Abby Spencer Goes to Bollywood (16 page)

Two cultures. Two countries. Two Abbys? No. I’m still one, thank God. So I come up with the next best solution. Technology. I decide I’ll introduce Mom and Grandma Tara over Skype.

Grandma Tara is reluctant when I suggest the meeting. “I don’t like that thing,” she says, gesturing to the computer.

I plead and Grandma Tara melts.

Mom is hesitant too. “Abby, are you sure your grand-mother is up to it?”

“She is, Mom. And we can keep the call short, I promise.” I set up the computer in the family room and drag Grandma Tara to the table and sit her down. She keeps

adjusting and fiddling with her sari.

I log in and said hi to Mom. Her brow is creased.

Now that we’re all together, talk about awkward. Well, at first it’s Skype’s fault. We don’t have the best connection. I

try to compensate for the awkwardness by being as perky as a morning talk show host.

They both walk on eggshells that I can hear crunch each time they speak. The string quartet plucks strings gingerly like they’re playing an Asian folk song.

“Mrs. Kumar, it’s so nice to see that you are recovering. I hope having Abby over has not been stressful for you.” Mom is courteous, like she’s talking to some business acquaintance. “Oh, no, no! How could it? Abby has helped me to get better. Having her here is God’s blessing.” Grandma Tara hugs me. “Meredith, maybe one day you will come?” asks

Grandma Tara. “I would like to meet you.”

“Oh! That would be wonderful. I’ve never visited India,” Mom answers.

I jump in and hijack the conversation. “Mom, I visited Dad’s movie set yesterday. He was shooting a song with this actress named Rani.” Grandma Tara half smiles. “Anyway, you’ll never believe this, but Shaan and I were extras in the song.”

Mom gasps. “Excuse me?”

And I prattle on and tell her all about Miss Glen and the Taj Mahal set and the makeup and dancing till my feet were sore.

“Slow down, Abby. Settle down,” Mom laughs. “I can’t follow you.”

Grandma Tara jumps in, “It is so nice to have a young person in the house. Meredith, thank you for letting her come. I will talk to you again soon. I’ll let you and Abby talk.” Then she slowly stands up and shuffles out of the room.

“Okay, so Shaan and I probably won’t make it in the final movie. We’ll likely end up on the cutting room floor, but it was soooo fun.”

“Oh, Abby, this movie stuff is crazy. Have you told Priya or Zoey? Honey, you’re halfway through your stay already. I’m glad you’re not homesick.”

I wish I can tell her that at times I am, but I don’t want her to worry. Like the moment during the motorbike chase or when I felt helpless seeing the slums. Sometimes, when I struggle to communicate with Shiva or when I suddenly want a burger and fries.

But I don’t tell her any of that. There isn’t time.

Dad asks to talk to Mom, and they exchange pleasantries. Then Dad is all business. “Meredith, I have a plan for releasing the info. Abby, don’t leave. You need to hear this

too.”

Do I?

Dad tells her about the photo shoot and interview with
Film World
and reminds Mom that the media might try to find her.

“You know how much I hate that idea,” Mom says.

“Naveen, I never imagined you’d be a celebrity. This was supposed to be a personal issue.”

“Well, I’m a celebrity, Mere,” Dad snaps. “I can’t change that, and in today’s world celebrities are not entitled to personal lives, and keeping Abby a secret forever is not an option, is it?”

Mom is silent and so am I. We both know Dad is right. “Meredith, you are the mother of my child,” Dad reminds

her, an edge to his voice. “We need to get through this with as much dignity as we can and hope that the media loses interest. Let’s make this as boring as possible.”

“Naveen, you entered Abby’s life yesterday, I have been there forever,” Mom say with just as much edge as Dad.

“And are you suggesting that’s my fault?”

Mom calms down a bit. “No, but you don’t get to come in and make decisions.”

“Meredith, I am only making decisions that you cannot make because you don’t know my life or my circumstances. We have already talked about this.”

Whoa! The tension in the room is human, like a fourth person. Everyone is trying to keep a tight leash on his or her emotions and the control feels nuclear. Like it could erupt and destroy us all. The string quartet screeches.

I jumped in with both feet. Miss Perky to the rescue! “Hey, Mom, I get to buy a new outfit for the photo shoot!”

No one even cracks a smile. I tried.

Then they say I can leave. I shut the door behind me. It stays shut for a while and I can hear their voices. They sound frustrated at first, but I think I hear a laugh or two at the end.

Shiva sees my face after the Skype session and knows I need a distraction.

I spend the afternoon with him learning to make
pooris
, a type of fried bread. Like if you fried biscuit dough. Yummy! Why haven’t I eaten these at Bombay Palace in Houston? Grandma Tara watches.

Shiva rolls a perfect four-inch diameter circle of whole-wheat dough. He makes it look as simple as pouring a glass of juice. Then he tests the oil to see if it’s hot enough and slides the
poori
in. Golden brown, it puffs up within seconds. He fries the other side and then serves it to me.

I wolf it before the second one is ready.

Grandma Tara laughs. “Your father ate
pooris
like you do. I would tell him the story of the
poori
that ran away to escape being eaten by the wolf.”

“Like the gingerbread man!” I squeal. I explain the gingerbread man story and Grandma Tara and Shiva are enthralled.

Then I insist that I make the next
poori
. The darn dough does not want to be a circle. It looks like a misshapen blob with arms and legs sticking out in weird places. Not quite a

poori
or a gingerbread man. Shiva laughs till he cries and then gallantly fries up my blob. It tastes good even if it looked like a hexagon with curved sides.

“You try again tomorrow,” he says.

The big interview is a day away. Tomorrow I’m shopping with Rani.

Yippee and gulp for both!

Chapter 20

Dad gives me a cell phone to use when I’m out and about in Mumbai.

Shopping trip with Rani!
I text Priya and Zoey as I wait for her to pick me up.

Get out!
texts Priya.

R u having tea with the Queen after?
texts Zoey.

“Rani’s car is here,” Shiva says and I give Grandma Tara a kiss and rush out. The driver opens the door for me.

I don’t recognize the stranger who sits in the backseat. Maybe it’s an assistant. I smile politely and she nods. She wears a dark blue headscarf that covers her forehead and big sunglasses. Her outfit looks like someone pitched a tent around her. She keeps looking in my direction. Is she staring at me? I can’t see her eyes.

We drive in weird silence for a while. Where is Rani? Will I meet her at the store?

Then the woman in the tent shakes silently as if trying to muffle a laugh.

Then she snorts. Honk! Just like that. I swear. Honk. I look at the driver but he seems unmoved.

Loud snort
again
. Too bizarre.

She reaches across the seat and touches my hand. I jump and she doubles over with laughter.

She takes off the sunglasses and continues to snort and laugh and sputter.

“Rani?” I ask. I couldn’t have been more surprised at the deglamorized actress.

“I want to take you to an ice cream place without being recognized,” she explains. “I do this all the time.” She gestures to her outfit.

It broke the ice and in a weird way made her human. She isn’t all royalty and air kisses. I like this Rani.

I take a picture of disguised Rani and me eating the creamiest mango ice cream ever. Rani is right, her disguise works.

Then we get down to business and go to Globatique. Once in the store, she takes off the caftan tent, headscarf, and glasses. She wears jeans and a T-shirt underneath and no makeup, but she’s still beautiful. The salespeople recognize her and can’t do enough to please her.

The clothes are exquisitely hand beaded and embroidered and probably have fairy dust sprinkled on them. I wanted to soak in the vivid, fabulous colors. The manager brags that they beaded a gown for the girlfriend of a Saudi Prince and shipped an evening bag for the Duchess of Snobville.

Whoa! Maybe this is the place for Rani to shop, but not for me.

I know Dad is paying but even so, these prices are crazy. I look at the tag of a top that catches my eye. Twelve thousand, five hundred rupees. One dollar is fifty-one rupees. I rounded it to fifty since dividing by fifty is easier. I’ve been dividing for the last hour and my head hurt. Two hundred and fifty dollars! I’ve never bought a single outfit for that much, not even when I was the flower girl in my aunt’s wedding, let alone a piece of an outfit!

I clutch my purse as if it might shrivel in embarrassment and decide to flee.

“For you, very nice,” says the sales guy.

I shake my head and peek at another tag and divide furiously.

He reluctantly puts the top away and suggests another outfit. Peek. Math. Decision.

“For you. Very, very beautiful.”

“No for me,” I mirror his speech. The string quartet finds it funny, oh so funny. Shut up!

“For you. This for you,” he insists, holding up an outfit that would make me look like a decked-out Christmas tree.

I don’t need to peek or divide. “No for me,” I say firmly.

Why am I talking like this? No idea.

The pile of outfits soon rivals Mount Everest. Who will fold all these clothes and put them back? I’m beginning to sweat in spite of the air-conditioning.

What am I supposed to do? I know Priya doesn’t buy such expensive outfits because she doesn’t go to fancy-schmancy designers catering to royalty. I can’t show up to her birthday party in a dress fancier than hers, could I?

Then Rani takes over.

She picks a blue chiffon hand-beaded tunic with tiny pearls and white pants that look like tights. It’s soft and beautiful.

“Try it on,” she orders.

I try it on, parade, and twirl for Rani who claps and giggles.

The moment is magical and after that, there is no stopping me. Rani created a monster.

I try on outfits that are magnificent and sequined, brocade and silk, exotic and colorful, edged with tinkle bells and embroidered with mirrors, Western, Indian, and fusion. Ooh la la!

Will I ever forget this afternoon? Not likely!

I bask in Rani’s compliments. For a minute I feel like I belong there shopping with her.

In the end, I choose a relatively simple lavender sheathlike tunic for the photo shoot. It’s perfection. It has understated embroidery in a yoke around the raised mandarin collar and pants to match that look like tights. It’s a
churidhar
, or tights, and kurta, a tunic, I’m told.

Rani approves. I almost pass out looking at the price tag. A white strapless silk dress with red poppies bursting at the hem whispers to me.
Abby
, it says,
you could wear me again

and again
.

It would be perfect for the red carpet opening of Dad’s film.

Rani must’ve seen me staring. “Naveen asked me to make sure you picked more than one thing,” she says.

I point to the dress and whisper, “The red would match the red carpet.”

“We’ll take that one too,” Rani says to the sales guy and winks at me.

Woot!

The whole city is excited about the upcoming premiere night. Even Grandma Tara plans to come. She showed me the blue chiffon sari she would wear.

Before we leave, Rani puts her disguise back on. I clutch

my full shopping bags and feel like the shopanista. I need to watch myself or I might strut like one.

On the way back we stop to watch a game of cricket at one of the parks. “Shaan’s learning to play cricket,” I tell Rani.

Rani rolls her eyes and says, “Your dad lives for the game too.”

“You know?” I ask surprised.

I’ve been wondering about their relationship. How close are they?

“Yes, he told me. Naveen and I have been dating for almost two years, so he trusts me. Don’t worry, I can keep a secret,” Rani assures me.

Two years is a while. I wonder if they plan to marry.

As if she can read my mind, she says, “We’re committed to each other for now. Who knows what the future holds?”

I’m beginning to like Rani’s honesty. When she drops me off at home, she says, “I’ll see you at the premiere, Abby. Looking forward to it. And good luck with your interview.”