re-air The Oprah Winfrey Show at two a.m.” I clicked my compact shut, and noticed that one of my heels was stuck in a glob of gum on the floor of the cab. “And you know that I haven’t been sleeping well these days.”
In an effort to spare the hem of my salwar kameez, I leaned onto one hip and lifted my shoe. Naturally, the pleather seat beneath me mimicked a fart. My eyes collided in the rearview mirror with those of the cabbie, who, until that point, had occasionally glanced at me with the standard balance of boredom and curiosity. Suddenly he sat up straighter, spearing me with a look of moral superiority—all this from a man who had never encountered a stick of deodorant. I stared out the window.
“What kind of a name is Prakash, anyway?” Cristina finally asked.
“Um, I don’t know…an Indian one?”
“Well, it’s just not the kind of name that I can imagine you screaming out in a fit of passion.”
“Life is not a fit of passion, Cristy.” I resented her for making me sound like my mother. “And I think the point is that I’m supposed to have learned that by now. Look at it this way. Meeting a guy through my parents means that the background check is out of the way. Up front, I know that he’s single, educated and family-oriented, with no criminal record or illegitimate children.”
“And what if he looks like a frog?”
“He will not look like a frog.”
“But, Vina, what if he does? What if he looks like a bloated, slimy frog…who got hit in the face with a frying pan…twice?”
“Then I guess I’ll have to comfort myself with the thought of his really long—”
“Vina, I’m being serious! Have you thought this through? How much are you willing to compromise? Meeting a guy through your parents is a lot more serious than meeting him by yourself. It can’t be casual. You’ve always told me that.”
“All I know is that there are men that you date, and men that you marry.” I reached into my wallet for a twenty as we turned east onto Forty-seventh Street.
“And never the twain shall meet?”
I paused. “Did you just say ‘twain’?”
“Sorry. I’m feeling silly. I have a date with the cowboy tonight. Maybe I’m subconsciously practicing country phrases to put him at ease.”
“All Midwesterners are not cowboys, Cristy.” I signaled the cabbie for eight dollars in change.
“Yes, but this one is. Seriously. He has the cowboy hat and everything. He even grew up on a ranch.”
“And what…he took a wrong turn at the Old Oak Tree and wound up in New York City?”
“Apparently. And he must have asked someone to point him toward the nearest watering hole, because I met him at Denial, a bar over on Grand Street.”
“That is silly.” I wrenched the crumpled dollar bills from the plastic, swiveling slot, and smoothed them into a pile. Then I folded them and slipped them into my purse.
“Come on! Why don’t you ditch the wedding, and meet up with us instead? I’ll have him bring a fre-end,” she practically sang, as if she were dangling a new doll before my eyes.
“As tempted as I am by the idea of playing Cowboys and Indians twenty years after recess is over, I think I’ll pass.”
“Oh, I get it. When you play with firemen it’s perfectly acceptable, but when I try to throw a little rodeo it’s silly?”
I fought off a mental image of The Village People performing “YMCA,” and feigned indignation at Cristina. “I thought we agreed never to speak of that again.”
She followed suit. “We agreed on no such thing.”
“I was young.” I checked my watch for the tenth time since Union Square. “It’s a part of my past.”
“It was last year.” She paused, probably for dramatic effect. “And I believe the exact line that you used on that guy was ‘If I promise to run home and start a fire, will you promise to come over later?’”
“You gave me that line.” I cracked a smile. “Good times, though.” And then we giggled together, like only two women who know that they will see each other from virginity to Viagra can.
“Vina, I just don’t want you settling for some guy who isn’t your ‘Prince.’” Cristina took a typically cheap shot at our friend Pamela, who wasn’t there to defend herself. “You’ve been way too preoccupied lately with your so-called future.”
“Oh, who are you kidding, Cristina? I’m an Indian chick from Strong Island. I was born preoccupied with my so-called future.”
“I’m not talking about your professional future. I’m talking about your personal future. It’s like you’re turning into, well, I hate to say it, but…Pam.”
“Now that’s mean,” I said. “First, you make me feel more pathetic than I already do by reminding me that I haven’t had sex in forever, and now you’re comparing me to her. And come to think of it, you wouldn’t give her any crap if she was being set up with a nice Jewish lawyer by her parents.”
“You know you don’t want to get me started on Pam.”
“Agreed.” I sighed as we slowed to a halt by the curb outside the Waldorf Astoria. A uniformed doorman sped over and reached toward the door handle. “In fact, I don’t want to get you started on anything at the moment because my chariot has pulled up to the ball. Passionate Princes are a fairy tale, Cristy, but a Practical Prince will suit me fine.”
2
Red rose petals littered golden tablecloths. Gleaming china settings and generous floral arrangements adorned each table. The air was delicately scented. Votives flickered on every surface, fading in comparison to the luster of the many rubies, emeralds and diamonds gliding around the ballroom. Waiters circled the tables while craning their necks to scan the room of the three hundred guests; the servers were determined not to leave any glass unfilled, any mouth unstuffed or any whim unattended. Toddlers peeked from behind the saris of young mothers, while older women sought potential daughters-and sons-in-law. Elders leaned back in their chairs, appreciating how their familiar chai seemed sweeter, and their familiar aches seemed duller in the face of so much life.
By ten p.m., there was no sign of Prakash. I speared a soggy Rasgulla with my fork and lifted the cheese-patty toward my mouth, while glaring daggers across Table 21.
“Certainly I miss living with Mummy and Papa in Delhi,” Cousin Neha gushed at our tableful of captivated parents.
Nearly all of their Americanized children had run as amok as I—moving into Manhattan apartments alone, while refusing to acknowledge “thirty and single” as a hopeless disease.
“Those three years after college and before my marriage were wonderful, really,” Neha continued, “I used to enjoy myself, having dinner and going to the cinema with my friends on the weekends. But Stamford, Connecticut, is also quite nice, although it is a
