Gold Diggers, Sanjena Sathian [hardest books to read .txt] 📗

I parked . . . aisle C, row 32, memorize it . . . All around me were brides and their mothers and their cousins and their friends. “Mehendi, you do, I’ll talk to caterers . . .” “Why does he want a horse like some flashy-splashy Punjabi?” “Ankit did his baraat in one Rolls-Royce; these days everything is very post-horse.”

I located Prachi in the doorway. Around her neck hung a hot pink lanyard and a laminated card announcing kiss me, i’m a bride! She twirled it so I could see the back. Fat green bubble letters stacked to form the shape of a wedding cake: prizes prizes prizes! win free trip to india. win couples cruise to bahama’s.

“I can’t believe Anita works here,” my sister said.

“She doesn’t work here. She’s just doing some freelance stuff between jobs. But we should find her at some point.”

We passed through the metal detectors. A single chubby guard was half-heartedly scanning women whose jewelry, belts, shoes, and multiple electronic devices kept setting off the alarms. “Keep it moving, keep it moving,” he intoned, unconcerned.

I took out my phone, seeing that I had few bars and shoddy 4G once inside. I assumed Anita’s Wi-Fi interferers were already at work. Chidi had helped us choose and test them at our house, and once briefly as we did a lap around the future crime scene. The melee would also serve as neat cover. This place was (ironically, despite the demography of the expo) not equipped for tech support. A failure would be difficult to amend.

“I’m surprised you wanted to come, little brother.” Prachi pulled me in for a hug.

I flushed, afraid that when she released me she might see my shadow of shame. I looked away from her, over at a cluster of flat-chested prepubescent girls practicing a sangeet-ready Bollywood routine, bony hips popping. “Don’t go shimmying the booty on ‘Sheila ki Jawani,’” one scolded. “It’s on ‘I’m too sexy for you!’”

We wandered for the first thirty minutes, gazing upon the carnival, Prachi with wide eyes that were somehow moved. I recalled that she’d believed in the promise of the Miss Teen India crown, too, believed that a room full of desis fetishizing a culturally commodified India together could access some truth about what it meant to be both Indian and, like, American.

“Wouldn’t you groomsmen look wonderful in that pistachio color? Oh, yuck, look, up close it’s sort of more vomit-green . . . Neil, duck, that’s Gayathri, Renuka Auntie’s daughter, and we didn’t send them a save-the-date. . . .” Someone in full whiteface sobbed at a makeover counter. “All the foundations, they’re making me look like a freaking ghost.”

A food court on the second floor gave brides the opportunity to sample the samosas and paneer that would inevitably end up on their wedding menus. (Prachi: “Hey, do you think someone would do collard green pakoras?”) A runway show was scheduled on the third floor at noon. (Prachi: “You’re kidding me—Bubu Mirani? Manish Motilal? Monika Dongre?”) A fashion show, followed by a raffle—the raffle—at four. (Prachi, unbidden, pulling a ticket from a dispenser: “Let’s not miss that!”)

In the mix was a DJ booth manned each hour by a new spinner; notepads were extracted from purses and people listened, seeking the right mix of Pitbull and Pritam. We stopped so Prachi could swoon at one bearded artiste—DJ Jai Zee—wearing dark gas-station-quality sunglasses and beating an enormous dhol.

I was finding it hard to breathe. The smell of baby powder and rose-water perfumes mingled with something deep-frying in the food court. Above us, the sun peeked through, throwing rhomboid patches of light on an Indian flag dangling from one of the beams.

I had the last of my summer’s coke supply in my pocket. I hadn’t touched the stuff since before things had begun with Anita, and I hadn’t made up my mind about whether I wanted to make use of it today. But I was weighing what that bump or two could bring me. I shoved my hand in my pocket. Help was just a trip to the bathroom away.

•   •   •

Prachi and I disembarked from the escalator on the third floor to find Anita power-stomping through a swarm of photographers. Girls posed in front of white backdrops. (“Toss your dupatta, now, it’s your wedding day, best damn day of your life, that’s it.”) Wearing a black pencil skirt and blazer and a black almost-pleather top, Anita looked like a candle wax, whip-wielding dominatrix. I was not opposed to the sartorial choices. She waved a walkie-talkie.

“Guess who demanded a location switch-up at the last second,” she said through clenched teeth. “The photographers wanted to be near the retail people, so girls could have their ‘pics snapped.’” (Air quotes, demarcating the fobby phrasing.) “Oh gosh, hi, Prachi.”

The former pageant rivals hugged.

Prachi glanced curiously at a square-jawed photographer cleaning his lens in front of a banner reading raja rani photos: be royalty on your special day. Behind him, so many people’s special days collaged on top of one another. Dark brown eyes and richly hennaed hands stroking bearded jawlines.

“Ooh, I’d love a photo.” My sister pointed.

Something sputtered on Anita’s walkie-talkie.

“Linda?” Anita pressed her lips to the speaker. “All good?”

“Ooh, honey!” came the voice. “Just playing around! These are so new . . .”

Anita lowered the device and rolled her eyes. “This event liaison I have to coordinate with from the convention center is a moron; anyway, I tried to leave her with the interns . . .”

“The raffle?” I reminded Prachi.

“Yes, have you got your ticket?” Anita said. “You don’t want to miss that.”

“I think so . . .” Prachi dug in her purse, then pulled out the ticket with her left hand, which allowed Anita to squeal: “Oh, my god—can I see the ring?” She gripped my sister’s palm gleefully, staring at the ticket rather than the conflict-free diamond, memorizing the fated-to-win numbers. “It’s elegant; he did well, your man. Hey. I’ll catch you guys in a little, yeah?”

The play, beginning. I had hoped that at this moment my mind would go suddenly clear, my