A BOLLYWOOD AFFAIR
SONALI DEV
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
For Mama and Papa for living Happily Ever After
A CKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing your first acknowledgments page has to be a lot like giving your first acceptance speech at the Oscars. Youve practiced it in your head so very many times and yet when the moment arrives, its so huge, such a culmination of your dreams, of your immense good fortune, how can you ever articulate it sufficiently?
I would love to say that this book was hard labor, that my path to publication was riddled with sacrifice and tears. But I cant. Writing Samir and Milis story was pure joy, and my path was riddled with the incredible generosity and support of so many people I could never name them all or ever thank them enough. But Im going to try anyway.
First, my incredible husband for knowing exactly how to walk the tightrope between needing me and giving me space to chase my dream and for all that delicious dal, clean laundry, and faith.
My children for being as undemanding as two teenagers can ever be expected to be. If there are other children in the world who say to their mother, You go write. Well make us some ramen noodles, the future of our race is bright indeed.
My parents for never being more than a phone call away from dropping everything and rushing to my aid when I need them.
My best friend for being my sounding board, my springboard, my storyboard, not to mention my periscope into Bollywood. She believed in my writing long before anyone else did and it has been the most priceless of gifts.
My beta reader girls, Rupali, Kalpana, Gaelyn, Robin, India, and Jennifer, for the most insightful reads and for being my champions.
My friends, Advocate Pallavi Divekar, for letting me pick her legal eagle brain on Indian Marriage Laws and Village Panch Councils, and Smita Phaphat for an insiders view into Rajasthani culture. Without them there would be no story.
My sisterhood of writers, who are without a doubt the best part of this business. The AphroditesRobin, Savannah, Cici, India, Clara, CJ, Sarah, Ann Marie, Denise, and Hannafor holding my hand every single day. The Windy City RWA chapter for never letting a plea for help go unanswered. The Chicago North RWA chapter and the Golden Heart Lucky 13s for their unconditional support, and the RWA community at large for being the best example of feminine power in the entire world.
My agent, Jita Fumich, for a million questions answered, and my editor, Martin Biro, for being my Right Time and Place and for leading me through my debut with such kindness, and the entire team at Kensington for making this so very easy.
And lastly and most importantly to each and every one of you for taking the time to read my words, to you I owe my deepest thanks. Without you all these people would have supported me in vain.
PROLOGUE
A sea of wedding altars stretched across the desert sands and disappeared into the horizon. The celebratory wail of shehnai flutes piped from speakers and fought the buzz of a thousand voices for attention. Hundreds of red-and-gold-draped children sat scattered like confetti around auspicious fires ready to chant their vows. The Akha Teej mass wedding ceremony was in full swing under the blistering Rajasthan sun.
Lata surveyed the scene from the very edge of the chaos. Her father-in-law had pulled some hefty strings to obtain this most coveted corner spot, where it shouldve been relatively quiet. Only it wasnt, thanks to her sons chubby-cheeked bride, who bawled so loudly Lata couldnt decide if she wanted to slap the childs face or pull her close. What kind of girl-child cried like that? As though she had the right to be heard?
Latas older son, the twelve-year-old groom, spared one disinterested glance at his brides ruckus before strolling off to explore the festivities. Latas younger son twisted restlessly by her side. Even hiding in the folds of her sari, his foreign whiteness made him stand out like a beacon against the sea of toasted brown skin and jet-black hair. Unlike his older brother, he couldnt seem to bring himself to look away from the crying bride.
Finally, unable to contain himself any longer, he reached out and gave her fabric-draped head a reassuring pat. She whipped around, her wet baby eyes so round with hope Latas heart cramped in her chest. The gold-rimmed bridal veil slipped off her baby head, revealing a mass of ebony curls forced into pigtails. The boy tugged the veil back in place. But before he could finish, the girl lunged at him, grabbing her newfound ally as if he were a tree in a sandstorm, and went back to wailing with intensified fervor. Her huge kohl-lined eyes squeezed rivers down her cheeks. Her dimpled fingers dug valleys into his arm. Her soon-to-be brother-in-law winced but he didnt pull away.
You whoreson! Latas father-in-law shouted over the bawling girl. Hed just finished up the wedding negotiations and he turned to the boy with such rage in his bushy browed gaze that Lata rushed forward to shield him. But she wasnt quick enough. The old man drew back his arm and slapped the boys head so hard he stumbled forward, finding his balance only because the tiny bride gripped him with all her might.
Get your filthy hands off her! The boys grandfather yanked the girl away. Get him out of here, he hissed at Lata, spittle spraying from his handlebar mustache like venom. Ten years old and already grabbing for his brothers wife. White bastard.
Anger ignited the gold in the boys eyes and swam in his unshed tears. Lata squeezed him to her belly and pressed her palm to his ear. He fisted her widows white in both hands, his skinny body trembling with the effort to hold in the tears. The girls gaze clung to them even as the old man dragged her away. Her chest continued to hiccup with sobs but she no longer screamed.
Why does Bhais bride cry, Baiji? the boy whispered against Latas belly, his Hindi so pure no one would know hed spoken it for but a few years.
Lata kissed his soft golden head. It was all the answer she would give him. She could hardly tell him it was because the child had been born a girl, destined from birth to be bound and gagged, to never be free. And she seemed to have sensed it far sooner than most. Sadly, the poor fool seemed to believe that she could actually do something about it.
A ll Mili had ever wanted was to be a good wife. A domestic goddess-slash-worlds-wife-number-one-type good wife. The kind of wife her husband pined for all day long. The kind of wife he rushed home to every night because shed make them a home so very beautiful even those TV serial homes would seem like plastic replicas. A home filled with love and laughter and the aroma of perfectly spiced food, which she would serve out of spotless stainless steel vessels, dressed in simple yet elegant clothes while making funny yet smart conversation. Because when she put her mind to it she really could dress all tip-top. As for her smart opinions? Well, she did know when to express them, no matter what her grandmother said.
Professor Tiwari had even called her uniquely insightful in his letter of recommendation. God bless the man; hed coaxed her to pursue higher education, and even Mahatma Gandhi himself had said an educated woman made a better wife and mother. So here she was, with the blessings of her teacher and Gandhiji, melting into the baking pavement outside the American Consulate in Mumbai, waiting in line to get her visa so she could get on with said higher education.
