Chapter Eighteen Rupi
Eighteen
Rupi
It’s finally the day of the triplets’ party, also known as the event that has kept my sister and me too busy to think about much else.
I’ve been at the Gupta house every day, having my mind blown by the details involved in putting together a celebration of this magnitude.
The entire family has been on its toes for weeks, and I’ve been dragged into the very eye of the storm of action items.
Honestly, it feels like this party has kept all Hochkinsville on its toes.
What seems to be the entire town has shown up at the Gupta house to help bring it all together today.
Or, at least, the entire Indian population of the town, along with the neighbors and all the employees at the twelve restaurant locations.
Setup teams have been working tirelessly since the wee hours of the morning.
Hundreds of pink and silver balloons have been filled from helium tanks to build a gigantic arch.
Folding tables have been set up with satin tablecloths.
Some two hundred chairs have been wrapped with silver chintz and tied with pink silk bows.
Centerpieces are being put together with fresh pink lilies and sprays of goldenrods (Preeti refused to use the silk flowers an auntie brought over).
A group of high schoolers, directed by some adults, are installing a stage with wooden crates brought in from someone’s attic.
Things that have already been installed include a sound system with AV and mic, a bouncy house, and carnival games like basketball tosses and bag throws.
It’s all being done by friends and employees, and the Guptas didn’t have to ask anyone for help.
All those people are simply contributing to the Guptas’ great celebration because they are loved and respected that much in the community.
Some forty-odd people have driven or flown in from out of town. The Guptas have rented out their friend’s motel for their guests. Chandni and Pawan are in charge of taking food and chai to the motel for the guests and arranging transportation when needed.
After all the gossip (thanks to Anagha) about how Prem went behind the family’s back and got engaged, Tanuja is determined to make sure everyone knows that I’ve been embraced by the family.
She gave Prem and me the very visible job of coordinating the decorations and setup at home and keeping the volunteering hordes well fed.
I never expected to see, let alone warm up, so many samosas and dhoklas in my life.
Nor did I ever expect to make so much chai.
I’ve been boiling the darned thing all day using Mamma’s exacting recipe.
The chai is on par with her khichdi, and so long as I get my fix of both, I’m not going to complain about all this smiling I have to do every time someone congratulates Prem on how beautiful I am, while avoiding looking at my tattoos.
It’s actually quite the lucky break to have all these witnesses to our relationship. Take that, USCIS!
I am also tasked with keeping Neel and Nathan occupied.
They are by far my favorite characters in this play I find myself in the middle of.
What’s not to love about two adorable boys following me around and listening to everything I say as though it’s gospel?
Last week we planted a vegetable patch. They seem to share my love of growing things, because I swear they’ve spent hours tending to that piece of earth, watering and fertilizing and staring unblinkingly at the sprouting saplings to see if they can catch them growing.
Today I have them finishing up their huge undertaking of making thank-you cards for the guests.
They’ve chosen to draw anime characters (which I know nothing about but which they are obsessed with and have been tutoring me about) using felt-tip pens and colored pencils.
Turns out two hundred cards can keep two young boys occupied for days on end.
Especially when they want to create their life’s work.
Prem has kept up a steady supply of their favorite blueberry lemonade and pizza dough chips (which he makes specially for them).
The rest of the community isn’t allowed in their studio (their grandfather’s room, because he loves watching them work), because the cards are a surprise.
This was kinda genius of me, because it also means Baba will get some rest before the afternoon festivities, and he doesn’t have to visit with all the people walking in and out of the house.
No one in the family wants to be rude enough to draw boundaries and ask visitors to leave him alone.
Because if your last name is Gupta and you get caught being “not nice,” you have to hand in your Gupta card.
By noon, after spending the morning setting up, the gathered town finally leaves to get dressed.
I check in on the boys in Baba’s room. Baba’s eyes light up when he sees me, even though I’ve been in and out of the room all day.
He beckons me to sit by him on the bed, as though I’m the one who needs rest. We watch in silence as N&N finish up the last of the cards, then show us every one of their two hundred drawings.
“These are fantastic,” I say, and my heart fills with an odd sensation. It’s alarmingly close to what I feel when I see my own work.
The boys look like they’re going to burst with pride.
Baba’s eyes fill with tears, and they throw their arms around him and hold on.
His gaze finds me, and there’s something in it that makes me step back and clap my hands to get the boys to move.
We all need to get dressed. They put the cards in the shoeboxes we decorated with their grandmother’s old scarf and hot glue, squeeze hugs into me, and run off.
I’m about to leave, too, when Baba stops me with one of his sounds.
“Do you need something, Baba?”
He moves his head to look at two silk kurtas laid out on his bed.
“Are those for the party?”
The barest nod is followed by the twitch of a hand. He wants me to help him decide which one to wear.
“Have you not decided what you’re wearing?”
He raises his chin. What do you think? his eyes ask.
I pick up both options and hold them up against him. His pale-brown skin and amber eyes make the royal blue really pop. The gray is too drab.
“This one definitely,” I say, and he grins and gives a thumbs-up.
Every single one of the guests is dressed as though this is a wedding and not a birthday.
If I dare to verbalize this (the blasphemy!), I would be told that it was no ordinary birthday but the first birthday of miracle babies.
Mamma filled me in on how Preeti was told that she had, at best, a 10 percent chance of getting pregnant and carrying a baby to term.
Having said that, she also told me that all first birthdays are celebrated with similar glee in the community.
Naturally I didn’t tell her that I only knew Simi’s and my birthdays because I saw them on our birth certificates when I had to take them into school for something. Our mother didn’t believe in nonsense like birthdays. What’s wrong with the days on which you weren’t born?
It’s a question I feel fairly confident no one will ever be asking these three unbelievably adorable, albeit very sleepy, little girls.
The crowd of two hundred watches with wonder as they very generously let their mom, dad, and grandma guide their hands on ribbon-adorned child-safe knives to slice into cakes iced in pink, sage, and lavender buttercream and covered in miniature sugar work decorations of their favorite things: cars, puzzles, books, teddy bears, and musical notes.
The cakes are understated yet fancy, a reflection of Preeti and John.
It’s what makes the couple stand out in the kitschy, earthy, gaudy splendor that is the Guptas’ Hochkinsville community.
Simi is standing next to the girls, watching them with guarded eyes. I can feel her struggling hard to hold in her proud tears. She loves these girls so much, but her body language is reserved. Subservient, even. She behaves like a servant around these people. This makes me livid.
I focus my anger on Prem. How dare he let her feel this way?
He’s looking even more like a rasgulla than usual in a white silk kurta.
Since we’re outdoors and it’s still bright, he’s able to wear sunglasses, which means he’s probably all teary under those.
I get that marrying me when his sights were set on Simi is like getting thorns when he wanted a rose, but can he please stop crying and help her deal with this?
As soon as the girls have “cut” the cakes and the crowd has belted out an unabashedly tuneless rendition of “Happy Birthday,” Mamma brings me a slice of cake, feeds some into my mouth, and hands me the plate.
I’ve been standing next to Baba in his wheelchair.
He looks delighted at the sight of the cake, and I feed a spoonful into his mouth.
He beckons me close, and when I lean over, he drops a kiss on my cheek.
Mamma kisses my other cheek, sandwiching me between them.
Something painful constricts my heart. I want to pull away, but I can’t move.
I wait for them to pull away and straighten up, feeling strangely suffocated, only to find Simi watching me. She looks like I just murdered her puppy.
Come on!
I thought we were making progress, but since that day Prem and Saj brought me those papers to sign, she’s been entirely swallowed up by a dark cloud.
Mamma takes the wheelchair, and they head off to lead the guests to the food laid out on the other side of the patio. The aroma has been hanging in the air enticingly for the past half hour, and everyone rushes toward the buffet in a hungry mob.