38
‘Which one should I wear?’ Ananya’s mother asked, sitting on the king-size bed
of the cottage we had converted into a greenroom. The make-up artists, sound
engineers and the staff of Hariharan and S.P. had already arrived. The main
singers would come only at the last minute. However, Radha had come early and
laid out three Kanjeevaram silk saris for me to choose from.
‘They are all beautiful,’ I said.
The first was purple and gold, the second yellow and gold and the third orange
and gold.
‘Touch-up, madam?’ the make-up man came towards Ananya’s mother.
‘I should leave the room,’ I said. Even though we had half a dozen people
around, I felt awkward watching my potential mother-in-law applying mascara.
‘I’m so tense, I can’t choose,’ she said, wiping sweat off her forehead.
The make-up man applied foundation on Ananya’s mother’s cheeks. I tried not
to look.
‘Take the orange, nice and bright.’
‘That’s my wedding sari. I’ve hardly worn it since that day.’
‘Tonight’s quite special, too.’
The make-up man sprayed water on her forehead and wiped it.
‘I’ll be outside. I’ll see you on stage.’
She closed her eyes and folded her hands to pray.
I came outside and checked the food arrangements. I called Ananya at six to
make sure they left on time.
‘You are going to kill me,’ Ananya said.
‘Why?’ I said.
‘Mom is not coming.’
‘Why?’ I said, careful to sound upset.