“Would you like a Bhetkilini? Or a Negrui?” the bartender asked with an expression no less serious than a nurse asking if she was allergic to penicillin.
Samara Mansingh frowned and focused really hard on his mouth, as if that would make sense of the question. “What are those?”
The bartender flipped his Viking braid over one shoulder and pointed to a blackboard menu adorned with illustrations of fish. “They’re cocktails,” he replied. “The bride’s late grandmother was Bengali, so today’s signature cocktails are named after her favourite Bengali fish: bhetki and rui. And before you ask” – he rolled his eyes – “there’s no fish, fish scales, fish sauce, or fish oil in the drinks.”
Despite her frustration with this particular event she was photographing in South Delhi, Samara had to smile. “How many times have you been asked that today?”
The bartender’s eye roll became a full-on snort. “Every second guest has asked if the drinks are vegetarian or vegan. One guy actually wanted fish in his drink. Oh, and about a dozen people asked if the gin in the Negrui is organic.” He shook his head. “These weddings are out of control, man.”
Samara had to agree with him – some of these weddings were out of control. Case in point was today’s assignment, a pre-wedding photo shoot for the immediate family and friends of the bride and groom. The hosts had made an occasion out of it, a poolside “Photo Shoot Party” on the rooftop of a five-star hotel. As though the gorgeous pool and expansive view weren’t enough, the surrounding gardens were littered with giant movie-set-like props: an elaborately decorated gazebo, enormous letters spelling out the bride’s and groom’s names, a massive pomander pit that was at least four feet deep, a mechanical rodeo bull, and even a huge statue of Ganesha, complete with an altar for prayer. Samara was one of two on-site photographers, along with a drone photography team, a videography team, an art director, wedding planners, and a passel of hair and makeup artists.
All this was just for the family and friends. The couple had already had a separate photo shoot with a celebrity photographer. Samara hadn’t been hired for that one.
“I’ll just have water, please,” she told the bartender after taking a deep breath. The event had started late, which was pretty standard – absolutely nothing started on time in Delhi – but then it had progressed at a painfully slow pace. Two hours in, many of the guests were drunk, and getting them to pose for photos was an exercise in endurance. Samara took the camera strap off her stiff neck and sipped the ice water the bartender handed her.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and she scooped it out. It was her best friend, Maya, calling from New York. The second she took the call, Maya’s plaintive voice blasted into her ear, “Come back!”
Samara laughed. “What happened?”
Maya launched into what was now a well-worn tirade. “I’m in roommate purgatory! Neel’s stopped washing his dishes, and Sylvia Prat – possibly the most depressing name ever, by the way – keeps leaving her leather and fur thongs soaking in the bathroom sink. I don’t get it. What kind of person spends thousands of dollars to have it all lasered off, only to wear fur on top?”
Samara couldn’t help another laugh. Her bestie was such a writer.
“I’m serious, Sammy,” Maya whined. “When are you coming back?”
Absently stroking her camera on the bar counter, Samara exhaled.
It was a good question, one for which she didn’t have an answer. Yet. “I don’t know, babe.” She’d been camping with her father at his ministry-issued apartment in Delhi for a year now, making the rounds as a high-end wedding photographer after completing her degree in photography at New York University. “I’ve applied for more jobs in the city than I can count, but…nothing so far. Well, at least nothing that’ll pay the bills. There are unpaid internships aplenty. Besides,” she continued, “you won’t believe how much money I’m making photographing weddings here. It’s only November, not even halfway through wedding season, and not only have I already been to Mauritius, Sri Lanka, Thailand, and Dubai, but I got paid in US dollars!”
Silence greeted her exuberant words, the line crackling uncomfortably for a few moments. Then, Maya asked in an accusing voice, “Why does it sound like you’re having fun shooting big fat Indian weddings? You should be miserable, waiting to come back so we can live together, like college.”
“I do want to come back,” replied Samara. “I miss you, miss New York, miss having a social life. Dad’s been really busy, and I literally know no one in Delhi. But,” she said, her voice becoming an apologetic murmur, “Indian weddings aren’t as bad as you –”
“I knew it.” Maya let out a dramatic moan. “I can feel you getting sucked in, Sammy. Fight it! I need you. You’re the yang to my yin. The sweet to my snarky, the Li’l Ms Fix-It to my Cat Lady. Come home!”
Samara let out a sigh. The idea of “home” was important to Maya, who’d grown up in the comfortable predictability of a suburban nuclear family. For Samara, however, home had always been wherever in the world her diplomat father, Dilip Mansingh, had been relocated by the Indian Foreign Service. She’d lived on five of the seven continents by the time she was eighteen. The only constant had been her dad, and suffice it to say, he wasn’t the most involved single parent on the block. Samara had been brought up by a somewhat arbitrary multitude of daycare providers, teachers, neighbours, embassy staff, and parents of friends.
Along with the shadowy void left by a mother who’d died before Samara had gotten a chance to know her.
She cleared her throat and focused on comforting Maya. “I’m coming back, babe. Hang in there. We’ve got plenty of time to take Manhattan together.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes!”
‘Fine. Hurry up!’ Maya huffed. “All right, I’ve got to go fish out bushy underwear from the sink with tweezers so I can brush my teeth. Love you!”
“Love you too!”
Samara ended the call and grabbed her camera, slinging the strap around her neck again. Truth be told, she was having fun – at least part of the time. There were perks beyond the free travel, luxury hotels, and chunky payouts. She turned and scanned the mingling crowd, her eyes zeroing in on one person.
Excerpted with permission from The Grand Samara, Trisha Das, Bloomsbury India.
