Chapter Twenty-Four Rupi
Twenty-Four
Rupi
If I was stupid enough to think that the Gupta world was all roses and rainbows, I was absolutely right but also a little bit wrong.
The real wedding preparations for my fake marriage are the special kind of awkward adventure I am absolutely not equipped for.
Today is the day we go shopping for my wedding dress.
Given a lifetime spent learning how to pretend, this should be easy, but I’m filled with terror.
The only silver lining is that it’s just Mamma and me.
I could not be more thrilled about the family opening their thirteenth location. Bless them for working so hard, because I absolutely cannot imagine having to do this with an audience.
I try not to think about how horribly I miss my own work. I doodle and draw with N&N, but I want to wield ink with the kind of desperation I absolutely cannot let myself feel right now.
“I wish your sister could be with us when we do this. Should we have waited for when Simi was free?” Mamma says.
“I wish she was here, too, but her schedule is impossible.” Simi and I might have managed to get a nice truce going, but she is absolutely not ready to shop for a wedding dress with me.
We ring the doorbell of a little blue-siding-covered house.
This is our last hope. Prem’s mom tried to get the designer in India who made the clothes for the weddings of her two older children, but the timing is too tight.
It’s wedding season in India, and it’s apparently impossible to even get anyone worth their salt on the phone.
So, one of the aunties suggested this woman in Nashville who runs a wedding-clothes business out of her home.
A woman approximately Mamma’s age opens the door. She’s in a hot-pink salwar kameez with heavy gold embroidery. She greets Mamma with the utmost warmth. Then her gaze falls on me, and she falters somewhat.
I’m wearing black jeans and a black T-shirt. The clothes of my soul. If I never had to wear anything else in my life, I’d be perfectly happy. If anyone ever cared about what the bride actually wants, this is what I’d get married in.
The woman, who introduces herself as Bina, slides a bug-eyed gaze at my tattoos and my hair.
“Where’s the bride?” she asks, taking us into a sitting room where bridal ghaghras are hanging on a trolley. There’s a tufted couch and snacks set out on a coffee table along with a teapot and cups.
“This is Rupi, my daughter-in-law,” Mamma says, completely clueless about whatever is going on in the woman’s head.
As for me, I’ve seen that look too many times to miss it.
Usually I hunger for it. The look is discomfort, and making people uncomfortable has always been immensely satisfying. Today, it exhausts me.
“She will wear ghaghras and all?” Bina asks Mamma, as though I’m not standing right there and as though she can’t picture my biker-chic vibe in anything as feminine as a ghaghra.
“Of course,” Mamma says. “She wants something pastel, delicate, like her.”
“Yes, of course.” Bina is obviously unconvinced and seeks solace in offering us chai. “We might have some ones with long sleeves. But not many.”
Mamma looks confused. “I don’t think she wants long sleeves. It’s barely fall. Is that what’s in style right now? Tell Bina what you’re looking for, beta.”
“Something that shows off my tattoos,” I say, biting into a too-spicy samosa, which isn’t half bad.
Bina looks like she might explode into a confetti of little Binas. She emits a syrupy laugh. “But for bridal, that will not look good. Correct?” She makes the appeal directly to Tanuja.
“Do you think so?” Mamma looks at me. I can’t quite tell if she’s figured out what’s going on yet.
“I mean, it’s your son’s wedding. You can decide,” the woman says.
“Actually, it’s Rupi’s wedding. She will decide.”
“Of course.” Bina titters out that syrupy laugh again. “You’re very modern. So nice to see.”
“I am,” Tanuja says. “Everyone says that.”
Bina produces a syrupy smile to match the laugh and points at the hanging dresses. “Would the bride like me to find something for her to try?”
No, thank you. The bride would rather not pay you for anything, you judgy woman. But Mamma’s eyes light up at the sight of the ghaghras, so I shut up and nod.
“How about this one?” Mamma picks up a pale-pink net piece with crystals on it. The blouse has tiny cap sleeves.
“Oh, lovely color. Hold on, I might have another piece in pink.” The woman rushes off and finds us a much brighter pink. I’m not even a little surprised that it has sleeves all the way down to the wrists. Tenacious, this one.
I ignore her offering and find myself a pale-green piece with in-cut sleeves that will show off the desert rose on my shoulders nicely. “I think I’ll try this one.”
“It’s gorgeous,” Prem’s mom says.
The woman smiles uncomfortably.
I go to the makeshift trial room made out of curtains and pull the heavily embroidered thing on.
The blouse hangs on me, and I have to hold the ghaghra to keep it from sliding right off.
But the colors pick up the greens and blues on my arm.
It’s almost like my tattoos are an extension of the dress.
If the person who’s going to make an absurd amount of money for it didn’t disgust me, this dress might be perfect.
“Oh, Rupi, beta, that’s just beautiful,” Mamma says, almost tearing up when I step out. “You have the most gorgeous arms.” She pats my cheek. “Do you like it?”
I shrug. “It doesn’t fit.”
“Can you take this one in to her size?” she asks Bina, who’s shifting on her feet like a rusty nail is stuck in her shoe. I think I want to put one in there before we leave.
“I’m not sure. There’s too much embroidery for alterations, I don’t think it’s possible.”
“She’s right,” I say. “I think it will lose its charm if it’s taken in.”
“That is not true at all,” Mamma says and studies Bina like she’s a boot caught on a fishhook. For a moment she says nothing more, but the moment doesn’t last. “Is there something bothering you, Bina?”
I should have known. If I’ve learned anything about Tanuja Gupta, it’s that she always intends to hold her peace, but the peace never cooperates.
She stares Bina down until the woman breaks like a cookie in hot tea.
“No no. Not bothering. It’s just . . . I have very traditional clients. I do very traditional brides. I will . . . I can do the taking in. Just don’t tell anyone where you got it from. If you put pictures on social media and all that, it’s okay to not tag.”
“That’s so sweet of you,” Mamma says. “Isn’t that so sweet, Rupi?”
“It’s very sweet,” I say, and what the hell, I take another samosa. This is about to become fun.
“See, such a kind girl. You’re insulting her, and she’s calling you sweet. But I think she’s right. Taking it in would make it lose its charm.” The way she says that last part makes me stuff the remaining samosa in my face with glee.
“Please don’t be upset,” Bina says. “I have to take care of my clients. Business is hard enough.”
“Ah, business, yes. Did you know that my husband and I run twelve—well, thirteen soon—pizza places in Kentucky and Tennessee?” She pauses to let that sink in.
“When we opened our first one, people said the restaurant business was too tough. A hard business. But you know what? We were blessed, and it never was. Do you know why?”
Mamma waits, and Bina, whose face seems to have shrunk to half its size, shakes her head.
“We followed two rules.” Mamma counts off on her fingers.
“One, we always serve only the best, freshest pizza. That’s the obvious one.
But the other one is more important. We’ve always welcomed every single person who stepped into our restaurant with open arms and treated every single customer exactly the same. ”
She turns to me. “Go change, beta, we’ve seen all we need to see.
” She’s not done with Bina, though. “My father sold mithai in a little shop in Nagpur. He believed he did god’s work by feeding people sweet things.
If a person in rags was ahead in line to buy his sweets and someone stepped out of a fancy car and tried to cut ahead, do you know who he served first? ”
She doesn’t give Bina the answer, but I’m pretty sure she doesn’t need to.
“He always said you can’t come at business from a place of fear,” she goes on.
“You have to come at it from a place of service. We were looking to buy at least fifteen dresses from you. It’s our youngest child’s wedding, the last in the family, so obviously there will be many functions, and we’re a large family.
Alas, we’re going to have to find someone else. ”
That’s what finally makes Bina’s eyes widen with regret. “You’re misunderstanding me. I’ll alter the dress, all the dresses. You don’t have to find anyone else.”
I’m back in my jeans and shirt. I hand her the hanger with the tag facing her. Five hundred times fifteen is a lot of money.
“Oh, but we do. Thanks for your time. I hope you’ll follow the wedding on social media.”
I grab another samosa before we saunter out of there. I want to grab two, but I’m not a monster. As we step into the sunshine, I feel like a warrior princess riding home victorious—or more like her sidekick.
Mamma looks at the samosa in my hand. “Are they that good?” This is my third vengeance samosa.
I split it down the middle and hand her half. She takes a bite and concedes grudgingly.
“Terrible people serving good food is one of life’s great tragedies,” she says when we get in the car. “I’m so sorry.”
“Why are you sorry? That was awesome!”
“You think so? Maybe I said too much.”
“I thought you said just enough.”
She smiles and starts driving. “I hope you’ll ignore her. You are a very sweet girl. Appearances can be so deceptive.” As soon as she says it, she realizes how that came out. “Sorry, that came out mean. I meant it as a compliment.”