Serena Singh Flips the Script - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Sonya Lalli is a romance and women’s fiction author of Punjabi and Bengali heritage. Her books have been featured in Entertainment Weekly, NPR, Washington Post, Glamour and more. She lives in Vancouver with her husband.

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1

Is it Singh Time, beti?"

Slowly, I craned my neck to the side. Uncle Singh, one of the many Uncle Singhs in our community, was towering over me. I'd been making eyes again with the hot photographer, whose name I kept forgetting, and hadn't noticed the uncle make his approach.

"Singh time?" I asked, feigning ignorance as I stood up from my chair and stalled for time.

"It is time to sing, hah?"

Party hosts in our community knew to allot one, even two hours for Singh Time, during which various uncles took over the microphone and serenaded the room with their off-key renditions of Punjabi folk songs. But my baby sister, Natasha, who had married a white guy and had mainly non-Indian guests at her wedding that night, had given me strict instructions to withhold the microphone "by any means necessary."

I snuck a glance to my right, down the length of the head table. She was sitting happily next to Mark in her bedazzled gold lengha, flanked by both sets of parents, and then the wedding party. I had been mildly disappointed when Natasha asked the two other bridesmaids, her closest childhood friends, to give the toast to the bride instead of me, but I suppose she needed me up here as MC to fend off the uncles.

"Where is microphone?" I heard Uncle Singh ask. I turned back, beaming at him as a lightbulb went off in my head.

"Uncle," I whispered, as if I had gossip to share. "Natasha specifically asked me not to let you sing tonight."

He gasped, and I squeezed his hands in my own.

"Because she has something more special in mind for you."

He narrowed his brows, the two thick bushes above his eyes merging into one long one.

"You, Uncle Singh, are her most favorite uncle."

"I am?"

"Have you not always felt a special bond with our family? With our sweet little Natasha?"

He glanced over at her curiously. Even though we shared the same, extremely common surname, we weren't related to this Uncle Singh. To be completely honest, our families didn't even know each other that well, and if Natasha wasn't dressed up like a bride, I doubt the uncle would have been able to pick her out of a lineup. But if fourteen years in advertising had taught me anything, it's that Uncle Singh didn't want the microphone to sing. No. He wanted the microphone to feel admired, even loved.

And that's all the information I needed to make the sale.

Within minutes, I'd convinced Uncle Singh that it was tradition for the bride's favorite uncle to ask her to dance during the reception and that she'd be waiting for him after the DJ started later that evening. (Thankfully, he didn't grill me too much on the alleged custom, accepting my answer that it was something goray-white people-liked to do.)

It was just before nine p.m. by the time he returned to his seat, and according to the Google spreadsheet Natasha, by the time her treat of a mother-in-law, Mrs. Hartshorne, and their team of organizers had prepared, it was nearly time for me to make the introductions for the final round of toasts. I grabbed the microphone from where it was hidden in my purse, not wanting to wait a moment longer in case another uncle or auntie cornered me, and walked up to the podium, my heart beating in my stomach.

It's not that I was nervous. Far from it. I loved public speaking, and I was good at it, too. But presenting a pithy, original advertising campaign to get a client on board with the idea, and then consumers on board with the product, was very different than MCing your baby sister's wedding.

Your baby sister's Indian wedding.

I surveyed the room as I gathered the courage to start. Everyone seemed to be having a good time, chatting and laughing, shoveling in forkfuls of the chocolate lavender wedding cake Natasha and I had spent hours picking out. And the room was gorgeous. We'd decorated it to be the exact winter wonderland Natasha had imagined.

But it was strange to see the room divided into brown and white-except for the four or five tables closest to the bar full of Natasha and Mark's friends, beautiful people in a rainbow of ethnicities that would have been perfect as extras on the sportswear campaign I'd been working on all winter.

Up near the front sat Mark's family and his parents' friends-the stuffiest, most highbrow residents of Washington, DC, or Bethesda of the "old money" variety, including one senator, two House representatives, and three directors of one federal agency or another. (I knew this because Mrs. Hartshorne had demanded I give them a "warm welcome" yet said we didn't have time to thank all of our relatives who flew in from the UK and India.) Most of the men were in tuxedos, and the women in gowns-although their diamonds, pearls, and general decadence didn't outshine the sparkle coming from the back of the room, where our extended family and community was seated. The uncles were in kurtas or western suits, the aunties in saris or salwars in true gilded Punjabi glamour.

A group of particularly glitzy aunties caught my eye halfway toward the back. They were gawking at me, and even from here I could see the pity on their faces. I tried not to roll my eyes, imagining what they were saying about me whenever I was out of earshot.

Already thirty-six, and to have a younger sister married first?

What ever happened to that nice boy Jesse? Did she scare him off?

She is not too old yet, nah? My cousin's nephew has a job now. I will make the arrangements!

"Now that is what I call butter chicken," I said loudly into the microphone, cutting off their voices in my head. The whole room laughed. I'm not sure at what exactly.

"I hope everyone's having a wonderful time!"

A table near the bar cheered and clinked their glasses, and I gritted my teeth as the rest of the room joined in, and Natasha and Mark stood up for a chaste, tasteful kiss for their fans.

My chest ached, but I wasn't jealous, even though it would be easy to think as much.

I was genuinely, wholeheartedly happy that she had found someone to spend her life with.

I was also happy that one of the Singh sisters was finally married, checking off the "good Indian girl" box, which meant I didn't have to.

***

Five hours later, I found myself in the happy coupleÕs honeymoon suite, trapped on a sectional between Natasha and one of her giggly friends. I yawned, hiding it with my palm. Natasha had assigned me with last-minute wedding tasks that week because she didnÕt fully trust the planner, and I was exhausted, but I knew it would look bad if I left early. Leaning forward, I checked to see if there was anyone else I could talk to. The groomsmen were pouring another round of tequila shots in the kitchen. They were nice enough guys, all thirtysomethings with fancy jobs in government or law or medicine, but they drank like fish whenever they were off the clock. I turned my head toward the deluxe king-size bed, on top of which Mark and his sister, Bethany, and a handful of their friends were dancing up a storm. Their shoes were still on, and I felt even more exhausted just...