time Milan was tweaking her camera settings to match his style. If Veer was bored or tired after the long drive, he didn’t show it.
“All right, give it up for our next performance!” the DJ yelled, just as Milan finished explaining everything to Harsha and returned to his photographing stance. “Please welcome onstage the mother and father of the bride, Pinky and Madhusudan Godbole!”
Harsha joined the roaring crowd in their applause. Her uncle and aunt slow danced to a Hindi song from the ’70s, and Neha stood to scream out cheers and compliments, occasionally busting a move in time with the music herself.
Wow. Harsha’s mouth dried. Would she ever get the chance to look forward to a moment like this with her parents on her wedding day?
“You okay?” Veer asked.
It was only when she felt his hand on her wet cheek that she noticed the tears. “Yep,” she said, laughing it off. “Just, you know, weddings bring up a lot of emotions.”
He nodded, his eyes soft. “You want a drink?”
She hesitated, then nodded. Her parents were still at the bar, but it wasn’t like she could avoid them forever. They passed some of her younger cousins on the way, who shrieked, “Harsha didi!,” only to be reprimanded by their parents for being too loud. Harsha smiled tightly at them, clutching Veer’s hand in a vice-grip until she was forced to let go when he headed to the bar to order for them. Bracing herself, she greeted her parents.
Maa pulled her in for a quick hug and air-kissed both her cheeks. “How was the drive from the city, beta?” she asked, then touched a lock of hair on Harsha’s shoulder. “Did you leave the car windows open? Your hair looks frizzier than usual.”
Harsha forced herself to smile. “I’ll use some leave-in conditioner before the wedding.”
Maa pressed a hand to Harsha’s shoulder. “Good idea. We must all look our best for this special occasion.”
Veer stepped in with Harsha’s vodka soda, a bottle of chilled beer in his other hand. She thanked him and took a sip, letting the fizzy alcoholic drink ease her growing anxiety as they faced Papa.
“Mr. District Manager, there you are!” Papa barked. He thumped Veer on the back, his whiskey sloshing in the glass. “Have you been to a wedding like this before? It’s an experience in itself, isn’t it?”
“It’s a lovely place,” Veer agreed, sipping his beer. His throat bobbed, and he sidled closer to Harsha. “Thank you for the invitation.”
“Of course,” Maa started, but Papa interrupted her, chuckling. “You should be thanking Harsha, not us, although it was either you or show up alone.”
Harsha coughed, spilling droplets of her drink down her front as the glass nearly slipped from her grasp. She gratefully accepted a tissue from the bartender and dabbed at her top while Veer held her glass for her. “Finger cramp,” she mumbled, but Maa had already moved on to talking to some other woman; Papa, however, was still staring at Harsha smugly, like he knew something she didn’t.
“So, beta,” Papa said once she had disposed of the tissue, “I was surprised you agreed to stand in as the photographer for the wedding. Did you really need the work?”
“Business is good, actually,” she said, lifting her chin up. “I did another gig in the past week. I’m just doing a favor for Neha.”
The music swelled as Aunt Pinky and Uncle Madhu’s romantic performance ended. They bowed, both beaming at the standing ovation they received. Aunt Pinky spotted her and waved excitedly from the stage. Harsha waved back, smiling, then asked Papa, “Are you and Maa dancing?”
Papa scoffed as he finished his drink. “Your mother had her fun onstage with her socialite friends before you arrived. Dancing isn’t my thing.”
No chance he’ll dance at my wedding, then, Harsha thought glumly.
“You’re good at dancing, right, Veer?” her father asked, smirking. “I seem to recall you and Harsha on the dance floor at the anniversary party. What a wonderful performance that was.”
Performance? Harsha knew Papa didn’t mean anything by it—how could he know the truth?—but her stomach churned anyway. She tugged hard on her hair elastic, hoping it would ground her, and it broke with a snap. Shit.
Veer must have noticed, because his fingers grazed her wrist, his touch gentle and comforting. His shoulders were tensed, too, but to his credit, he only nodded politely. “Thank you, sir. Harsha,” he turned to her, “I’m a little tired from the drive. Shall we get dinner up in our room instead?”
“Of course,” she said, putting her drink aside before he even finished his sentence. “See you tomorrow, Papa.”
Papa raised his empty glass in lieu of a goodbye and went right back to the bar.
Harsha said a quick thanks to the photographer and told Neha she would see her after breakfast, and then they were on their way. She held up her broken hair elastic. “Farewell, old friend of mine,” she said to it, sighing. “We braved some tough times together.”
Veer pulled her closer to his side as they walked to the lobby. “And I’ll brave the rest of them with you,” he said. “But I hope you have a spare?”
She laughed, intertwining their fingers. “Thank you for being here, Veer.”
He smiled back. “No place I’d rather be.”