Читать книгу Girl Most Likely To - Poonam Sharma - Страница 8

My grandparents spoke little English, and lived with us while I grew up. Their presence guaranteed my fluency in Hindi and ensured a steady supply of Bollywood movies in the house. In comparison with what they considered morally questionable Hollywood films, the predictability of Indian cinema must have comforted them. Because while the actors rotate, the story never changes.

Bad first impressions inspire mutual disgust between the bratty rich girl and the rebel boy from the wrong side of the tracks. This disgust evolves through flirtation into puppy love, after she offers her silk scarf to bandage his wound one day, which he earned while fixing the engine of her car that had coincidentally broken down by the side of the road right in front of his home. The pair falls in love and meets in secret to perform choreographed dance numbers. Changing outfits between the ballads they sing at river banks and on mountaintops, they end each number with an almost-but-not-quite kiss, while peasants dance spontaneously around them. All hell breaks loose when their fathers—inevitably embroiled in a vendetta which began long before they were born—learn of their torrid romance. Someone fights, someone is kidnapped and someone is warned to stay away from the girl. Girl throws tantrum, mother shares wisdom, and after more fighting, someone is nearly killed. The parents decide to forget about the past, agreeing that love matters most, and throwing an enormous wedding, with more dancing, much singing and still no kissing.

Basically, it’s Romeo and Juliet with more choreography and less sexual content. And unlike Romeo and Juliet, Bollywood lovers always have a happy ending. My parents had an arranged marriage in India approximately two weeks after their parents introduced them. They don’t use a word like love, but my father cannot sleep when my mother is ill, and I have never seen her sip her morning tea without him. To say publicly that they loved each other, my father once told me, would be like taking out a press release to announce that water was wet.

No man had ever understood why I cling to the idea of a happy ending, even as I claim to have accepted the slim chances of it. These guys told me that I made no sense, or that my fixation on how things ought to be could easily mean I’d end up alone. Lately I worried that if they turned out to be right, I would have no one to blame but myself.

Well, that will teach me not to use an eyelash curler, I thought, blinking rapidly while I ran toward the coat check. Judging by the expressions of the hotel guests I rushed past, I must have looked a mess. Conveniently, the eyelash which came loose as I f led the dance floor had settled across the inner rim of my eyelid. And barring a knuckle to my socket, nothing was gonna pull that sucker out. With mascara streaming down my quivering left cheek, I fought off the beginnings of a facial spasm. For anyone who resents our shiny, f lowing locks, let me assure you: What Indian women save in trips to tanning booths and melanoma clinics, we lose in the battle against our follicles. All that waxing, plucking, threading and tweezing could reduce a grown man to tears.

I banged on the courtesy bell while leaning into the coatroom, searching for some hint of a coat check girl.

“Vina.” My mother grabbed me by the arm and yanked me around to face her. “Vot are you dewing hir?” When her voice developed the Punjabi twang, it always meant I had stepped out of line.

“Looking for a coat check girl.” I avoided her eyes.

“Vee thot something had gone wrong.” She overgestured. “You just ran off and left poor Prakash standing like a dummy on the dance floor! Papa thought you had an upset stomach, but I assumed you were feeling sick from those ten martinis.”

“It was three martinis, Mother.” I rubbed my right arm below the shoulder. For four feet and ten inches of relatively sedentary maternal mass, she was actually freakishly strong.

“And this is something forr a vooman to be proud off?”

“No.” I banged not-so-courteously on the bell, and noticed that my throat was feeling tight.

“Oh, beti.” She softened, her face melting into concern. “Are you all right?” Clearly she had misinterpreted the state of my face.

“Yes, Mom.” I took a breath and faked a smile. “I’m fine.”

“Come here.” She produced a handkerchief from behind her bra strap, and proceeded to dab at my cheek.

“Mom.” I jerked my head away, like an adolescent avoiding a maternal spit-shine. “I’m fine.”

“If you are fine, then why are you leaving?” Her eyebrows arched. “Did he do something wrong?”

“No, Mom.” I shook my head. “It’s nothing like that. Prakash was a total gentleman.”

“Then explain your behavior, Vina.” She gathered up the pleats of her sari, and ref lung it over a shoulder, before settling a hand on each hip. “Why are you behaving this way? Don’t you know how much of an insult this is to his family? In front of everyone?”

“Mom, trust me. We’re not a match.”

“Vy not, Vina? Tell me vy not? You are both Indian, and professional, and he is very handsome, and he comes from a good family. Vot more do you vont? And please, Vina, don’t start talking about your so-called Chemistry and Love. You are not a child, and you know that these things take time. Your father is going to ask me why you are being so unreasonable.” She cocked her head to one side. “Or…wait a minute. You didn’t say anything wrong, did you?”

I gritted my teeth.

“No, Mom. Of course not. Of course I didn’t say anything wrong.” I couldn’t stop blinking, or cursing myself for choosing this nightmare over Cristy’s rodeo. “The problem with Prakash is that he’s…”

“There you are!”

“Oh! Hello, beta. How are you?” my mother cooed at Prakash. It was a frighteningly instant transformation.

“Hello, Auntie. You must be Vina’s mother. It’s very nice to meet you. That’s a lovely sari you’re wearing. Is it organza? It must have been made in Delhi, right? My mother says that you can’t find such good quality anywhere in New York, Jackson Heights or otherwise.”

He was shameless. She was beaming. I was at a loss.

“Thank you, beta. Thank you. I’ll go and say hello to your father.” She smiled. I tugged at my eyelid, which made a sucking noise. Glaring at me before she spun on her heels, my mother bounced giddily away. I rolled my eyes and gave up on the coat check girl, opting instead to search for a concierge.

Prakash whispered, while he watched my mother depart: “Vina, we have to talk.”

I paused, and twisted my neck toward him. “We? There is no we, you lunatic. Meanwhile, you and I have nothing to say to each other.” I pivoted away from him.

“You have to listen to me!” He grabbed my shoulders and pushed me backward through the doorway of the coatroom. My cheek spasmed, my eye twitched and I struggled for breath. Being half-blind, half-drunk and immobilized by my four-inch heels, I forgot all my fight-or-f light instincts. So rather than reacting I chose to hyperventilate, while trying to remember the protocol. Was I supposed to poke himin the groin? Knee him in the eyes? Kick him in the gut? Twist and pull? Scream for help? Stop, drop and roll?

“Vina, you don’t understand!” he said, cornering me in the small room.

Hoping for an emergency exit nearby, I lost balance and fell into a pile of coats. Prakash collapsed on top of me. The snapping of my left heel was practically expected, but the groping by the coats I landed on was most certainly not. Rolling Prakash off of myself, I struggled to my feet, and sprang into a defensive judo-stance. (Note to self: Stay away from Austin Powers reruns on cable.)

From below the pile of coats, a giggle and a pair of heads emerged. And one of the heads had something to say for itself. “Heeeeeey baby, don’t be like that. There’s always room for one more person at this party.”

I blinked to confirm what I was witnessing: the missing coat check girl grinning over a bare shoulder while straddling the bartender, who raised an eyebrow as soon as he noticed that I wasn’t alone. And I could’ve sworn I heard him add, “Or room for two more, should I say?” as I darted for the door.

With one hand to my forehead, I sprinted across the lobby, slowing only to throw the broken shoe into the trash. Soon enough I tripped on the other one, and crashed into the lobby’s glass doors, badly skinning my knee. Rather than taking the moment to feel sorry for myself, I remembered that Prakash was close behind. I clambered to my feet, threw open the doors and leaped into a waiting taxi, with just enough time to hurl my other heel out the window before the cab driver gunned the gas.

“My parents don’t know that I’m gay,” Prakash yelled at the window as the cab began to pull away.

“I don’t know why he thinks that’s my problem,” I told the cabbie, who grinned and whisked me safely home.