women surrounded her, coming at her like blasts from her past, their silk saris, bronze lipsticks, and smoky eyeliners warming her from the inside out, their Chanel and Estée Lauder scents enveloping her as tight as their hugs. She found herself smiling as they appraised her, tipping her chin back with diamond-studded fingers, making sure little Ria was all right.
For over thirty years these women had been her aunt’s friends, her sisterhood. “The Auntie Brigade,” Vikram had called them. Little shocks of recognition sparkled inside Ria. A mole on a cheek. A cleft on a chin. The way one of them raised only one brow when she laughed. The way all of them called her honey, as if she belonged to them.
Just the way she remembered it, they all started talking at once. “I can’t believe it. It really is Ria. . . . Well of course, it’s Ria. It’s Nikhil’s wedding, after all.... Oh ho, but she’s a film star! . . . Arrey, so what? She’s our Ria first.... Look how beautiful . . . Of course she’s beautiful, she’s Ria. . . . Look at that ghaghra! . . . Forget the ghaghra, look at that blouse.... Remember when we could hold a halter up with those tiny strings? . . . My memory isn’t that good.... Look at those arms.... Why do you kids like muscles? Muscles are for men. . . . Not our men!”
As a little girl, Ria had loved listening to their banter. She would squeeze into Uma, close her eyes, and pick out their voices as they talked. Radha had come to America very young and she sounded as American as the grocery-store lady. Sita’s South-Indian accent was thick and earthy but completely un-self-conscious. Anu had the clipped Queen’s English of a fancy Delhi private school and she refused to Americanize it in any way. Priya had a soft-edged North-Indian lilt which she mixed freely with her acquired Americanness. She stretched out her words and rolled her r ’s so that each sentence became a linguistic potpourri, a mix of all the things she’d been and all the things she’d become.
Each one of them had extended the band of their innate motherliness around Ria, tightening up her barrettes when they slid off her pigtails, dusting off her knees when she fell. Piling her plate at parties and picnics and bullying her into finishing her food.
Smiling, Ria leaned over and touched their feet, each one in turn, and the timeless sign of respect made every one of them tear up, even the no-nonsense Anu Auntie. They fretted self-consciously and kissed her forehead, mumbling blessings into her hair.
“May all your dreams come true, beta. ”
“May you live a long and happy life.”
Ria thanked them softly. For one long moment, everyone stopped talking. Emotion hung heavily in the silence, memories sparkled in everyone’s eyes along with questions no one would voice, not on this auspicious day in the midst of this celebration.
Uma cleared her throat. “Can we let the child eat, please?”
“What, you haven’t eaten yet?” they all exclaimed in unison, and Ria quickly picked up the plate she had put down and held it up.
“I was just about to eat. I swear,” she said, and let Uma Atya pile obscene amounts of chicken biryani onto her plate.
“It’s preposterous how skinny you actresses are these days,” Radha said.
“It’s the camera,” Sita said. “It adds ten pounds they say, no?”
“Really? My pictures look like it adds forty,” Priya said.
“Yes, that’s definitely the camera,” Anu said, and patted Ria’s cheek. “Eat, eat. We’ll leave you alone so your atya can hog you. But only for today. After that you’re all ours.”
They all mumbled in agreement, kissed and petted Ria some more, and went off in search of dessert.
Uma Atya pointed at the biryani on Ria’s plate. “It took me six hours to make this, so you better eat up.”
“Don’t you want to go get dessert with them?” Ria asked hopefully.
“Oh, I’m not going anywhere until that’s all gone.”
Ria jabbed the rice
For over thirty years these women had been her aunt’s friends, her sisterhood. “The Auntie Brigade,” Vikram had called them. Little shocks of recognition sparkled inside Ria. A mole on a cheek. A cleft on a chin. The way one of them raised only one brow when she laughed. The way all of them called her honey, as if she belonged to them.
Just the way she remembered it, they all started talking at once. “I can’t believe it. It really is Ria. . . . Well of course, it’s Ria. It’s Nikhil’s wedding, after all.... Oh ho, but she’s a film star! . . . Arrey, so what? She’s our Ria first.... Look how beautiful . . . Of course she’s beautiful, she’s Ria. . . . Look at that ghaghra! . . . Forget the ghaghra, look at that blouse.... Remember when we could hold a halter up with those tiny strings? . . . My memory isn’t that good.... Look at those arms.... Why do you kids like muscles? Muscles are for men. . . . Not our men!”
As a little girl, Ria had loved listening to their banter. She would squeeze into Uma, close her eyes, and pick out their voices as they talked. Radha had come to America very young and she sounded as American as the grocery-store lady. Sita’s South-Indian accent was thick and earthy but completely un-self-conscious. Anu had the clipped Queen’s English of a fancy Delhi private school and she refused to Americanize it in any way. Priya had a soft-edged North-Indian lilt which she mixed freely with her acquired Americanness. She stretched out her words and rolled her r ’s so that each sentence became a linguistic potpourri, a mix of all the things she’d been and all the things she’d become.
Each one of them had extended the band of their innate motherliness around Ria, tightening up her barrettes when they slid off her pigtails, dusting off her knees when she fell. Piling her plate at parties and picnics and bullying her into finishing her food.
Smiling, Ria leaned over and touched their feet, each one in turn, and the timeless sign of respect made every one of them tear up, even the no-nonsense Anu Auntie. They fretted self-consciously and kissed her forehead, mumbling blessings into her hair.
“May all your dreams come true, beta. ”
“May you live a long and happy life.”
Ria thanked them softly. For one long moment, everyone stopped talking. Emotion hung heavily in the silence, memories sparkled in everyone’s eyes along with questions no one would voice, not on this auspicious day in the midst of this celebration.
Uma cleared her throat. “Can we let the child eat, please?”
“What, you haven’t eaten yet?” they all exclaimed in unison, and Ria quickly picked up the plate she had put down and held it up.
“I was just about to eat. I swear,” she said, and let Uma Atya pile obscene amounts of chicken biryani onto her plate.
“It’s preposterous how skinny you actresses are these days,” Radha said.
“It’s the camera,” Sita said. “It adds ten pounds they say, no?”
“Really? My pictures look like it adds forty,” Priya said.
“Yes, that’s definitely the camera,” Anu said, and patted Ria’s cheek. “Eat, eat. We’ll leave you alone so your atya can hog you. But only for today. After that you’re all ours.”
They all mumbled in agreement, kissed and petted Ria some more, and went off in search of dessert.
Uma Atya pointed at the biryani on Ria’s plate. “It took me six hours to make this, so you better eat up.”
“Don’t you want to go get dessert with them?” Ria asked hopefully.
“Oh, I’m not going anywhere until that’s all gone.”
Ria jabbed the rice
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