Look up stupid in the dictionary and you’ll find my picture.
Along with revealing stats: Shari Jones, twenty-nine, five-seven, black hair, hazel eyes, New Yorker. Addicted to toxic men like my ex, cheesecake, and mojitos (not necessarily in that order), and willing to do anything for a friend, including travel to India and impersonate aforementioned friend in an outlandish plot to ditch her fiancé.
See? Stupid.
“You’re the best.” Amrita Muthu, my zany best friend who devised this escapade, cut a wedge of chocolate cheesecake and plopped it on my plate. “Have another piece to celebrate.”
I loved how she always had cheesecake stocked in her apartment freezer but as I stared at my favorite dessert I knew I couldn’t afford the extra calories. Not with my destination of Mumbai—land of food hospitality—where I’d be bombarded with rich, sugar-laden treats that I’d have to eat to be polite.
Despite my Indo-American heritage, jalebis, gulab jamuns, and rasmalai are not my idea of heaven. The sickly sweet morsels were a testament to years as a fat kid, courtesy of an Indian mother who wasn’t satisfied until my eyes—as well as my waistline—were bulging from too much food.
“Eat up, my girl,” Mom used to say, shoveling another mini Mount Everest of rice and dahl onto my plate. “Lentils are strengthening. They’ll make you big and strong.”
She’d been right about the big part. Still waiting for my muscles to kick in.
But hey, I survived the food fest, and thanks to hours in the gym, smaller portions of dahl (yeah, I’d actually become hooked on the stuff), and moving away from home, I now had a shape that didn’t resemble a blimp.
“Shari? You going to eat or meditate?”
“Shut up.” I glared at Amrita—Rita to me—then picked up my fork and toyed with the cheesecake. “Too early for celebrations.” Commiserations were more likely if this wacky plot imploded. “You’re not the one spending two weeks in Mumbai with a bunch of strangers, pretending to like them.”
“But you don’t have to pretend. That’s the whole point. I want you to be yourself and convince the Ramas I’m not worthy of their son.” Rita stuck two fingers down her throat and made gagging noises. “Bet he’s a real prince. Probably expects the prospective good little Hindu wife he’s never seen to bow, kiss his ass, and bear him a dozen brats. Like that’s going to happen.”
She rolled her perfectly kohled eyes and cut herself another generous slab of cheesecake. Curves are revered in India and Rita does her heritage proud with an enviable hourglass figure.
“You think my naturally obnoxious personality will drive this prince away, huh? Nice.”
Rita grinned and topped off our glasses from the mojito pitcher sitting half-empty between us. “You know what I mean. You’re flamboyant, assertive, eloquent. Except when it came to your ex.” She made a thumbs-down sign. “I’m a wimp when it comes to defying my folks. If anyone can get me out of this mess, you can.”
Debatable, considering the mess I’d made of my life lately.
“No way would I marry some stooge and leave NYC to live in Mumbai. Not happening.”
She took a healthy slurp of mojito and ran a crimson-tipped fingernail around the rim of the glass. “Besides, you score a free trip. Not to mention the added bonus of putting Tate behind you once and for all.”
That did it. I pushed my plate away and sculled my mojito. The mention of Tate Embley, my ex-boyfriend, ex-landlord, and ex-boss turned my stomach. Rita was right—I was assertive, which made what happened with him all the more unpalatable. I’d been a fool, falling for a slick, suave lawyer who’d courted me with a practiced flair I’d found lacking in the guys I’d dated previously.
I’d succumbed to the romance, the glamour, the thrill. Tate had been attentive and complimentary and generous. And I’d tumbled headfirst into love, making the fact he’d played me from start to finish harder to accept. Maybe I’d been naïve to believe his lavish promises. Maybe I should’ve known if something’s too good to be true it usually is. Maybe I’d been smitten at the time, blinded to the reality of the situation: an unscrupulous jerk had charmed me into believing his lies to the point I’d lowered my streetwise defenses and toppled into an ill-fated relationship from the beginning.
“Oops, I forgot.” Rita’s hand flew to her mouth, a mischievous glint in her black eyes. “Wasn’t supposed to mention the T-word.”
I smirked. “Bitch.”
“It’s therapeutic to talk about it.”
Morose, I stared into my empty glass, knowing a stint in India couldn’t be as bad as this. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s rehashing the mess I’d made of my love life. “What’s there to talk about? We’re over.”
“Over, schmover. If he came groveling on his Armani knees you’d reconsider.” She jabbed a finger at me. “If he comes sniffing aroundyou again I’ll kick his sorry ass to the curb.”
“I already tried kicking him to the curb and now I’m homeless and unemployed.”
Three months later, I couldn’t believe he’d played me, thrown me out of his swank Park Avenue apartment, and fired me all on the same day. So what if I’d called him a lying, sleazy bastard with the morals of a rabid alley cat? If the Gucci loafer fit...
Rita refilled my glass, her stern glare nothing I hadn’t seen before. “He’d reduced you to ho status. He paid your salary, your rent, and left you the odd tip when he felt like it.”
She stared at the princess-cut ruby edged in beveled diamonds on the third finger of my right hand and I blushed, remembering the exact moment Tate had slipped it on. We’d been holed up in his apartment for a long weekend and in the midst of our sex-a-thon he’d given me the ring. Maybe I’d felt like Julia Roberts getting a bonus from Richard Gere for all of two seconds, but hey, it’d been different. I loved the guy. He loved me.
Yeah, right.
Tate had strung me along for a year, feeding me all the right lines: his wife didn’t love him, platonic marriage, they never had sex, they stayed together for appearances, he’d leave her soon, blah, blah, blah.
Stupidly, I believed him until that fateful day three months ago when someone at Embley Associates, one of New York’s premier law firms, revealed the latest juicy snippet: Tate, the firm’s founding partner, was going to be a daddy. After years of trying with his gorgeous wife, nudge, nudge, wink, wink.
Say no more.
Unfortunately, Tate had tried some schmoozy winking with me to gloss over his ‘I was drunk, she took advantage of me, it won’t change a thing between us’ spiel. I’d nudged him right where it hurt and things had spiraled downhill from there.
Hence, my homeless, unemployed, and dumped status.
I folded my arms to hide the offending bauble—which was so damn pretty I couldn’t part with it despite being tempted to pay rent. “Your point?”
“Forget him. Forget your problems. Go to India, live it up.”
“And save your ass in the process?”
Rita grinned and clinked glasses with mine. “Now you’re on the right track.”
“I must be crazy.”
“Or desperate.”
“That, too.” I shook my head. “Have you really thought this through? Word travels fast in your family.”
“We’ve been planning this for a month. It’ll work.” Rita lowered her glass, an uncharacteristic frown slashing her brows. “You’ve been living here. You’ve seen my mom in action. You know why I have to do this.”
She had a point. While every aspect of Rita’s Hinduism fascinated an atheist like me, her double life was exhausting. Her folks would be scandalized if they knew she drank alcohol and ate beef, forbidden in her religion. But according to my inventive friend, who liked to stretch boundaries, cows in New York weren’t holy and the alcohol helped her assimilate. Likely excuses, but living beneath the burden of her family’s expectations—including an arranged marriage to a guy halfway around the world—had taken its toll. She needed to tell her folks the truth, but for now she’d settled on this crazy scheme to buy herself time to build up the courage.
I could’ve persuaded her to come clean, but I went along with it because I owed Rita. Big-time. She’d let me crash here, she’d listened to my sob story repeatedly, she’d waived rent while I fruitlessly job-searched. Apparently out-of-work legal secretaries were as common in job interviews as rats were in the subway. Didn’t help that the low-key, detail-oriented job bored me to tears in my last year at Embley Associates, and I’d been wistfully contemplating a change. Therein lay the problem. I needed to work for living expenses and bills and rent but my personal fulfillment well was dry and in serious need of a refill.
Another reason I was doing this: I hoped traveling to Mumbai would give me a fresh perspective. Besides, I could always add actress/ impersonator to my résumé to jazz it up when I returned.
“Telling your family would be easier.” On both of us, especially me, the main stooge about to perpetuate this insanity. “What if I mess up? It’ll be a disaster.”
Oblivious to my increasing nerves, Rita’s frown cleared. “It’ll be a cinch. My aunt Anjali’s in on the plan, and she’ll meet you at the airport and guide you through the Rama rigmarole. She’s a riot and you’ll love staying with her. Consider it a well-earned vacation.” She clicked her fingers and grinned. “A vacation that includes giving the Ramas’ dweeby son the cold shoulder so he can’t stand the thought of marrying me. Capish?”
“Uh-huh.”
Could I really pull this off? Posing as an arranged fiancée, using a smattering of my rusty Hindi, immersing in a culture I hadn’t been a part of since my family had moved to the States when I was three. Though I was half Indian, spending the bulk of my life in New York had erased my childhood memories of the exotic continent that held little fascination for me. Sure, Mom told stories about her homeland and continued to whip up Indian feasts that would do a maharajah proud, yet it all seemed so remote, so distant.
It hadn’t been until I’d become friends with Rita, who worked at Bergdorf’s in accounts—and who gave me a healthy discount once we’d established a friendship—that my latent interest in my heritage had been reawakened.
Rita had intrigued me from the start, her sultry beauty, her pride in her culture, her lilting singsong accent. She encapsulated everything Indian, and though my life had temporarily fallen apart thanks to the Toad—my penchant for nicknames resonated in this instance, considering Tate was cold and slimy—the opportunity to travel to India and help Rita in the process had been too tempting to refuse.
“You sure this Rakesh guy doesn’t know what you look like?”
“I’m sure.” Her smug smile didn’t reassure me. “I’m not on Facebook and I Googled myself three times to make sure there were no pics. You’ll be pleased to know I’m decidedly un-Google-worthy. As for the photo my parents sent before they left... well, let’s just say there was a little problem in transit.”
“Tell me you didn’t interfere with the U.S. Postal Service.”
“‘Course not.” Her grin widened. “I tampered with the Muthu Postal Service.”
“Which means?”
“Mom gave Dad a stack of mail to send. He was giving me a ride, and when he stopped to pick up his favorite tamarind chutney I pilfered the envelope out of the bunch.”
“Slick.”
“I think so.” She blew on her nails and polished them against her top, her ‘I’m beyond cool’ action making me laugh. “Besides, we look enough alike that even if he caught a sneak peek at some photo, it shouldn’t be a problem.”
Luckily, I had cosmopolitan features that could pass for any number of backgrounds: Spanish, Italian, Portuguese, or Mexican. Few people pegged me for half Indian, not that I’d played it down or anything. In a country as diverse as the U.S., an exotic appearance was as common as a Starbucks on every corner.
“I like your confidence,” I said, my droll response garnering a shrug.
“You’ll be fine.”
“Easy for you to say.” I twirled the stem of my cocktail glass, increasingly edgy. “Even if this works, won’t your folks fix you up with another guy?”
“Leave my parents’ future matchmaking propositions to me.” She snapped her fingers, her self-assurance admirable. “If they try this again, I’ll pull the ‘I’m your only child and you’ll never see me again’ trick. That’ll scare them. I would’ve done it now but they’ve planned this Grand Canyon trip for a decade and I would’ve hated seeing them cancel it, and lose a small fortune, over me.”
She paused, tapped her bottom lip, thinking, as I inwardly shuddered at what she’d come up with next. “Though I do feel sorry for them, what with Anjali being their only living relative, which is why I pretended to go along with this farce of marrying Rakesh in the first place.”
“You’re all heart.”
She punched me lightly on the upper arm. “You can do this.”
“I guess.” My lack of enthusiasm elicited a frown.
“Here’s the info dossier. Keep it safe.”
She handed me a slim manila folder, the beige blandly discreet.
Welcome to my life as a 007 sidekick. Halle Berry? Nah, I’m not that vain. Miss Moneypenny? Not that old, though considering the time I’d wasted on Tate, I was starting to feel it.
“My future as a single woman able to make her own life choices depends on it.”
I rolled my eyes but took the folder. “I know everything there is to know about the Rama family. You’ve drilled me for a month straight.”
“Okay, wiseass. Who’s the father and what does he do?”
I sipped at my mojito and cleared my throat, trying not to chuckle at Rita’s obvious impatience as she drummed her fingernails against the armrest. “Too easy. Senthil Rama, musician, plays tabla for Bollywood movies.”
“The mother?”
“Anu. Bossy cow.”
A smile tugged at the corners of Rita’s crimson-glossed mouth.
“Sisters?”
“Three. Pooja, Divya, and Shruti. Watch them. If the mom’s a cow, they’re the calves.” Rita’s smile turned into a full-fledged grin. “And last but not least?”
“Rakesh Rama. Betrothed to Amrita Muthu, New York City girl shirking her familial responsibility, besmirching her Hindu heritage, shaming her mother, disappointing her father, embroiling her best friend in deception—”
“Smartass.”
Rita threw a silk-covered cushion at my head, and thanks to the four mojitos I’d consumed my reaction time slowed and it hit me right between the eyes. Reminiscent of the lapis lazuli paperweight I’d thrown at Tate as I slammed out of his office that last time. Pity my aim wasn’t as good as Rita’s.
Her scheme might be crazy but I knew I was doing the right thing. India would buy me some thinking time about what I wanted to do with my life.
I dribbled the last precious drops from the mojito jug into our glasses and raised mine in Rita’s direction. “To Bollywood and back. Bottoms up.”
***
“Oh. My. God.”
Shielding my eyes from the scorching glare of Mumbai’s midday sun, I ran across the tarmac like a novice on hot coals, seeking shade in the terminal yet terrified by the sea of faces confronting me. How many people were meeting this flight?
A guy jostled me as I neared the terminal, my filthy glare wasted when he patted my arm, mumbled an apology, and slid into the crowd. I wouldn’t have given the incident a second thought if not for the way his hand had lingered on my arm, almost possessively. Creep.
I picked up the pace, ignoring the stares prickling between my shoulder blades. Were the hordes ogling me, or was that my latent paranoia flaring already? There’s the imposter—expose her.
I battled customs and fought my way through the seething mass of humanity to grab my luggage from the carousel. Caught up in a surge toward the arrival hall, culture shock took on new meaning as men, women, and children screeched and waved and hugged. On the outskirts I spotted a woman holding aloft a miniature Statue of Liberty, like Buffy brandishing a cross to ward off the vamps.
I’d laughed when Rita told me what her aunt would use to identify herself at Mumbai airport; now that I’d been smothered by a blanket of heat and aromas I didn’t dare identify, jostled by pointy elbows, and sweated until my peasant top clung to my back, it wasn’t so funny.
I used my case as a battering ram as I pushed through the crowd toward the Statue of Liberty. I’d never been so relieved to see that lovely Lady and her spiked halo.
“Namaste, Auntie,” I said, unsure whether to press my palms together in the traditional Hindi greeting with a slight bow, hug her, or reel back from the garlic odor clinging to her voluminous cobalt sari.
She took the dilemma out of my hands by dropping the statue into her bag and wrapping her arms around me in a bear hug. “Shari, my child. Welcome. We talk English, yes?”
Holding my breath against the garlic fumes, I managed a nod as she pulled away and held me at arm’s length.
“That naughty girl Amrita didn’t tell me how beautiful you are. Why aren’t you married?”
Great. I’d escaped my mom’s Gestapo-like interrogations only to have Anjali pick up the slack. I mumbled something indecipherable, like ‘mind your own business,’ and smiled demurely. No use alienating the one woman who was my ally for the next two weeks.
“Never mind. Once this Rama rubbish is taken care of, maybe you’ll fall in love with a nice Indian boy, yes?” Anjali cocked her head to one side, her beady black eyes taking on a decidedly matchmaking gleam.
I don’t think so! I thought.
“Pleasure to meet you, Auntie,” I said.
Rather than quiz me about my lack of marriage prospects she beamed, tucked her arm through mine, and dragged me toward the exit where another throng waited to get in. “Come, I have a car waiting. You must be exhausted after your flight. A good cup of chai and a few ladoos will revive you.”
Uh-oh.The sweet-stuffing tradition had begun. Ladoos were lentil-laden balls packed with ghee, Indian clarified butter designed to add a few fat rolls in that fleshy gap between the sari and the choli, the short top worn beneath. Mom’s favorite was besan ladoos and I remembered their smooth, nutty texture melting in my mouth. Despite my vow to stay clear of the sweets, saliva pooled and I swallowed, hoping I could resist.
Exiting the terminal equated with walking into a furnace and I dabbed at the perspiration beading on my top lip as Anjali signaled to a battered Beamer. “My driver will have us home shortly.”
I didn’t care if her driver beamed me up to the moon, as long as the car had air-conditioning.
While Anjali maintained a steady stream of conversation on the way to her house, I developed a mild case of whiplash as my head snapped every which way, taking in the sights of downtown Mumbai.
Cars, diesel-streaming buses, motorbikes, bicycles, and auto- rickshaws battled with a swarming horde of people on the clogged roads in a frightening free-for-all where it was every man, woman, and rickshaw driver for themselves.
The subway on a bad day had nothing on this.
Anjali—immune to the near-death experiences occurring before our eyes—prattled on about parathas, my favorite whole-meal flatbread, and her Punjabi neighbors, while I gripped the closest door handle until my fingers ached. Our driver, Buddy (Anjali had had a thing for Buddy Holly and thus dubbed her man-about-the-house Buddy, thanks to his Coke-bottle glasses), maintained a steady stream of Hindi abuse—at least I assumed it was abuse, judging by his volume and hand actions—while his other hand remained planted on the horn.
Pity I hadn’t held onto those earplugs from the flight. Would’ve been handy to mute the Mumbai melodies. I squeezed my eyes shut for the hundredth time as a small child darted out after a mangy dog right in front of our car. On the upside, every time I reopened my eyes, something new captured my attention. Fresh flowers on street corners, roadside vendors frying snacks in giant woks, long, orderly lines at bus stops. Bustling markets and sprawling malls nestled between ancient monuments.
Amazing contrasts—boutiques and five-star restaurants alongside abject poverty, beggars sharing the sidewalks with immaculately coiffed women who belonged on the cover of Elle, smog-filled streets while the Arabian Sea stretched as far as the eye could see on the city’s doorstep.
When Buddy slowed and turned into a tiny driveway squeezed between a row of faded whitewashed flats, I almost missed the frenetic Mumbai energy that held me enthralled already.
“We’re home.” Anjali clapped her hands. “Leave your luggage to Buddy. Time to eat.”
As I followed Anjali into the blessed coolness of her house, my hands shaking from the adrenaline surging through my system, I had an idea. Maybe soaking ladoos in white rum and lime juice would counteract the calories?
My very own Mumbai Mojitos.
Take a bite, get happy.
Eat two, get ecstatic.
Eat a dozen, get catatonic and forget every stupid reason why I’d traveled thousands of miles to pretend to be someone else.
Great, perpetuating this scheme had affected my sense of humor, along with my perspective.
Hoping my duty-free liquor had survived the road trip from hell, I perked up at the thought of my favorite drink (to be consumed on the sly as Rita reminded me a hundred times, in case I forgot I wasn’t supposed to drink while impersonating her) and climbed the stairs behind Anjali, trying not to focus on her cracked heels or the silk sari straining over her ample ass.
“Hurry up, child. The ayah has outdone herself in preparing a welcome meal for you.”
Wishing I had a housemaid-cum-cook back home, I fixed a polite smile on my face as Anjali launched into another nonstop monologue, this time about the joys of grinding spices on a stone over store-bought curry powders. While she chatted I surreptitiously loosened the top button on my jeans in preparation for my initiation into India’s national pastime—after cricket, that is.
“I hope you enjoy your curries hot, Shari. Nothing like chili to put pep in your step.” Anjali bustled me into a dining room featuring a table covered with enough food to feed the multitudes I’d seen teaming the streets earlier. “Eat up, child. Men like some flesh on their women. Perhaps that’s your problem?”
With an ear-jarring cackle, she proceeded to show me exactly how attractive men must find her by heaping a plate with rice, Goan fish curry rich in spices and coconut milk, baigan aloo (eggplant and potato), chana dahl (lentils), pappadums (deep-fried, wafer-thin lentil flour accompaniments resembling giant crisps), and raita (a delicious yoghurt chutney).
Had she noticed I hadn’t said more than two words since I arrived? If so, she didn’t let on, happily maintaining a steady flow of conversation while making a sizeable dent in the food laid out before us. With constant urging, I managed to eat a reasonable portion of rice and curry, leaving room for the inevitable barrage of sweets, wondering if I could sneak up to my room for a fortifying rum.
However, like most of my dreams in this world, it wasn’t to be.
“Excuse me, Missy.” Buddy shuffled into the room, his dusty bare feet leaving faint footprints on the polished white tiles. “There’s been an accident.”
Rather than looking at Anjali, Buddy darted glances at me with frightened doe eyes.
“Spit it out, man. What’s happened?” Anjali spoiled her attempt at playing the imperious master standing over her servant by stuffing another ball of rice into her mouth with her curry-covered fingers and smacking her lips.
Buddy stared at me, panic-stricken. “It’s the missy’s bottles. They broke. Leak everywhere.”
“Bottles? What bottles?” Anjali paused mid-chew, her plucked eyebrows shooting skyward.
I rarely swore. In fact, the F-word made me cringe. However, with my stomach rebelling against the onslaught of food, my nerves shot by the drive here, and my secret duty-free mojito stash now in ruins, all I could think was fuuuuuck.
***
I wanted to sleep in the next morning but Anjali didn’t believe in jet lag. She believed in breakfast at the crack of dawn.
“Eat more, my girl. Idlis will give you strength for the day ahead.”
She pushed the tray of steamed rice cakes toward me along with the sambhar, a lentil soup thick with vegetables.
Not wanting to appear impolite on my first morning here, I spooned another idli onto my plate and ladled a sparrow’s serving of sambhar over it. “What’s on for today?”
“I’ve planned a grand tour of Mumbai especially for you.” She held up a hand, fingers extended. “First stop, the Gateway of India.”
One finger bent.
“Second, a boat cruise on the harbor.”
Another finger lowered.
“Third, Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus. Then Mani Bhavan, at the home of Mahatma Ghandi.”
She waved her pinkie and I hoped our last stop included shopping. “And finally, we eat at my favorite restaurant.”
The thought of more food turned the idlis to lead in my stomach, and I edged my plate away. She didn’t notice, her face glowing with pride, like a kid who nailed a test. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I was more interested in Mumbai’s malls than cultural icons.
“Sounds good.” I injected enthusiasm into my voice, but it wasn’t enough to distract Anjali as she eyed my plate and untouched idli with a frown.
Thankfully, Buddy entered the dining room and Anjali clapped her hands. “Time to go.”
Relieved, I followed her to the car, thanking Buddy for holding open my door as I slid onto the back seat. He shuffled his feet in embarrassment but I caught the flicker of a bashful smile before he slipped behind the steering wheel. He’d been mortified over the duty-free bottle breakage, but what could I do? Confess to a secret alcohol stash? I’d brushed over the incident last night, citing special clear coconut juice I’d brought from the States before hiding the broken glass and condemning labels deeply in the trash. That’s all I needed, for some nosy neighbor to out Anjali for secretly swigging alcohol.
As Buddy tested his Angry Birds skills—people were like the game app birds, seemingly flinging themselves at our car—I swallowed a curse. Oblivious to my morbid fear of inadvertently killing one of the many pedestrians jamming the sidewalks and spilling onto the road, Anjali stared at my hands, where I clutched at the worn leather.
“That’s a lovely ring.” She pointed at the ruby. “From someone special?”
“No.” I released my grip on the seat to twist the ring around, wishing I didn’t love it so much. Definitely not from someone special.
She didn’t probe, her curiosity snagged by my watch. The gold link and diamond TAG had been a gift to myself with my first paycheck at Tate’s law firm, a splurge I’d justified at the time by saying I needed to look the part at an upmarket practice, when in reality I’d wanted to impress the boss who’d already made a pass at me during the first two weeks.
“That a gift, too?”
Jeez, who was she, the jewelry police?
“A gift to myself.”
Needing a change of topic fast, I pointed out the window. “That’s the third cinema we’ve passed in a few blocks.”
She craned her neck for a better look. “Nothing unusual. We’re the movie capital of India, so there’s a multiplex cinema on every street.” She had to be exaggerating, but as Buddy weaved in and out of the road chaos, I spotted five more.
“Personally, I prefer cable.” Anjali rummaged around in her giant handbag and pulled out a TV Soap magazine. “Hundreds of channels, better viewing.”
She flicked it open to a double-page spread of buffed guys with bare chests and brooding expressions. Not bad, if you liked that fake chiseled look. By the twinkle in Anjali’s eye as she shoved the magazine my way, she did. “Bill Spencer is my favorite.”
Clueless, I shrugged.
Horrified, she stabbed at a photo of a dark-haired, dark-eyed Adonis with rippling pecs and a serious six-pack. “Don Diamont. You’ve never heard of him? The Young and the Restless? Dollar Bill Spencer in Bold and the Beautiful?”
“Uh, no, I’m more of a rom-com gal.”
Shaking her head, she snapped the magazine shut and thrust it into her bag, casting me a disbelieving glare. “I’m thinking Amrita did you a favor sending you here.”
I didn’t want to ask, but there was something cutesy and lovable about Anjali, and I couldn’t resist. “Why, Auntie?”
“So I can educate you.”
I stifled a snort. “About soap operas?”
“About men.” She rattled her bag for emphasis. “These are the men you must aspire to. Handsome, tall, broad shoulders, rich.”
“Fictional,” I muttered, earning a click of her tongue.
She crossed her arms, hugging the bag and magazine to her chest.
“You’ll see. Once you ditch Anu’s son, we can concentrate on finding you another boy.”
I refrained from adding, “I want a man.” No point encouraging her.
Buddy swerved into a narrow parking space between a cart and an auto-rickshaw. I didn’t know what was worse: the promise of Anjali’s matchmaking me with a soap-idol lookalike or the ensured whiplash every time I sat in a car.
“Good, we’re here.” She gathered the folds of her sari like a queen as she stepped from the car. “Where every tourist to Mumbai starts exploring.” She threw her arms wide. “The Gateway of India.”
I might not be a cultural chick but I had to admit the huge archway on the water’s edge was impressive. Roughly sixty feet, it had four turrets and intricate latticework carved into the yellow stone. “What’s this made from?”
“Basalt stone, very strong.” Anjali linked her elbow through mine and drew me down the steps behind the arch to the water’s edge. “Come, we’ll take a short cruise on a motor launch.”
I eyed the small, bobbing boats dubiously, hoping the captains steered more sedately than the drivers on the roads.
Anjali didn’t give me a chance to refuse, slipping a launch operator some rupees and hustling me into a boat before I could feign seasickness. The motor launch shot off at a great speed and I clung onto the seat. Good thing I’d skipped the manicure before I met the Ramas. It’d be shredded by the end of today.
Anjali hadn’t prepped me for the upcoming Rama meeting. Not to worry. Rita had more than made up for it. “The Rama welcoming party should be interesting.”
“Coming face to face with Rakesh might be interesting.” Anjali screwed up her nose. “Meeting that witch Anu?” She muttered a stream of Hindi, her tone vitriolic.
Witch? Intrigued, I waited for a pause. “So you know Anu?”
“You could say that.” She folded her arms, her expression thunderous.
O-kay. Untold saga alert. Surprising Rita hadn’t mentioned any history between her aunt and prospective mother-in-law. “Is there a problem between you—”
“Look.” Anjali nudged me with her elbow and gestured toward the arch. Nice change of topic.
I conceded for now. “You were right—the view from here is fantastic.”
The corners of her eyes crinkled with pride, as if she’d constructed the archway by hand. “It was built to commemorate the first-ever visit by a British monarch, King George V and Queen Mary in 1911.”
“Interesting.” She was distracting me with a tour guide spiel. I’d play along, lulling her into a false sense of security before resuming my interrogation. I pointed at a beautiful white-turreted, pink-domed building behind the arch. “What’s that?”
“The Taj Mahal Palace.” She touched the tip of her nose and raised it. “Very posh hotel.”
“Maybe Rakesh will take me there?”
“Probably, if he’s anything like his bragging mother.” Anjali snorted. “I wouldn’t know, I haven’t been invited to the house yet to meet him, despite being the aunt of his betrothed.” She made a disgusted clicking sound with her tongue. “Bet that’s Anu’s doing, too.”
Fascinated by her obvious dislike for Rakesh’s mom, I probed further.
“Hope she won’t have to chaperone.” I subtly sided with Anjali, hoping she’d elaborate.
Her lips thinned. “Don’t worry about Anu. I’ll deal with her; you take care of breaking the betrothal.”
I scrutinized her, mulling her blatant antagonism. Why would a woman who’d been raised to accept arranged marriages be hell-bent on ruining one?
“Why are you helping Rita break her arrangement?”
Startled, Anjali shifted and the boat tipped alarmingly before righting. “Amrita is like a daughter to me. She deserves to choose her happiness.”
Deep.
“Not all of us are so lucky.” Anjali shrugged, the sadness tightening her mouth, making me wish I hadn’t probed.
“What about Senthil? What’s he like?” I hoped switching from marriage back to the Ramas would divert her attention.
“Very fine musician.” Her lips clamped into a thin, unimpressed line before she turned away.
Guess discussing the Ramas hit a sore spot.
I pointed at a nearby island. “Is that temple significant?”
While Anjali prattled on about nearby Elephanta Island where the Temple Cave of Lord Shiva could be found, I pondered her revelations. She knew next to nothing about Rakesh, admired Senthil’s musical skills, and despised Anu. It shouldn’t have mattered, but her dislike for Rakesh’s mom made me uneasy. If Anjali had another agenda, one I knew nothing about, it could jeopardize our entire scheme. Like I wasn’t anxious enough.
I focused on the Mumbai skyline, captured by the complexity of this cosmopolitan city. I’d been here a day and barely scratched the surface, but from what I’d seen on Anjali’s grand tour so far I was starting to get a feel for the place.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Anjali said as the boat docked and I helped her step onto land.
“Just taking it all in.” The sights, and the mysterious disclosures.
She patted my arm. “Don’t worry about meeting the Ramas. If Rakesh is anything like his father, you’ll be fine.”
“What’s Senthil like?”
“Nice enough.” She shrugged, her blasé response belied by a quick look-away.
“Shame I’ll be dealing more with Anu and not him.”
Anjali frowned. “Be careful with her. She’s astute and devious.” She made a slitting sign across her throat. “Cunning as a rat. Dangerous when confronted.”
Uh-oh. The last thing I needed: a perceptive psycho. My nervousness morphed into full-blown terror.
Before I could discover more, Buddy pulled up and we piled back into the car, his presence effectively ending further communication about the Rama plot. When Anjali started rummaging in her bag, I braced for another hottie fix-up.
Instead, she pulled out a snack bag. “Sev? “
“No thanks.” The refusal was barely out of my mouth before she popped the fine, crunchy, deep-fried strands of chickpea dough into hers. By the time she finished the bag we’d arrived at our next stop, the biggest train station I’d ever seen.
I should stop pestering her and drop the subject of the Ramas, but the tidbits she’d revealed had only served to rattle me and I needed reassurance.
As we left the car, I tapped her on the shoulder. “Auntie, I’m a little concerned.”
“About?”
“Meeting the Ramas.” How to phrase this without getting her riled? “If Anu’s so shrewd, won’t she see through me?” And worse, reenact some of that throat-slitting action Anjali had mimed.
“We won’t fail.” Anjali squared her shoulders, ready for battle. “If she tries to intimidate you or harass you, she’ll have me to deal with, the sneaky snake. She’s a ghastly, horrid—”
“This place is still functional, Auntie?” I’d had enough of Anjali’s adjectives. I got it. She hated Anu’s guts and further questioning would only contribute to her blood pressure skyrocketing if the ugly puce staining her cheeks and sweat beads rolling down her forehead were any indication. Besides, the more wound up she got, the more I wondered what the hell I’d become embroiled in. If Anu discovered my treachery... I suppressed a shudder.
Anjali took a deep breath and exhaled, hopefully purging her angst. “Yes. Very busy place and the second UNESCO World Heritage site.” She dabbed at the corners of her mouth and dusted off her hands. “Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus was formerly known as Victoria Terminal.”
My very own walking, talking encyclopedia. Goody.
“It’s amazing,” I said, unsure where to look first as we bid farewell to a patient Buddy again and joined the throng surging toward the station.
Grand Central in NYC might be impressive but this place was something else entirely. A staggering feat of architecture, the station had countless archways and spires and domes and clocks that were an astounding combination of neo-Gothic, early Victorian, and traditional Indian.
As we entered, Anjali pointed to a platform. “Over one thousand trains pass through here daily. Efficient, yes?”
I nodded. “How many passengers?”
“About three million.” She said it so casually, I could’ve mistaken it for 3,000.
“Wow, this place is incredible.”
We strolled through the station, admiring the architecture, the wood carvings, brass railings, ornamental iron, and precise detail engraved into every stone.
As we neared the entrance, Anjali touched an archway with reverence. “So sad, the smog and acid rain is damaging this beauty.” I had to agree.
“Next stop, my favorite restaurant.” Anjali rubbed her hands together in glee while my stomach rolled over in revolt.
I didn’t dare ask why we’d skipped seeing Ghandi’s home. I knew. She’d been so rattled by my less-than-subtle harping about Anu, she needed to comfort eat. Besides, getting into a car here was living dangerously. Getting between Anjali and her apparent love of food? I wasn’t that brave. “Restaurant?”
“No tour is complete without a stop at Chowpatty Beach.”
A beach? Good, maybe I could walk off the inevitable gormandizing.
We made small-talk as Buddy commandeered the streets, dodging buses belching diesel fume and carts and people, so many people. Interestingly, my death grip on the seat had loosened considerably by the time we reached the beach. I must’ve been growing accustomed to the chaos.
Anjali gestured toward the shore. “Now we eat.”
We abandoned Buddy and headed for the sand, the lack of restaurants confusing me.
Reading my mind, Anjali pointed to a row of street vendors lining the beach. “The best bhel-puri ever.”
I’d never tried the renowned chaat, fast-food. With Anjali dragging me toward the nearest stall, it looked like I was about to.
She ordered and I watched, fascinated, as the young guy manning the stall dexterously laid out a neat row of papadi (small, crisp fried puris—flatbreads) and filled them with a mix of puffed rice, sev, onions, potatoes, green chilies, and an array of chutneys.
I may not have been hungry but the tantalizing aromas of tamarind, mango, and coriander made my mouth water.
“My treat.” I paid the vendor, who gawked at Anjali as she popped three bhel-puris in her mouth in quick succession.
I laughed, loving her exuberance for food, more accustomed to it—even after a day—than the vendor.
“What’s so funny?” she mumbled, eyeing the remaining three.
“I’m just happy to be here.” I took one and shoved the other two in her direction.
“You sure?”
I nodded. “Positive.”
She didn’t wait, tossing the bhel puris in her mouth and sighing with pleasure.
That good, huh? I nibbled at mine, the instant sweet/sour/spicy explosion on my tastebuds making me want to demolish it as fast as Anjali. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so quick to pass on the others...
Anjali grinned at what I assumed was my orgasmic expression. “We’ll come back here one evening. You’ll be amazed.”
“By more food?”
She gestured toward the sand. “By everything. The beach is transformed with ferry and pony rides, balloon sellers, astrologers, contortionists, snake charmers, monkey-trainers, masseurs.” She snapped her fingers. “You name it, this place has it. Very entertaining to people-watch.”
Glancing at the smallish crowd, most of them dozing in the shade of trees, I couldn’t imagine the carnival atmosphere she described. Would be well worth another visit.
Yeah, for the bhel-puri, too.
“Sounds great. What about tonight?”
She shook her head. “No can do. Game of Thrones finale.”
I stifled a grin at her addiction to TV, along with food.
She rubbed her belly and winced—no great surprise considering what she’d stuffed in there. “Time to head home and rest.”
Good. My mind spun with all I’d seen, and I couldn’t wait to fill Rita in on the gossip.
Plus I needed to steel my nerves to meet the Ramas. My rapidly dwindling confidence had taken a hit following Anjali’s disclosures about Anu.
This could get messy.