My So-Called Bollywood Life(6)

“Wait, pitfalls?” Her mind raced with everything that could go wrong. Everyone at school could turn on her for crushing Raj’s heart, even though he was the one who cheated. The film festival could be a horror show. If they made enough money at the fund-raiser dance to even have a festival.

Or worse. She might not get into NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts. She’d be stuck going to a local school where she had to be a theater major and commute from home instead of dorming.

Nope. Not happening.

“Don’t tell me—I’m not interested.” Winnie scrubbed her hands over her face. She couldn’t get herself wrapped up in Pandit Ohmi’s storytelling. She needed to do her thing and ignore the Hindu stuff.

Pandit Ohmi laughed. “Sometimes ignorance truly is bliss.”

    “Thanks for the tip, but all I’m asking is that you stop telling Mom about the prophecy.”

“Take care of yourself, Vaneeta Mehta. Say hello to your parents for me.”

Winnie closed the v-chat window. She shouldn’t care.

Before she could get up and get ready for bed, her phone vibrated.

“Hi, Nani,” she said when she answered.

Her grandmother’s nose filled the screen. “Hi, beta,” she shouted. The Hindi word for “child.”

“Nani, first, you’re calling from Long Island, not India. I can hear you just fine. Second, the phone is too close.”

Nani pulled the phone away. Her shining face was creased with very few wrinkles for a woman in her late sixties. Her hair was streaked with orange from the henna she used to dye the few gray strands, and she wore what looked like a velvet tracksuit.

“Is this better?” she said, still yelling.

Winnie grinned. “It’s fine. I miss you.”

Nani lifted a copper tumbler to her lips before responding. “I miss my baby, too. Why don’t you call me more?”

“I talked to you last week.”

“Too long ago,” she said in Hindi. She switched to Punjabi and added, “What is happening in your life? How is this boy, Raj?”

Switching between languages was common practice for Winnie, but she almost always spoke English with her parents. Probably because they tended to make fun of her accent. But with her grandmother she could say whatever she wanted in whatever language she wanted to use while she butchered her grammar. Nani was her safe space. Always.

    “Raj and I are not one with each other,” Winnie said in broken Punjabi. She then explained what had happened and how she’d asked Pandit Ohmi to stop with the prophecy talk. Nani listened, humming occasionally in agreement, until Winnie finished.

“I know you don’t like to hear it, but maybe Pandit Ohmi is right. Your destiny hasn’t changed, and Raj will stop being a bewakoof idiot boy.”

Winnie held the phone above her head. “I don’t know, Nani. I’m thinking I should focus on this film festival that my club is hosting. I’m still mad about the way Raj broke things off, but it’s time to look toward my future. I’m done with romance.”

Nani snorted. “You’re Indian! We live for romance. And when there is romance, there is passion. Where is your sense of passion right now, beta? Without both romance and passion, you’ll be as boring as Raj’s mother.”

“Nani!”

“What? I’ve met her. She’s boring.”

Winnie laughed. “I may love rom-coms, Nani, and I’m definitely passionate about film school, but I’m also aware that star charts aren’t the answer to everything.”

    “And yet those star charts led me to your nana and connected your parents.”

“Luck. There is also such a thing as luck.”

Nani narrowed her eyes. “You sound like you are trying to convince yourself of something you don’t believe. I think I need to come there and smack some sense into you.”

“You should! It’s been so long since you’ve visited. What are you drinking, by the way? Mango lassi?”

Nani looked down at her cup and then up at the screen. “Oh, look at the time. I better go. Bye, beta. Love you!”

Winnie laughed. “Love you, too, Nani.” She hung up and flopped on the bed. Even her grandmother, her staunchest supporter, couldn’t see things her way. Or maybe she was having a hard time convincing other people that her star chart was wrong because she couldn’t really convince herself.



* * *



—

In her dream, Winnie ran through the fields in a pink gown with lace sleeves. Her hair was crowned with fake white flowers and a long lace veil. She could smell the sunshine and feel the spongy grass under her feet as she traveled up the gentle slope of a hill.

Winnie knew that someone was waiting for her at the top. Anticipation pumped through her, which only spurred her to quicken her pace. The train of her dress trailed behind her, and the jewel-encrusted sandals were fashionable yet functional enough for heroine field running.

    In the distance, mountains rolled into a blue sea. She scanned the horizon, and that’s when she saw him. He wore black pants, a black billowing shirt, a cape, a wide-brimmed hat, and a Zorro mask.

He spun, arms outstretched.

“Shah Rukh Khan from Baazigar?” Winnie said, jaw dropping. “Is that you?” Her voice traveled over the green fields and across the cliffs.