Priya Malhotra readjusted her grip on the small, nondescript suitcase she carried as she climbed the steep staircase to the Ambika Pillai Designer Beauty Salon. As she made her way up the stairs, she tried to shake off her annoyance at her paternal uncle who’d dropped her at the first floor entrance of the narrow building in the residential Panchsheel Enclave neighborhood of New Delhi. They’d arrived at the chic salon just as the sun had begun to set.
“Are you sure you’ll be okay, Priya?”
“I’ll be fine, Cha-Cha. The salon is right there, and I’m a big girl.”
“I know, but things are different here than in the States. I just want to make sure you’ll be fine.”
In the fading light of day, Priya spent the next 10 minutes fighting her increasing irritation as she reassured her uncle she would be fine.
Why do people assume that just because we’re from the U.S. we don’t know how to handle ourselves? I mean, come on, we’re in India, not on a different planet.
Finally she managed to convince her uncle that, yes, she could manage going upstairs, she didn’t need help, and he should feel comfortable to go home for the couple of hours it would take her to get ready for the wedding.
The wedding. As Priya reached the top of the staircase and approached the glass door, she shook off the exasperation she felt at her relatives’ insistence to be over-protective of her and her siblings in India. Her smile returned, and suddenly she felt her cheeks flush. It was hard to believe she was getting married later that evening.
The décor of the salon distracted her from thoughts of the day’s coming events. Despite India’s rapid advancements in the last decade, Priya couldn’t help feeling surprised when she saw something that rivaled—or bettered—facilities in the States. It bewildered her and made her proud to be Indian all the same.
Before approaching the front desk, Priya took a minute to look around. An interior designer had derived the color palette of the salon from a family of grays and blues, with the occasional shock of red or orange thrown in to break the monotony. Abstract paintings hung on the walls in an attempt to convey a contemporary, hip mood. Women with hair pulled back in low buns and dressed in black smocks, black tights, and black shoes power-walked from one station to another; their white name tags provided the only interruption of the color in their attire.
Although she was supposed to be the confident NRI bride, Priya didn’t necessarily feel the “confident” part. And while she couldn’t distinguish this salon from any other salon back home, she still felt very much the “non-resident Indian,” one who carried the heritage of the country without actually living there. Even with the experience of living alone and managing her life without anyone’s help, somehow visiting India gave Priya reason to pause in what would be normal, everyday activities back in the States.
“Good evening, welcome to Ambika. May I help you?”
Priya took a deep breath to get a hold of herself and smiled politely at the receptionist, who was dressed in a black uniform matching her colleagues.
“Hi. My name is Priya Malhotra. I have an appointment with Ambika?”
The receptionist frowned at the questioning lilt in Priya’s voice but ran her finger down her log book opened to that day’s appointments. After a few moments the frown smoothed out.
“Yes, ma’am. Please sign here. That will be 15,000 Rupees.”
Priya winced at the price, even though she’d known beforehand how much she would have to pay for her hair and bridal makeup. She and her mother had gone around in circles, but in the end her mother had won the argument. Priya was the first child in her immediate family to get married, and her mother wanted her to look her best. Her best meant going to Ambika and paying Ambika’s prices. Priya would have been content to get her makeup done by the hair-and-makeup team that would take care of her sister, mother, and other female relatives back at the resort where everyone was staying, but, no. Ambika, her mother said, was the only one who could do the job right.
The receptionist handed Priya a key and directed her to the location of the lockers in the main dressing room. Priya walked slowly, absorbing the controlled frenzy. Several girls had arrived before her and were in various stages of dressing in their wedding outfits. She stepped carefully around the puddles of brocade and crepe de chine and chiffon that pooled on the floor in various reds, maroons, and pinks.
Priya found the lockers on a wall perpendicular to a wall of mirrors. As she placed her suitcase inside one locker, she stopped for a minute and in the mirror watched all the other brides getting dressed. Some looked haughty, others nervous, and one girl looked so forlorn Priya had the irresistible urge to go give her a hug and try to cheer her up. After all, it was their wedding day. They were supposed to be happy, blushing brides.
Their wedding day. Suddenly Priya felt a subtle connection all the girls in the room. They didn’t know each other and would never see one another again, but for the rest of their marriages they would all share an anniversary. The thought of that made Priya smile again and she examined the scene a little more closely, trying to see it in the camera lens in her mind and wondering whether she could possibly ever come up with something onscreen as compelling as the stories unfolding before her in real life.
After watching for another moment, Priya went back to the receptionist with only her locker key in hand. The receptionist directed her to a waiting area where another girl was leafing through a magazine. As Priya sat down one seat away from her, the girl looked up.
“Hello,” she said with a sweet smile.
“Hi,” Priya replied with a smile of her own.
“Yeah,” Priya said. “You too?”
“Yes. My name is Richa, by the way.”
Priya held out a hand. “I’m Priya. Congratulations.”
“Same to you.” Richa paused. “You’re American, aren’t you?”
This time Priya’s smile was derived from amusement. “Is it that obvious?”
Richa smiled kindly. “It kind of is. Is your fiancé from India?”
“Why do you ask?”
Richa shook her head. “No, it’s just that I’m surprised you would come all the way to India to have a wedding. I mean, if he wasn’t from India, it would make more sense for you to get married in the States, right?”
Priya shrugged. “Most of my extended family is here in India, and I really wanted them to be a part of my wedding. And no matter how hard you try, you really don’t get that same feel for an Indian wedding in the U.S.”
This time Richa nodded. “I see. Is yours arranged?”
“Yes. Well, no, not really. I don’t—” Priya paused. “I don’t really know.”
Richa chuckled, and Priya joined her.
“It’s kind of complicated.”
“Why is it that NRIs like to make things complicated?” Richa commented. “It’s arranged, but it’s not, and then you’re not sure.”
Priya felt a flash of annoyance at the girl’s remark, but she knew the perception had some roots of truth to it.
“It’s kind of a long story,” Priya said nonchalantly.
Richa sensed something.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound rude. Please, do share your story with me.”
Priya was surprised at Richa’s quick apology and even more surprised that she was placated by it.
Must be this whole wedding spirit, she thought, smiling again to herself.
“Well, I wouldn’t really know where to start,” Priya began, but a popular Bollywood ringtone jangled from Richa’s pocket and cut Priya off.
“Just a second,” Richa said, fishing the cell phone from her pocket.
“Hello? Hi, Ravi. Yes, I’m at the salon…No, baba, don’t be silly…I won’t be late…Where would I go without you?…Fine…Theek hai…Chalo, I’ll see you later, okay?…Love you!”
“My fiancé,” Richa explained, pressing a button to end the call. “We met in college, and he proposed to me last year. He didn’t mind waiting to finish college to get married, but today he’s called me so many times!”
“He probably can’t wait for the honeymoon to start,” Priya commented idly, then instantly bit her tongue, afraid she’d offended Richa. In her experience people in India didn’t generally make such obvious references to their sex lives.
Richa grinned, surprising Priya. “You’re probably right. You know how these men are!”
Priya masked her shock at how easily this girl accepted such an American comment. It had been almost four years since her last visit to the Asian subcontinent. Maybe India had changed more than she realized.
“So, you were going to tell me about your fiancé.”
Priya opened her mouth and was interrupted a second time when the receptionist came to inform both girls that their hair stylists were ready for them. Priya followed Richa, and just before entering the hair styling section of the salon she caught sight of a list on the wall. She saw her name and Richa’s names on the list, as well as the names of several other girls. Eight girls had already been there before them, and nine were scheduled to come after. Priya shook her head in amazement, that sense of camaraderie enveloping her again as she continued to the salon chair pointed out to her.
Richa sat in the chair next to hers, her long black hair tumbling in beautiful straight layers down her back. She smiled expectantly at Priya in the mirror as Priya sat down.
Priya shrugged. “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
The girls paused their conversation yet again when their hair stylists introduced themselves and promptly began their own conversation as they started organizing combs, brushes, curling and straightening irons, and hundreds of bobby pins.
“Come on,” Richa urged. “I told you how Ravi and I met. We certainly didn’t have a filmi love story, but if you’re saying yours is ‘complicated,’ it’s definitely got to be interesting.”
Ravi. The name stuck out in Priya’s mind as she thought of someone she knew by that name. How could she have forgotten about him? His visit had been the first of its kind in her life, the one that had sparked the embargo and everything else that followed. Did that Ravi know what he’d started when he came to visit her almost two years earlier?
“Okay,” Priya said finally.
And with that, she began her story.
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