Page 35 of Red Flags and Rishtas
‘I’ll be back before you know it.’ He was already out the door.
There was no other helper in the shop, so we were left alone to chat. V reached out for the AC remote and lowered the temperature to 16 degrees, flapping the neckline of her cotton kurta to dry the sweat pooling on her chest.
‘Mom is going to flip if I don’t finish this off today,’ she said, taking the soda bottle from me for a sip.
‘How are the outfits coming along for that elaborate wedding?’ I enquired.
‘Don’t ask.’
‘That bad, huh?’ I asked, patting her shoulder lightly.
‘It’s just that this couldn’t have come at a worse time. You know we were just about to relocate,’ she said, stress-gulping the sugary drink she usually stayed away from. ‘The interior decorator also bailed on us.’
‘I’m sure you’ll find another one as soon as you’re done with this project,’ I said, consoling her.
‘No, I don’t think we’re looking. Now Mom wants to do it in-house,’ she said, then added, ‘which means it’ll fall on me.’
Vrinda was a smart girl, and she had a phenomenal eye for fashion. But when it came to channelling those design capabilities into space and architecture, she struggled. Her room, for example, was full of artworks, handicrafts, dreamcatchers and odd mementos from her many travels and adventures. It was like a gallery wall, but instead of being organised into one structure for effect, it was scattered all over – like children’s toys in a community play school.
‘You’ll figure it out,’ I said, hoping I sounded sincere.
‘Actually …’ she said, placing the bottle on the wooden plank we were sitting on, ‘I was hoping you’d do it.’
The door jingled as a customer stepped inside, looking around to find someone to help her. She was carrying at least five huge shopping bags, all from different shops and brands. When no one jumped to assist her, she swiftly turned on her heel and left.
‘Me? I can help you, but I can’t do it all—’
‘Please? You’re so much better at that stuff than me. Plus, you’re always on Pinterest looking up inspiration that you never get to use,’ she said.
‘Hey! I do use them – for my events,’ I said, puffing up my chest.
V cocked her head to one side. ‘Really? When was the last time you designed a space for an event?’
She was right. The designing had gone out the window when we began outsourcing logistics a few years ago. Now my job mostly consisted of supervising the process and managing the guest list. Not that I was complaining – it was way less stressful.
‘I have a job, V. Where am I going to find the time?’ I asked, trying to reason with her.
‘You can just tell me the things you need, and I’ll source them for you on weekdays. And on weekends, you can put it all together,’ she said, and before I could respond, she added, ‘I’ll pay you!’
I stared at her, taken aback.
‘I meant, I don’t expect you to do it for free … it’s a professional, paid project.’
‘Then hire a professional to do it.’ I was cross, and she knew it.
I never liked discussing money with V, not only because we had considerably different financial backgrounds, but also because she couldn’t understand why it bothered me. Like two years ago, when she had turned twenty-five, she wanted to take a girls’ trip to Vietnam. When I told her I didn’t have the fundsfor it, she offered to sponsor me. She didn’t speak to me for two weeks after I turned her down.
It hadn’t always been like this. When we were kids, our differences didn’t take up so much space in our lives. We shared everything. We would swap clothes, lend each other books and video games and even trade our prized Pokémon cards, blurring the lines between what was hers and what was mine. Yet as we got older, things changed. She would spend her summer vacations travelling to Europe and Australia, while I stayed home and waited for her to return. Every birthday, she would shower me with expensive gifts, and on hers, I’d try to overcompensate for my pitiable budget with handmade scrapbooks. Once, during a school fundraiser, she effortlessly sold twice as many raffle tickets as me, tapping into her family’s extensive social network, while I struggled to meet my modest quota. These instances, though seemingly minor, began to serve as constant reminders of the growing gap between us.
‘Come on, at least think about it?’ she said, pleading with her eyes.
I was saved from the pressure of responding when the shopkeeper returned, panting from his journey.
‘Here, shishter. Look at this golden beauty,’ he said, climbing the platform so he could sit in front of us.
V spent a few minutes fussing over the texture of the fabric before finalising her purchase. The bargaining that followed resembled the 2008 Wimbledon final between Rafael Nadal and Roger Federer. In the end, V scored the final point, taking the trophy home.
Outside, we stopped at a sweetcorn stall to pick up a snack. We hadn’t said much to each other since she’d offered to employ me, and I desperately wanted to make the weirdness go away.
