The Bollywood Breakup Agency Page 5

‘They are coming for the final wedding preparations, so don’t take too long because we need to start cooking. And don’t take off when they get here, like last time.’

  Ignoring the urge to remind her mother, once again, that she might not stage another breakout if they agreed to stop the matchmaking, Neela headed for the door, jumped in her Mini and drove off at speed. The car was registered to Rishi, so she didn’t much care if she got a ticket.

  Less than thirty minutes later she was using every choice expletive she could think of. Wembley was a terrible place to drive. Too many people stopping in the middle of the road to drop off their relatives; others just stopping to speak to other drivers and catch up on the latest gossip, ignoring the line of cars piling up behind them. Some of them had parked half on the road, and half within the disabled parking zones. If a parking officer arrived then the long-suffering husband would argue, and if he lost, just drive off quickly. Some of them had parked on the double yellow lines, blocking all traffic behind them. She even saw someone park right on the pavement and nearly knock over a poor pedestrian. Neela herself almost ran over an elderly woman with greying hair in a fluoro pink sari, chunky black cardigan, black socks and bright white trainers, who was crossing the road with about 50 kilos of shopping, five metres away from a pedestrian crossing. She cursed the rule that said that all elderly women were like your own grandmother, and you could never shout at them, no matter how much in the wrong they were.

  Eventually finding a legal space in one of the side roads, and going against every Indian instinct, she reluctantly found change to park there. Then, faster than she had moved in days, Neela quickly raced about the supermarket, picking up everything on the list: samosas, spring rolls, chutneys, and oily Indian snacks that explain the high levels of diabetes in Asian communities. Including Daadi-ji. Unfortunately, there was no chance of Neela making a quick getaway. Another aunty, standing in front of her in the queue, stopped after she had made payment to accost and harangue.

  ‘Hello beti, how are you?’

  ‘Fine, Aunty.’

  ‘I heard that your cousin is getting married, such a good boy he is.’

  ‘Yes I know, we are all very happy.’ Neela replied, unenthusiastically. Her cousin Nikhil, her mother’s sister’s son, was a giant suck-up. And a doctor. Hence, the community loved him.

  ‘Strangely, I was not invited to the wedding. Perhaps could you find out why when you see your aunty and uncle?’

  Neela had never seen this woman in her life, and suspected that her cousin hadn’t, either.

  ‘Oh, well, it’s just going to be a small thing, Aunty.’

  ‘But I went to school with his daadi-ji, a long time ago, when we were small children in India. Why would he not invite me? I gave him money when he was born. I want to see my friend’s grandson get married. It’s only natural.’

  Wondering if anyone other than this aunty cared about the dubious connection, Neela made a false promise to mention the old lady to her cousin, and quickly snatched up her parcels before any additional promises were required. Didn’t these people understand that if you had to invite everyone you, your parents and your grandparents had ever met in their lives, you’d need a football stadium to host the wedding? For Neela’s wedding, whenever the hell that would be, she was determined to least be able to pick her guests out of a line up.

  She drove home at speed in an attempt to rid herself of the experience of Wembley. The thought of possible questions and suggestions from people who thought they knew her well enough to pass judgement made her skin crawl.

  Even though Neela was back in Harrow in record time, her mother, who had started cooking dinner, still berated her for taking too long. Then she instructed Neela to scoop out some of the food onto plates, and store the rest away into separate empty ice-cream tubs.

  ‘This is the life,’ Neela said loudly, but no one replied.

  Except for Daadi-ji, who just told her to thank God they had food to store in plastic containers, when people elsewhere in the world were starving.

  Later that evening, Soorbhi’s sister and her husband arrived – Neela’s Yogeeta masi and Indra masa, or her maternal aunt and her husband respectively – and, of course, their son Nikhil.

  Nikhil had turned twenty-five, graduated med school and at once announced his engagement to his long-term girlfriend, Seema. Much rejoicing among the aunties and uncles ensued, as he was the first of the Neela’s generation to actually get married. It had been hoped, especially by Daadi-ji, that Neela would tie the knot years ago, given she was the eldest cousin. But hope disintegrated into farce as all her grandmother’s elderly friends began to question what was wrong with Neela and her parents because they couldn’t seem to find a suitable match. The fact that they were now looking outside of their own community was additional cause for discussion.

  Meanwhile, the two families sat in the living room, older adults beaming with pride, Neela scowling at her cousin. Seema was still studying medicine, and hoped to be a GP. The entire Solanki clan were beside themselves because Doctor Nikhil had also found himself a doctor. Neela thought it was fairly obvious, given he had spent years in medical school. Who else would he find?

  Seema had already been integrated into the family – Yogeeta masi had looked at her as a daughter-in-law and six months earlier had started inviting her to all of the family functions, thus making the relationship and future marriage official. Today, they were all here to give the family their official invitation to the wedding.

  ‘We are only visiting the close relatives – would it look bad if we don’t hand deliver to everyone?’

  ‘No,’ Neela’s mum replied, ‘you can’t visit all 900 people can you?’

  900? Had Neela heard correctly? Were they mad?

  Daadi-ji limped into the room with her hand on her back, moaning about a newly-developed back pain. Neela had her doubts about her grandmother’s back, especially as she had recently seen her bolt down the street in her trainers to catch the illicit nocturnal activities of a friend’s grandson.

  The elderly woman was wearing a white and blue sari, had covered her shoulders with a dark blue shawl, her grey hair tied into a bun on the top of her head. Plonking herself on the sofa, Daadi-ji began doing what grandmothers in any culture revelled in doing: lecturing.

  ‘In my day, we visited everyone and hand delivered every single invitation.’ She moved position, sitting on Yogeeta, who, to her credit, avoided groaning in pain. ‘It was rude if you didn’t. If you’d sent the invites in the posht, then you’d have no guests.’

  There was no way anyone invited to this wedding was missing it, Royal Mail-delivered invite or not. A wedding between two doctors was the closest Neela’s relatives got to royalty.

  For the next hour, the conversation was all about next weekend’s engagement ceremony, and Neela wondered if boredom could actually kill you. Then, a snide comment directed at her caught her attention.

  ‘I’m so excited about this wedding,’ Soorbhi said to her sister. ‘It’s nice to have a wedding in the family.’ A definite dig at her daughter. And Neela could do nothing but sit there and take it.

  ‘Yes, we are very proud of Nikhil,’ Rishi added, with a pointed look at Neela.

  ‘I’m really thirsty,’ Yogeeta said to Neela. ‘Bring me some water, please?’

  Soorbhi gave Neela an angry look, as if to criticize her for not offering the water to everyone as soon as they had sat down. Neela got up and strode into the kitchen, filled up eight glasses of water to accommodate the dehydration levels of every person in the good room, and balanced them on a gilt-edged tray.

  When she came back, the women were talking about shopping for wedding jewellery and Nikhil looked bored. She handed the drinks out, leaving her cousin until last. Neela made a face at Nikhil. ‘Wow, you look happy. How about a delicious glass of tap water?’

  He shook his head. ‘I just can’t stand all this talk about wedding halls, and jewellery, and saris, and other rubbish. Who knew g
etting married could be so irritating?’

  ‘Um, me. Why do you think I haven’t done it?’ Neela said.

  ‘Yeah, right. Well, this is all your fault.’ Nikhil replied, the stress showing in his lowered voice.

  ‘What?’ Neela then put down the tray on the table in the middle of the room and sat next to her cousin.

  ‘It’s your fault they are going all out in this wedding. I wanted something simple, but no, because mine is the first in the family, they want a full Indian wedding with all the trimmings. If you had gotten all this over with, then I wouldn’t have to make up for your mistakes.’

  That was a low blow, and Neela was hurt. Her cousin had obviously let the newly adorned status as ‘doctor’ go to his head. ‘What is it with you lot? You all want to sacrifice me to some loser to make your lives easier. Well, I am a modern woman, this is England, and I won’t be forced into something I don’t want. You get to choose a partner you love, why can’t I?’

  Nikhil didn’t have an answer for that, so he shut up and they went back to listening to the wedding preparations again. The conversation had moved on to the details of the engagement ceremony arrangements. Thirty minutes later they were discussing the wedding hall they had booked; the extension built behind a temple, and they talked about the trip to India they had just been on to buy all the clothes for the nuptials. As far as Neela could make out, it was the same dull conversation they had only last week.

  She let her mind wander to how to extract V from suffering a similar fate.

  At least Seema was getting Nikhil.

  V’s option, the unattractive Girish, was too horrible to contemplate.

  So as one wedding was pored over, Neela set about mentally ruining another.

  Chapter Seven

  The real Payal watched the final moments of the wedding ceremony as Lohit and her lookalike said goodbye to her parents, and were ready to begin their married lives at his home. The pain she felt hurt so much that she thought that she might be ill. How could Lohit not realise his new wife was an impostor? But there was nothing more to be done now. God had brought these two together, so it was God who would decide whether they would remain married.

  As the couple asked for blessings from the priests, the real Payal stood and prayed to a statue of the elephant God Ganesh nearby, hoping it might answer her prayers. There must be a way for Lohit to be hers again. Casting a frantic and inappropriate look around the crowded room, Real Payal’s face was fully revealed. But, as before, no one noticed.

  AFTER THINKING LONG AND HARD ABOUT V’s options, Neela and her friend agreed to meet in the Bazaar Lounge to talk about ‘the situation’. There was only one night to go before Friday’s meeting of the two families, and V was desperate to get Operation Exit Girish started.

  Entering the bar, they were greeted by a low buzz of conversation. Good, it wasn’t crowded, which was perfect because no one could listen in on their conversation. A shisha house was just like any other Asian meeting place, but instead of elderly gossipy women, there were annoying gossipy girls and cocky Asian guys. Everyone knew everyone’s business, and instead of the usual six degrees of separation, there were only two or three in places like these. The small crowds sharing their pipes were not only engrossed in their own private conversations, but were also listening in on the talk at other tables. As soon as a familiar name was heard, ears would prick up and every word would be digested.

  Their favourite table was unoccupied. The low seating, the luxurious silky cushions, and the small table were all waiting for the first customers of the night. Neela and V sat and quickly ordered a mixed fruit shisha, eager to get to the business at hand.

  ‘So, have you thought of anything yet?’ V asked.

  ‘Sort of. Tell me about his parents again.’ Neela had a couple of plans rolling about in her head, but she needed more information before making any suggestions.

  ‘Well, not surprisingly, they think their son is God’s gift to the world, so they need a wife who will take really good care of him.’

  ‘Okay, ultra-traditional, then.’

  ‘Completely.’

  ‘Then we need to make you as un-wifely as possible by tomorrow night.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Well we have to think about what they believe a good wife to be, and then you act the opposite.’

  ‘What? My parents will kill me. They’ll think I am sabotaging the match.’

  ‘Not if we do it properly. You see, if the parents are seen to criticise you for a stupid reason, your own family will be horrified at the insult, and will never agree to the match going ahead.’

  V blew smoke out of her mouth and stared at Neela. ‘That’s not a bad idea, but what can I do to achieve that miracle state of affairs?’

  After a pause, Neela began: ‘Remember that powder your parents would give you every time you had a stomach ache?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, what if you used that as a special ingredient in cooking the celebration meal tomorrow night?’

  Slowly, a smile crossed V’s round face. ‘They might get sick. And they would think I was a rubbish cook.’

  ‘And then they might say so, to your parents. They taught you to cook, so an insult against your cooking is an insult to your mum.’

  The two girls grinned widely at each other. It might just work.

  ‘This might be the quickest 500 quid anyone has earned,’ V told Neela.

  ‘Let’s see,’ Neela replied. ‘It doesn’t pay to get too confident. After all, Indians and a wedding are not easily parted.’

  *

  It was Friday morning and V was contemplating her fate. V and Girish had played together until the age of six, when he and his parents moved to India to find work. He returned at the age of 18 to go to university and once his parents returned a year later, the family had contacted V’s own, again. At first, the contact was subtle – old friends, catching up – but in the last two years the attention was more pronounced. They were sizing up V as a potential daughter-in-law.

  After searching high and low for a suitable wife, they had given up and finally made a formal approach to V’s family. By then, V had agreed for her parents to find her someone, so there was no choice other than to say yes to the match.

  But deep down, V longed to find someone for herself. She, like Neela, wanted to fall in love and marry someone she couldn’t wait to spend the rest of her life with, not be forced into a deal with someone no one else wanted.

  Sadly, V knew her personality and looks did not make her a magnet for men. There were many boys she had been attracted to, but those were the types who would be attracted to someone like Neela - thin, leggy girls with glistening hair and perfect white teeth. V was always the plain, frumpy friend, with shortish dark hair, dark eyes, and light brown skin. While she did have a mildly pretty face, she had no idea what to do with herself. Although her look was simple and discreet, her personality was a bit like a carriage with a wreaked wheel being shunted along a railway track. Either too gruff or too shy; never quite right. Neela joked that V could answer in a word what it took others a whole sentence to say.

  All parents believe their children to be the best, and it always confused V’s mum and dad as to why their own clearly delightful daughter had never found a boyfriend. V told them that it was all well and good liking someone, but since boys were, in the main, big headed and egotistical, they would always look past her in favour of her slimmer, prettier friends. So, after years of begging to be allowed to match-make, her parents were finally given the go-ahead to arrange a marriage for their daughter. It wasn’t forced on her, but since she had said yes to her parents’ help, they assumed V was in total agreement with their choice of Girish. How could she not be, when there are been no other takers? In fact, the only person to ever have shown interest was that shocker at the university freshers’ week years ago, and even then he was probably doing it on a dare.

  Tonight was the night that Girish and his family were coming
over to discuss things ‘officially’. And unless Neela’s plan worked, V was on an unstoppable train towards marriage hell.

  Despite his obvious lack of good looks, there was plenty to recommend Girish, in the eyes of her parents. He was from a good family, which to them was code for reasonably wealthy, so he could afford to take care of her. They had known said family for a very long time (both fathers had gone to school together and had emigrated at the same time). The wives also got on well, sharing the usual interests of gossip and, well, gossip. It would simply be the final piece of the puzzle if their two only children were married.

  Grabbing her bag and coat for work, V prayed that Neela was right about the cooking thing.

  Because, no matter how much she wanted to be married, the thought of Girish Patel was enough to entice her into lifelong spinsterhood.

  *

  ‘Vidya, quickly now.’

  Eight hours and thirty minutes later and her mother stood at the door to V’s room, an apron adorned with a huge chilli in one hand, the telephone in the other.

  ‘Coming.’

  Taking the special ingredient, purchased during her lunch break, V hurried downstairs. The idea was that she cooked the entire evening meal. It was a way to show off her most valuable asset – her culinary ability. Meanwhile, her mother would gossip on the phone, boasting about the up and coming nuptials.

  Preparing the first of numerous dishes, V pulled a small packet out of her trouser pocket. It was the strongest herbal anti-constipation medicine available over the counter at the Indian food store. Neela and V were both given this stuff as children whenever they got a stomach-ache, or a headache, or anything, really. Their parents (and their parents) believed that the tummy was the nerve centre of the body, and the only way to fix an illness was to perform a full clearance.

  Wondering how she could guarantee her parents didn’t become ill, V realised that it was impossible – the dishes were served in huge bowls for sharing.