Save the Date meets Never Have I Ever in this sparkling debut rom-com about a high school senior whose life suddenly gets a Bollywood spin when her sister gets engaged.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Arya Khanna’s Bollywood Moment by Arushi Avachat, which is out January 9th.
Shaadi preparations are in full swing, which means lehenga shopping, taste testing, dance rehearsals, and best of all, Arya’s sister Alina is home. The Khannas are together again, finally, and Arya wants to enjoy it. So she stifles her lingering resentment towards Alina, plays mediator during her sister’s fights with their mother, and welcomes her future brother-in-law with open arms. (Okay, maybe enjoy isn’t exactly right.)
Meanwhile at school, Arya’s senior year dreams are unraveling. In between class and her part-time gig as a bookshop assistant, Arya struggles to navigate the aftermath of a bad breakup between her two best friends and a tense student council partnership with her rival, the frustratingly attractive Dean Merriweather.
Arya is determined to keep the peace at home and at school, but this shaadi season teaches Arya new realities: Alina won’t always be in the bedroom down the hall, Mamma’s sadness isn’t mendable, friendships must evolve, and life doesn’t always work out like her beloved Bollywood movies. But sometimes, the person you least expect will give you a glimpse of your dream sequence just when you need it most.
Structured like a Bollywood film (entertaining intermission included!) Arya Khanna’s Bollywood Moment will make you swoon, laugh, cry, think, nod your head in agreement, and quite possibly make you get up and dance.
My sister’s hand is gentle and steady at my cheek. Even with my eyes closed, I can feel Alina’s gaze on me, studying her handiwork with an artist’s precision.
“Hold still,” Alina says. She sweeps a gold shadow over my lids, the sapphire bangles Nikhil’s mother gave her last night jingling with each movement. She pulls back when she hears me sniffle. “What’s wrong?”
I shake my head, pressing the corner of my chunni to each eye to capture escaping tears. “It’s just,” I say, a lump rising in my throat. “You look so pretty, Alina.”
It’s true. When I was younger, and Alina was in high school, I thought my sister had to be the most beautiful woman in the world. Years later, not much has changed. Today, her skin is pink and flushed in a healthy bridal glow, and her dark hair falls down her back in loose, shiny curls, shampoo commercial– style. She’s wearing Mamma’s most expensive and elegant lehenga, a silvery blue set with an intricately embroidered skirt that tapers into a short train at her heels. Swirls of flowery mehndi paint her arms, and her chunni rests gracefully over one shoulder, concealing all but a thin strip of skin above her waist.
Alina smiles. “Thank you,” she says softly. “But you don’t. Not yet,” she teases, tucking a stray piece of hair behind my ear. “So, no more tears, okay? You’re going to ruin all my hard work.”
“Okay.” I give her a watery smile. “No more tears.” Sitting straighter on the bathtub edge, I tilt my face up.
For the next ten minutes, Alina works in silence, pressing foundation and concealer into my skin with a damp sponge, dusting on powders with a large, fluffy brush. Something warm settles in my stomach. It feels like before. Alina, back in the childhood bathroom we used to share, doing my makeup just like she used to for every Diwali, birthday party, middle school dance. It hits me in full force just how terribly I’ve missed this, missed her. Never can I go three years without her again.
“All done,” Alina announces, and I stand up, turning to examine my reflection in the bathroom mirror.
“Oh,” I say a little breathlessly. I look beautiful. My skin is glowing with dewy radiance, my eyes big and bright from expertly applied shadow and liner. I look to Alina in the mirror. “Thank you.”
She squeezes my shoulder. “You look like a princess, Arya.”
The compliment makes me smile. I adjust my chunni, trying and failing to prevent it from bunching at my shoulder. “Which princess?”
“Jasmine?” Alina offers, and I wrinkle my nose.
“I’m in pink, not blue,” I point out. I open the wooden drawer under the sink, searching for a safety pin to fasten my chunni to my blouse. I find one underneath some hair elastics and hand it to Alina.
She secures it in one smooth motion. “A Bollywood star, then. Kareena Kapoor in ‘Bole Chudiyan.’”
I raise my eyebrows, surprised and flattered. “That’s a very high compliment.”
“I’m feeling generous.” She grins at me, and I wrap my arms around her waist tightly, kissing her cheek.
“Let’s go get you hitched,” I say, then stop, correcting myself. “Engaged, I mean. Officially, anyway.”
Today is Alina’s Roka ceremony, a Hindu pre-wedding event that formally acknowledges Alina and Nikhil’s engagement. The shaadi is still a few months away, but Alina and Nikhil will exchange rings today, and the families will exchange gifts. Mamma insisted on following traditions to a T. Alina protested at first, but I know she loves the attention and extravagance that comes with Mamma’s way.
When we walk out of the bathroom, we find Mamma waiting for us in the hallway. She’s wearing a gold sari and deep red lipstick, the picture of elegance.
My mother is very beautiful. Her beauty has faded with time, but not because of age. Her eyes have lost their gleam. Frown lines crease her forehead. She doesn’t smile anymore, not unless we have company. This is how I know her now. Proud, regal, and sad.
She gives the two of us a once-over, and her lack of criticism signals approval.
“Chalo,” she says, tilting her head to the staircase. “Guests are waiting.”
* * *
“I cannot believe,” Lisa begins, pushing a lock of ginger hair out of her eye, “that there is all this fuss going on, and it’s not even the main event.”
I grin at her over a tall glass of mango lassi. The ceremony concluded just moments ago, and now I’m sitting next to Lisa Greenfield, my best friend since fourth grade. She’s wearing a borrowed lehenga of mine, a teal piece that looks bright against her pale skin and is slightly too long for her even though she’s in heels. We’re on the bench by my papa’s flower garden, sipping our drinks and watching guests dance to loud, joyful Bollywood remixes.
“It wouldn’t be a Khanna wedding without the fuss,” I remind Lisa. Last year, I took Lisa with me to my cousin’s wedding, where the groom arrived at the venue on a grand white horse.
“True,” she says, smiling. “But I won’t ever understand it. My parents got married at city hall. Then they got divorced like the rest of America just fine.” I swat her lightly on the shoulder, and she giggles. “I’m joking. It was a really beautiful, really emotional ceremony.”
“It was,” I say softly. Alina and Nikhil had both been teary-eyed as they exchanged rings, and Papa had been openly sobbing for the duration of the Roka.
Lisa sips her mango lassi quietly, and I use the moment to take in the scene around us. It took several hours of hard work, but our backyard has never looked more enchanting. Red rose petals litter the walkways and strings of twinkling fairy lights line our fence. The lanterns I helped Nikhil hang from the magnolia trees last night glint gold in the fading sun. The sky is a hazy indigo, hovering between day and night, and wisps of white cloud float up above us.
From Arya Khanna’s Bollywood Moment, by Arushi Avachat. Copyright © 2024 by the author, and reprinted with permission of St. Martin’s Publishing Group.
