The Sari Shop Widow Read online

  Anjali stared wide-eyed at her uncle. This was unexpected. The old Jeevan would have had a minor fit if he was given something that didn’t meet his stringent requirements. Her mother, too, was looking strangely at him. The man had changed. Maybe her dad was right. Perhaps Jeevan wasn’t as rigid as he used to be. Was age catching up with him?

  But in the next moment the supposition was tossed out. “Usha. I hope you did not put coconut in my lunch,” he said.

  Usha bit her lower lip. “Oh dear, I sprinkled it over the khaman,” she said, referring to the little square steamed cakes made of ground chickpeas, green chili peppers, and ginger, and then garnished with roasted mustard seeds, grated coconut, and fresh coriander.

  “Tsk-tsk,” clucked her uncle. “Coconut is giving me intestinal problems lately.”

  “I’ll make sure to brush the coconut off your khaman,” assured Usha. It seemed to ease Jeevan’s concerns for the moment.

  Once the drinks were finished, the talk turned purely to business. In that respect, the old Jeevan-kaka was still the same. He ate, slept, breathed, and dreamed business. He owned a cloth mill, a chain of food stores, clothing shops, a dairy farm, and his latest acquisition, a hotel in Ahmedabad.

  “So, let us discuss your store problem now. What exactly is wrong?” Jeevan finished the last of his milk, then settled back in the chair with his hands clasped over his middle. He looked like a rural judge about to hear a case and hand down a verdict.

  And a verdict it would be, Anjali reflected. He loved analyzing business data and diagnosing problems. Troubleshooting was his forte. She wasn’t sure how the other, younger guy fit into all of this. Was he going to bulldoze into their store like her uncle surely would, and dictate to them?

  She turned her attention to the conversation. Her father explained the situation in great detail to the two men.

  Jeevan-kaka gestured toward Shah. “Rishi is a genius in solving business problems. He has an MBA from Oxford University and he specializes in saving failing businesses. He goes to different parts of Asia and Europe for doing this type of consulting work. He knows everything.”

  Mohan turned to Shah with what bordered on surprised delight. “That is impressive, Rishi. We should consider ourselves lucky to have your advice.”

  “Extremely lucky,” chirped Jeevan-kaka. “For outsiders he charges big consulting fees, but for family it is free.” He looked pleased with himself.

  So Rishi Shah was offering them free business advice? Why? But then, he was probably going to stay with them for a long time, so it wasn’t really free advice. They’d be giving him room and board in return. But God knew what his going rate was.

  What surprised Anjali was her mother’s expression. Despite her earlier resentment, she too was smiling a bit. It was probably the word free that did it. “How did you and Jeevan-bhai hook up with each other, Mr. Shah?”

  Shah cracked the first real smile of the day. His gray eyes lost their iciness and thawed somewhat. “Jeevan-kaka has known me all my life. I’m fortunate to be his partner, Mrs. Kapadia. He has taught me most everything I know.”

  Mohan laughed. “Rishi, we’re quite informal around here. Don’t call us Mr. and Mrs. Kapadia. And there’s no need to address me as sir, either.”

  “Uncle Mohan and Auntie Usha will do fine, if it’s okay with you,” added Usha.

  Finishing the last of his soda, Shah nodded. “Uncle and Auntie, then.” He rose to his feet. “I’d like to freshen up a bit if it’s all right with you folks. Maybe we can see the store after that?” He glanced questioningly at Jeevan, and got a nod from the older man.

  Anjali’s father jumped to his feet to help Shah carry the suitcases upstairs and get the two guests settled. “Jeevan-bhai, you will take the guest room and Rishi can have Nilesh’s room.”

  “But I’d hate to impose, Uncle,” said Shah in a mild protest. “I’ll be happy to sleep on your settee.”

  “Oh, no, beta, Nilesh can sleep in the basement,” insisted her father.

  Anjali glanced at the men’s backs as they went up the stairs, then turned to her mother. “You and Dad just gave away Nilesh’s room to a stranger. Poor Nilesh is at school at the moment and doesn’t even have a chance to say anything about it.”

  “That’s the Indian way, Anju. We always honor a guest in our home.” Usha brushed off Anjali’s concerns. “I’m sure Nilesh won’t mind.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure about that.” Anjali bent down to pick up the empty cups. This was typical Indian hospitality and no matter what her thoughts on the subject, no one was going to pay any attention to her. Her brother would be relegated to the basement.

  She washed the cups and glanced at her mother. “Mom, did you notice how the Shah guy said Jeevan-kaka’s known him all his life but he avoided saying how they became a team?”

  “He’s very clever, isn’t he, like a politician? But he seems like a nice, well-mannered young man.” Usha inclined her head upward. “Let’s give the men a few minutes to get settled. Then we better get ready to take them to the store. Jeevan-bhai’s dying to see it, I’m sure.”

  “You go ahead, Mom. I’ll be up in a little bit.” Anjali needed a moment to catch her breath. All of a sudden the house felt crowded. She wasn’t likely to have much solitude for some time to come.

  After several minutes of brooding she headed upstairs to her room to get changed. She couldn’t wait to get out of the shapeless salwar-kameez and into a pair of slacks and a shirt. If Jeevan-kaka had a problem with her American wardrobe, so be it. And if he was going to be a long-term guest, he’d have to get used to seeing her in her usual clothes.

  In the hallway outside her room, she came across Rishi Shah as he stepped out of Nilesh’s room, looking a lot less travel-weary. His wide shoulders seemed to take up the width of the hallway. “I beg your pardon, Miss Kapadia,” he murmured and stood aside to let her pass.

  Anjali noticed his crisp white linen shirt and elegant dove gray trousers. His nearly black hair was neatly combed and his face looked freshly shaved. She got a whiff of his aftershave. It was masculine and pleasant.

  She quickly stepped into her room and shut the door. Miss Kapadia? The last time someone had called her that, she was an undergrad. And the man who’d used that handle was an old man who wore a bow tie and tweeds.

  So, how long did Rishi Shah plan to stay with them?

  Chapter 4

  Anjali prepared herself for the ride to the store. They piled into her father’s van, which was generally used for hauling merchandise and such to and from the store, but when they had company, it served as a passenger vehicle.

  Jeevan sat in the front, next to his brother, while Anjali, her mother, and Shah got into the backseat, with her mother sandwiched between Shah and herself. Shah’s long legs looked crowded in the small space.

  It was typical New Jersey weather in late spring—hovering on hot and just turning humid. The earlier cloud cover had parted, giving way to sunshine. Despite the air-conditioning going full blast, the cramped ten-minute ride felt sticky and long.

  She was also seething about her uncle’s remark. “Anju, what kind of clothes are you wearing?” he’d asked. “Why did you change from salwar-kameez to pants?”

  “This is typical American attire, Jeevan-kaka,” she’d replied. “Most women my age wear clothes like these.” All she had on was a simple navy silk shirt and ecru slacks. What was wrong with that? After her brusque response she’d braced herself for a scathing comeback from her uncle.

  Instead Jeevan had stunned them all once again when he’d laughed and patted her head. “Young lady, you have become very naughty lately or what?”

  She’d let that one go with a smile.

  Jeevan had some comments about how much the neighborhood had changed since his last visit. “Oh, how many Desi restaurants do you have here, Mohan? This is so pukka Mumbai and Ahmedabad.” His eyes went wide at the number of clothing stores that had sprung up within the last couple of years. “
So many sari shops!”

  “That’s precisely our problem, Jeevan-bhai,” Usha said to him. “Excessive competition.”

  Shah was quietly surveying the neighborhood, his eyes hidden behind super-dark sunglasses. Anjali was curious to know how he viewed this ethnic landscape that looked like a piece of India transplanted into the United States. How did it compare with the Desi neighborhoods in London and other cities?

  They parked behind the store as usual. While the rest of them went toward the back door, Anjali noticed Shah stayed by the van. Ignoring the door held open by her father, he crossed the parking lot instead, and sauntered up to the sidewalk. Then he stood with his hands in his trouser pockets to study Silk & Sapphires’ storefront, or at least that’s what it looked like from the angle of his head. From his posture she could tell he was looking critically at the display, the store sign, just about everything.

  He didn’t look impressed.

  Well, she wouldn’t let that bother her. She couldn’t put stock in what some stranger who had arrived in New Jersey less than two hours ago thought about her boutique.

  Jeevan-kaka, after waiting impatiently at the door for Shah, gave up and crossed the street to join him. Anjali and her parents went inside the store and left the two men to their devices.

  Immediately Anjali crossed the length of the store and gravitated toward the glass panel in the front door to observe the men outside. The two of them started to gesture and talk. Shah had to bend his head low to be on a level with her uncle’s.

  She couldn’t hear a word of their conversation, but she could imagine what it was. They were probably analyzing her store bit by bit and wondering how they could transform it, or worse, make it theirs. Her uncle acquired businesses at about the same frequency he bought underwear.

  The thought sent a mild tremor of alarm through her. She’d have to find some way to keep what was hers.

  Her father interrupted her thoughts. “Can you unlock the front door, Anju? They can come inside that way instead of walking all the way to the back.”

  “Sure, Dad.” She unlocked the front door and watched her father head directly to the back office, probably to pull out the financial reports for his brother’s review.

  Then she got busy tidying up the shop. Hastily she stowed away the empty sari carton she had left behind the previous night. She picked up the odds and ends she and her parents had inadvertently left here and there and shoved all the items into the appropriate drawers behind the cash register.

  It was a good thing today was Monday and the store was officially closed. At least they didn’t have to worry about customers in addition to giving Jeevan-kaka and Shah the grand tour. From all indications her uncle’s inspection was already getting off to a bad start. She glanced out the window again and found the two men still standing in the same spot, deep in discussion.

  Her mother came up behind her, took a peek outside, and shook her head. “I don’t know what those two are doing out there. Let’s make sure everything is neat before they come in.”

  Anjali shot her mother a reassuring look. “I took care of it. I haven’t had a chance to look at the back rooms, though.”

  “Then let’s get to it.”

  In five minutes flat the women had the two small fitting rooms and the restroom looking as neat as they could manage. Anjali observed her father sitting at the computer, furiously clicking away, a slight frown on his face. The laser printer on the desk was spitting out page after page of reports. Despite his earlier elation at having his brother here, her father now seemed just as nervous as Anjali and her mother.

  A moment later the security bell attached to the front door chimed, announcing the arrival of Jeevan and Shah. Anjali heard them talking.

  “But what if that fellow refuses to sell, Rishi?” her uncle asked.

  “We’ll offer him a fair price. No one refuses a good offer.” Anjali heard cool confidence in Shah’s voice. “You know that as well as I.”

  And what exactly did that mean, she wondered? Offer someone a fair price? All of a sudden her stomach lurched. Was Shah talking about her father? Were her uncle and Shah planning to buy the boutique from them? But then her uncle had mentioned some fellow.

  Meaning to question them about their intentions, Anjali stepped out of the office and onto the sales floor. She came to a standstill when she noticed the men stopping at one of the displays. They were studying it carefully. It was a bride-and-groom duo of mannequins sporting Anjali’s latest bridal wear. She had the mannequins posing under a wedding mandap—the ceremonial Hindu marriage canopy.

  The bride was dressed in traditional red and gold, with a chunni over her head, but the dress was designed somewhat like an American bridal gown, with slightly puffed sleeves and a low neckline that showed a hint of cleavage and showcased the ruby-and-pearl necklace to perfection. The groom wore a cream silk, tuxedo-style jacket over matching trousers paired with cream and gold hand-sewn mojdis, the traditional formal shoes.

  Anjali was particularly proud of those designs. She’d had at least three bridal couples who’d fallen in love with that display and ordered similar outfits in recent months.

  Itching to hear the men’s comments, she hid behind one of the tall clothing racks to eavesdrop on their conversation. From her vantage point she could just about see their profiles.

  Shah had his dark glasses hooked over his shirt pocket. He touched the embroidered sleeve on the bride’s outfit. “This is good, Jeevan-kaka, elegant…clever.”

  “All designed by our Anju, Rishi. She is very talented in these things, you know.”

  A brief smile touched Anjali’s face at the warm pride in Jeevan-kaka’s voice. She had to admit that despite his cantankerous ways, he was genuinely fond of his nieces and nephews. He was a true family man.

  “I can see that,” said Shah. “Everything here is quite impressive. But design and display are not the problem, are they? We have to come up with a plan to expand this into something that’s even better, a more one-stop, one-of-a-kind type of store. Right now it appears to be competing with a dozen or more stores that do more or less similar things and sell similar products.”

  Anjali nearly gave herself away by gasping. Do similar things and sell similar products? Hardly! There was no comparison between her boutique and those other shops. And what was that remark about one-stop shopping? She reflected over it for a moment. Then it sank in.

  They were going to buy her and her parents out and then turn her exclusive boutique into a run-of-the-mill department store. Good grief!

  How could a man who dressed like a million dollars and spoke impeccable English dream up such bourgeois ideas? Jeevan-kaka was capable of coming up with classless notions, but Shah seemed urbane—a man who shopped at the best stores. He had the aura of money about him. Even the way he held his soda glass or greeted people or simply stood up reeked of refinement. He was a good example of how deceptive appearances could be.

  She held her breath, inched closer, desperate to hear more of what they were saying.

  “That is true, Rishi, but what if that fellow will not sell?”

  Shah paused. “There’s no harm in asking, is there?” He laid a large hand on the old man’s shoulder. “Jeevan-kaka, when was the last time you and I couldn’t convince someone to sell?”

  Jeevan grinned. “Okay, we will ask.”

  As the two men made their way toward the office, Anjali shifted gently so they wouldn’t see her. Seconds later she jumped when a voice close to her, much too close, whispered, “You may come out now, Miss Kapadia.”

  “Oh!” Hot blood rose in Anjali’s cheeks at the sight of Rishi Shah standing behind her with his arms crossed over his chest, staring down at her exactly the way Mr. Goldstein, her high school principal, had done when he’d caught her cutting class. She felt like she was sixteen again. And she didn’t like the trapped feeling one bit.

  “M-Mr. Shah!” When and how had the man crept up on her so quickly? She’d seen him and her
uncle walking away. “Are you spying on me?” He’d managed to make her feel like a thief in her own store.

  “Not at all.”

  “Sneaking up on me like that? I’d call that spying.”

  “I beg to differ, Miss Kapadia.”

  “But—”

  “You were spying on Jeevan-kaka and me,” he interrupted her dryly, his accent more clipped than ever.

  Shah looked enviably cool. He was standing so close she could see the scar on his eyelid clearly, and the thin, black rim around his steel gray irises. Steel gray—that’s what the shade was. And just as cold and hard as the metal. She shivered a little. Mr. Goldstein came to mind again.

  Finding no suitable words against his accusation, she did what came instinctively. She turned defensive. “I was merely walking around my property, checking on my things when you and my uncle happened to walk in.”

  “One of the drawbacks of having mirrored walls is that one can see everything around in a single glance,” he said. “I saw you emerge from the office and stop when you spied us. I clearly observed you tiptoeing and assuming a position behind the chania-cholis.”

  “Like I said, I was checking on the chania-cholis.”

  “You, Miss Kapadia, wanted to find out exactly what Jeevan-kaka and I were discussing.” His dark eyebrows shot way up, challenging her.

  “Maybe. Besides, it’s my store, and I have a right to know what you two are planning to do with it.”

  A glint of humor, both astonishing and sudden, appeared in his eyes, making the steel turn to a softer gray, more like pewter. “Since you eavesdropped, you heard it all.”

  To give her shaking hands something to do, she pretended to adjust the scarf on a mannequin. “All I gathered was that you’re planning on turning my boutique into some type of department store.”

  He became silent for a moment before breaking into an amused smile. “Department store? Where did you get that idea?”

  Much to her chagrin, her lower lip started to tremble. The scarf slipped out of her hands and glided to the floor. “How can you do this? You and Jeevan-kaka charge in here like a pair of Indian bulls, criticize everything, and then plan to turn an elegant shop into a cheap mockery.”