The Sari Shop Widow

By Shobhan Bantwal

Anjali Kapadia, a 37-year-old widow, is devoted to transforming her parents' sari shop into a chic boutique. The store has been her entire world, her only world actually. But life has strange twists up its sleeve. In spite of all her efforts, now, ten years later, the store stands on the brink of bankruptcy. Anjali could lose everything she has worked so hard for. Unless unless fate intervenes. And it does . . . that too, all the way from London. To the rescue comes Jeevan Kapadia, Anjali's rich, dictatorial uncle and Rishi Shah, his mysterious business partner. Forty-two years old, Rishi is half-Indian and half-British. His cool, steel-grey eyes and the deep air of secrets that hangs around him, trigger instant distrust in Anjali and her mother. But for Anjali, he also stirs something else, something more elemental and dangerous, a powerful attraction she hasn't felt in a long, long time. And the feeling is mutual. As Anjali and Rishi both get caught in the maelstrom of unexpected love, their once familiar worlds begin to change. But a startling secret from Rishi's past threatens to break them apart. Falling in love seems not so simple.

What will Anjali do now? Will Anjali be able to rediscover the magic of love?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fingerprint Publishing
• Release date: Jan 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9789358561302

Book preview

For the second time in ten years, her life was beginning to come apart. Anjali Kapadia stood still for a minute, trying to absorb the news. Could it possibly be a mistake? But it wasn’t. She’d heard it very clearly. And despite her best efforts to curb it, the initial shock wave simply refused to ebb. That disturbing bit of information was all it had taken to shatter the image of a satisfying lifestyle and career.

Her mind in overdrive, she started to pace the length of the tasteful and elegant boutique. The boutique was her baby. She had laboured hard and long to create this fairytale store worthy of movie stars, models, and beauty queens. But would it really fall apart? Just like that?

Technically, she and her parents were equal partners in the business, but it was Anjali’s creativity and vision that had turned it into a classy and successful enterprise—at least until recently. It stood apart like a maharani, a queen amongst the ordinary, pedestrian sari and clothing shops of New Jersey’s Little India.

The area known as Little India, in Edison, was crammed with sari shops, jewellery stores, restaurants, grocery markets and souvenir shops. It was a small slice of India buried in central New Jersey, a quaint neighbourhood that smelled of pungent curry, fried onions, ripe mangoes, heady incense, and masala chai.

Even the store’s name was Anjali’s brainchild. Overrun with ho-hum and even dumpy names and ugly storefronts, Little India was badly in need of some class. So she had decided to call her store Silk & Sapphires. It had a nice ring to it, and according to Hindu astrology, a sapphire supposedly deflected the destructive influence of Saturn.

The store’s window displayed the most elegant mannequins, dressed in beautifully designed saris and rare jewellery. Silk & Sapphires was a boutique. It wasn’t just any ordinary sari-cum-bauble shop.

The interior was done in soft creams and a shimmering blue to fit the name. Tear-drop crystal chandeliers hung from a vaulted ceiling, and strategically placed recessed lights highlighted the displays. Mirrored walls created an illusion of space and light, and a dense-cream carpet covered the sales floor and fitting rooms. No harsh music with screeching falsetto voices was allowed to tarnish the store’s royal atmosphere either. Only soft Indian instrumental pieces drifted in through the sound system.

Shopping at Silk & Sapphires was meant to be a unique and indulgent experience.

The boutique also carried jewellery—exquisite, one-of-a-kind creations of precious and semi-precious gems, fit for an empress or even a blushing bride. It was all custom-made in India by her maternal uncles, who had a flourishing jewellery business in Gujarat.

Nearly every piece of clothing the store sold was designed by Anjali. Each outfit was envisioned and then meticulously planned, cut, sewn, and embellished to her demanding specifications. She took pride in finding the right fabrics and trimmings, and then the right tailors to make her designs come to fruition from a mere idea swirling in her brain to divine ensembles.

Granted, her clothes and accessories were far more expensive than most of the others around, but they were worth every bit of the money. Every design was exclusive, and many of them were award winners in fashion shows and competitions.

She glanced at them and drew a long, shaky breath. The colourful silks, the clingy chiffons, and the gossamer tissue-crepes were draped in an exquisite array on their pretty satin hangers—row upon row of indulgently plush, expensive clothes. The pearls and the jewel-tone sequins lovingly sewn into the borders and bodices of the sleek garments, sparkled and winked at her as she strode up and down the aisles, again and again.

What had gone wrong? How? When?

Could she be kissing her dress-design business and her beloved store goodbye? And if so, then how soon would it all end? Catching her reflection in the mirrored wall behind the row of clothes, she realised her eyes were filled with resentment and frustration. Darn it! She rarely let bitterness prevail over her, and she wouldn’t do so now. She was a woman who liked to laugh, although there hadn’t been much to laugh about in the last ten years—not since Vikram’s death.

How could her parents have concealed such a significant problem from her and for so long? Worse, how could they even dream of something so preposterous to address the problem? How could they jeopardise her career, as well as their own, with just one phone call?

She wouldn’t stand for it. She couldn’t. She’d get a loan from a bank to bail them out of their financial mess. She would even beg and borrow from friends and acquaintances if she had to, before she’d give in to her parents’ harebrained plan.

Turning on the narrow heels of her tan sandals, she trudged back to the long, glass display counter behind which her parents stood. They’d been warily watching her pace like a caged panther all this while. Now, the mildly optimistic look on their faces told her that they were hoping her dark mood had passed, or had at least diminished to some degree. Well, no such luck. The distress and anger was still spiraling inside her like a mad monsoon storm. She raised her troubled eyes to them. Why didn’t you guys tell me about the problem earlier?

Her father, Mohan Kapadia, a wiry man with glasses and a heavy mop of greying hair, gave a helpless shrug. "We didn’t want to upset you, beta. And I honestly thought that your mother and I could handle it."

But we’re equal partners in this! I’m not a child who needs to be protected from bad news. She took a deep breath to steady her tremulous voice. Look, I know I nearly lost my mind some years ago, but I don’t need any mollycoddling anymore.

I know that, Anju, but I’m upset at myself for not being a better businessman. He sent Anjali a rueful look. I suppose I didn’t want to believe it myself, at first. It’s not easy admitting to one’s daughter that one is . . . uh . . . a failure.

She immediately regretted her outburst. I’m sorry, Dad. You’re not a failure. It’s not all your fault. We’re all in this together.

But still . . .

Please Dad. I’m just as much to blame, she said. I should have kept an eye on our finances a bit more. What I can’t believe is why you went to Jeevan, of all the people in the world, for help.

"Jeevan bhai is my eldest brother, Anju. Who else would I go to when we’re n financial trouble?" He ran his long, skinny fingers through his hair for the fourth time since Anjali had walked into the store minutes ago, and the world had more or less fell apart around her. His nervous raking made his hair stand up in stiff peaks, making him look like one of those troll dolls sold in novelty stores. His starched, blue shirt and grey slacks, paired with sensible black shoes, did little to improve the troll image. The shape and deep-brown tint of their eyes, Anjali and her father’s, were similar, and the thick black lashes were definitely something she’d inherited from him. In fact, most of her sharp features were her father’s, but her complexion and straight, black hair were genetic traits from her mother’s side of the family.

You could have gone to that old man, that Indian capitalist with three wives . . . what’s his name . . . Harikishan.

Usha Kapadia, Anjali’s mother, gave a derisive, unladylike snort. After killing off his first two wives, old Harikishan has finally met his match. His third wife is young and pretty and smart. She keeps him . . . umm . . . occupied, she remarked, clearing her throat. He’s not interested in pursuing the financing business anymore.

"How about Naren kaka, then?" Naren was her father’s youngest brother.

Her father shook his head. Naren has a large debt on his motel. You know that.

Then why not go to a legitimate bank? What’s wrong with going to a bank and taking a loan? Anjali suggested. Why did you have to call your brother Jeevan instead? And that too all the way out in India? She still couldn’t make sense out of her parents’ disastrous decision.

Your uncle’s got the best business brain in the world, her father argued.

But Jeevan’s a dictator.

Her mother, trim and elegant in a shell-pink chiffon sari with tiny pearls at her throat and ears, threw her a scorching look. "Anju, Jeevan bhai is your eldest uncle. Show some perfunctory respect, if nothing else. Stop referring to him as Jeevan. To you he’s Jeevan kaka, just like he’s Jeevan bhai to your father and me."

I’m sorry. Anjali sighed. From her mother’s tone, one would think Anjali was a teenager. Here their family business, essentially their livelihood, was headed for ruin, and her mother was lecturing her, a grown woman of 37, on the traditional Gujarati way of talking about one’s uncle with the right amount of reverence. "You know as well as I do that Jeevan kaka is bad news, Mom. Jeevan was a short, tubby, beady-eyed scoundrel, who sat atop a mountain of money. He was rich and mean and sly and unscrupulous—a lethal combination, to say the least. He was the eldest of three brothers and two sisters, and he never let his siblings and their families forget it. In his eyes, he was only one small step below God. At the mention of his name, the family quailed and quivered with fear. With a simple phone call, he could reduce some of them to tears. Most often, when Jeevan’s name was mentioned in the family, it was preceded by Oh, God," and quite rightfully so.

Mohan shook his head. "Jeevan bhai is a little bit on the strict side, I agree. But that doesn’t mean he’s unkind."

Little bit on the strict side? Anjali groaned. Was her father living on the same planet as she was? She looked at him. After the beating you took from him as the middle brother, you still choose to defend him, Dad?

This time Mohan’s eyes glinted with irritation. "You, of all people, with your fancy college degrees, should realise that we have major financial problems. We need some serious help and advice. And is there anyone more capable than your uncle? Everything Jeevan bhai touches turns to gold."

Her mom gave another scornful snort. "That’s why they call him Bada Saheb." Despite admonishing Anjali for her lack of respect for Jeevan, her mom had plenty of contempt for her eldest and most feared brother-in-law. She had no qualms about expressing it, too. But then, Usha always had a different set of rules for herself. And they changed frequently, according to her convenience and mood.

Having expressed her sentiments, her mother turned around to cast a quick glance in the mirrored wall and patted her hair, which was swept back into a simple but elegant chignon. At 59, she looked wonderful and much younger than her age. Then she went back to arranging the new shipment of jewellery in the display case—earrings, bracelets, and finger rings made of rare yellow diamonds.

Anjali watched her mom’s dainty fingers gently and expertly lift each piece and arrange it over the sapphire-blue velvet spread. Having grown up in a family of jewellers, Usha knew her gems well.

Whatever my brother’s faults, he has the knowledge and money to help us and that is all that should concern us right now, said Mohan, picking up his calculator and gathering up the day’s receipts. And his advice, obviously, is free.

Anjali mulled over the issue for a minute. There had to be another, less-drastic solution than turning to the insufferably tyrannical Jeevan. Can’t you call him again and tell him you were wrong?

No. Her father shook his head emphatically.

Say you made an error of judgment and that everything’s just fine?

Mohan gave her a bland look. I can’t. He’s arriving here next week.

What? A dull thud jolted both Anjali and her father. Usha had dropped a box on the counter, and turned dark, accusing eyes on her husband. You didn’t tell me your brother was coming here!

I thought I did. Mohan’s tone was mildly apologetic.

No, Mohan, you most definitely did not, Usha reminded him. This morning when you called your brother, you only said you were asking for a little advice and nothing more. You didn’t say anything about him coming to New Jersey.

Slipped my mind . . . I guess. Ordinarily a resolute man with a good head for business, Anjali’s father turned to putty whenever his beloved Usha was around. Despite her sweet face and dimpled smile, and her preference for soft colours and understated accessories, she wielded the gavel like a seasoned judge. It was a good thing, too, because Anjali’s dad was too soft-hearted for his own good. If it were up to him, he’d give away half the store to someone he thought was needy.

She watched the angry colour rise in her mother’s amazingly unlined face. Slipped your mind? Something as important as that?

But . . . but he said he wanted to come. How could I say no?

"Exactly when is Jeevan bhai arriving? Usha demanded. Or were you planning to tell me after he’d arrived at Newark Airport?"

Anjali had a feeling her father had deliberately kept his brother’s impending visit a secret. She felt a twinge of sympathy for her dad. The poor man was caught between his loyalties to his elder brother on the one hand, and his wife and kids on the other.

But there’s still one more week, he mumbled weakly. He’s arriving next Monday.

Next Monday is only five days away, not one week, reminded Usha.

Mohan ran his fingers through his hair yet again. What little hair had been lying flat, now stood at attention. "Jeevan bhai is family. Why are you getting so upset?"

Usha’s look of annoyance turned to disbelief. Your brother is not an ordinary family member like the others; he is a God. Once he descends from his chariot, he wants everything perfect, from homemade vegetarian food cooked in ghee to spotless white sheets to the newspaper being brought to him, crisp and fresh, every morning at exactly eight. And don’t forget the hot masala chai he wants five times a day, every day. I’ll have to dedicate myself to waiting on him hand and foot.

If there was one thing Anjali couldn’t picture her mother doing, it was this. raised in Ahmedabad, Usha had had an indulgent childhood, and being the only girl in a family with four boys, who doted on her, she was a quite the prima donna.

Though Usha was a satisfactory cook, she preferred working in the store and depended on restaurant food to feed the family most of the time. It was the simplest and most efficient thing to do anyway, with literally dozens of Indian restaurants serving all kinds of reasonably priced multi-regional cuisine, within walking distance from their store.

Every night, after locking up, Anjali and her parents, too exhausted to worry about cooking, would buy restaurant food and tote it home. After eating, they barely had any energy left to change and head for their beds in their modest house in neighbouring Iselin.

Despite keeping the store closed on Mondays, the boutique was a 24x7 commitment for the three of them. It was their whole life. Anjali couldn’t bear to think of any other way of life. She’d had her own home and an independent career, many moons ago, while she’d been married to Vikram. But after Vik’s death, heart-broken and depressed, she’d decided to pool all her savings with her parents’ and upgrade their struggling sari shop in Edison.

Now the boutique was everything to her. It was where she’d buried her grief, and more or less resurrected herself. It had helped to have a challenging business to keep her mind occupied, the best kind of therapy for a grieving young widow.

Her brother, Nilesh, a sophomore at rutgers University, had always distanced himself from the clothing business. Nearly eighteen years younger than her, and an unexpected late-life baby for her parents, he could be a joy as well as an annoyance.

Nilesh was both her brother and her baby in so many ways. She had babysat him, changed his diapers, bottle-fed him, and comforted him when he’d been sick. And yet, they argued and snarled and threw barbs at each other, like any other siblings. But she loved him to pieces. She had never had children of her own, so she still treated him like her baby. Of course, there’d been no opportunity for Anjali to think about having babies, not when Vik had died of a brain aneurysm within two years of their marriage.

Anju. Usha’s voice forced her thoughts back to the cold reality of their present situation. Could you come here and finish this display for me? I have to get busy cleaning up the house and getting it ready for your uncle . . . She threw her husband a meaningful look. "Since Jeevan bhai is arriving in five . . . no . . . actually four-and-a-half days now, she said, with a glance at her wristwatch, I have to clean, shop, cook, and launder . . . and iron."

Anjali noticed her father’s harried expression. Poor Dad.

Usha strode away in a huff to the back of the store and returned a minute later with a handbag on her arm and the car keys jangling in her hand. Putting on her driving glasses, she swept out the front door. Anjali and her father watched her disappear into the parking lot and exchanged troubled glances.

In about two hours, her mother would have shopped for the essentials, stored them away in the kitchen, cleaned and vacuumed the house, aired the guest-room mattress, and finished a dozen other tasks.

Usha Kapadia was like a tornado when she was on a mission, especially when she was upset or annoyed. And Jeevan’s visit definitely qualified as both upsetting and annoying. Anjali knew exactly how her mother felt; she herself felt the same way. The last time Jeevan had visited, some five years ago, her mother had nearly suffered a mental breakdown.

After a four-week visit, it had been the most blessed relief to put the chubby Jeevan and his wife on a plane bound for India.

Anjali observed her father pull up a stool and sit down with his elbows resting on the counter. "So, Dad, what exactly is Jeevan kaka coming to do, all the way to the US from India?" she asked.

Mohan’s expression was one of tired resignation. His messy hair tugged gently at Anjali’s heart. He’s going to take a look at the boutique and the accounts and then decide what we should do. He has also promised to help us financially.

Anjali’s chin instinctively snapped up. We’re not going to accept his charity, I hope?

Mohan gave a wry laugh. "Jeevan bhai believes in loans, not charitable contributions. He’s a businessman, Anju, not a philanthropist."

So, do you think we might be able to save the store?

He shrugged. "I don’t know. I really hope so. This store is all I have. All we have."

I’m sorry, Dad. Until last year, things had looked pretty good. Our profit margins weren’t great, but they weren’t critical either.

Rising from his stool, Mohan went to the open display case, where his wife had been working, and started emptying out the small jewellery boxes onto the counter. There’s too much competition in the immediate area. Other stores have started to copy our boutique concept and exclusive designs. The trouble is that they get not only their material from India but also their manufacturing done there, which makes all of it extremely cheap.

I know. But their quality and style are nowhere near ours, Dad. Their stores are merely gaudy imitations. It’s like comparing a diamond to rhinestones. Anjali and her parents got their goods mainly from Bangkok, the US and Hong Kong. It made a huge difference in pricing.

Even then—

Wasn’t it just the other day, when a customer was complaining that something she bought from one of the stores next door lost its colour and most of its beads after a single cleaning?

But most customers go for surface looks. When they can pay $500 instead of $1,500 for an outfit, the last thing they think of is colour loss or the beads falling off. How many times do people take such fancy garments to the cleaners, anyway? He positioned the last diamond ring in between a necklace and its matching bracelet, then shut the glass door and locked it.

Her father was right. Even before he’d explained it, she knew what the problem was. She just didn’t want to admit it. They’d overextended themselves with the present year’s inventory, too. The store was packed with beautiful things, but not with enough customers to buy them. Most of it was her fault. On seeing the rich new silks in Thailand, she’d gone a bit overboard with her orders. And then she’d requested her uncles in India to craft jewellery to match these ensembles.

Despite her training, she’d made the grave mistake of neglecting the financial end of the business and leaving it entirely to her father. He was a smart businessman, no doubt, but she still should have kept an eye on the bottom line.

Unfortunately, her heart was in creating pretty things and not in hard finances. But whatever her reasons or justifications might be, it was still partly her fault, and it wasn’t fair to let her father take the blame entirely.

Mohan returned to his bookkeeping chores, so Anjali moved to the sari section and started to unpack the new boxes of Benarasi silk saris, which had arrived that morning. Even before she had slit open the carton with a box-cutter, she knew the saris would be gorgeous. She’d hand-picked every one of them during her recent trip to India and had supervised the packaging herself.

Reverently she unwrapped each exquisite sari from its tissue-paper wrap and placed it tenderly inside the glass cabinet. This place had been just a sari shop at one time—boring, bland, dimly lit—one among the countless other such shops that lined Oak Tree road. Her parents used to sell Japanese-made synthetic saris wound in bolts and crammed onto sagging shelves alongside the most uninspiring mass-produced clothes.

As a child, Anjali had enjoyed going to her parents’ old Jackson Heights store in New York City. Every afternoon, after school, she would sit and finish her homework in the crowded and cramped back room, which also served as her parents’ office. A desk and chair, a file cabinet, and a portable electric stove for warming up lunch and making chai had left room for little else.

She had loved wandering around the shop and touching the fabrics. She would drape them over herself, and slipping into the high-heeled and jewelled sandals on display, she would pretend she was a fashion model, preening in front of the big mirrors.

Then her parents had relocated to Edison in the 1980s, because it was a brand new Indian enclave with more promise and less competition. However, even after the move, the store’s name and general appearance had remained the same. Her parents were bright people certainly, but creativity was not their strong point. By the time she’d reached her teens, she had started viewing the business more objectively and critically. It needed to be much more than Kapadia’s Sari Emporium.

Somewhere between the ninth and the tenth grade, she’d decided to try her hand at dress designing. She had a good eye for colour and design, and after spending all those afternoons helping her parents manage the store, it was but natural that she should pursue a degree in Apparel Design and Merchandising, and eventually join her parents’ business.

But fate had taken her on a slight detour. Sometime after acquiring her master’s degree, she had met Vikram Gandhi, fallen for his boyish good looks and sunny nature, and then married him. His career was in New York, so instead of working with her parents, she’d found a job in an advertising agency in the city.

She’d been happy though, content with her condo in Queens, her marriage to Vik, and with life in general. Those were the days of big, fanciful dreams of owning several elegant boutiques all over the country—maybe in other countries, too. With typical youthful enthusiasm, she’d had it all figured out.

Although Vik was an electronics engineer by profession, he had encouraged her retail dreams and even shared them. But just when they thought they’d saved enough money to start working on bringing those dreams to reality, Vik had collapsed in his office and died soon after. His only symptom had been waking up with a severe headache that morning.

They’d had no idea that a silent killer had been stalking Vik for many years. He had swallowed a couple of aspirins and gone to work despite the acute headache that day. By the time the ambulance had arrived, he’d haemorrhaged to death. And so had all her dreams with him. The only solace was that he hadn’t suffered too long.

Seeing her drowning in grief, her parents had encouraged her to quit her job in New York and come live with them. So she had sold off her condo and gone back to live with them and help them with the store. Working in the sari shop was best suited for her training and disposition, anyway. Even Vik’s parents had seen the logic in it and supported her decision. Bit by bit, she’d overcome her sorrow and made her parents’ business a success.

Unfortunately, along the way, she’d drifted away from Vik’s parents and his married sister. Anyhow, Florida was too far to visit often.

Eventually, she’d sunk all of hers and Vik’s joint-savings into upgrading and glamourising the store and making it a showpiece— Silk & Sapphires. The grand opening had been written about in all the local newspapers. Magazines had run articles about the new, ethnic dream-store in the heart of Little India. With all that helpful buzz, customers had come pouring in and the business had done extremely well in those heady initial days.

But now it looked like all that hype and hard work were for naught. They were in danger of losing their boutique. Her dad had estimated that if they didn’t start turning a profit within the next six to nine months, they might have to sell the store, or worse still, declare bankruptcy.

They’d never been exactly rich, but they’d been comfortable enough. Her education had been entirely paid for by her parents, and even at this late age, they were footing Nilesh’s college bills.

They still lived in a decent house and drove late model cars. Losing this relative, middle-class comfort to possible bankruptcy was inconceivable to Anjali. What in heaven’s name were they going to do if things really got too bad? How would they survive?

She closed her eyes and tried to dispel the dark image of a seemingly inevitable poverty. No. Please. God, no.

Despite all her initial ranting and misgivings at the idea of having the autocratic Jeevan come down to stick his large nose into their private affairs, faced with the frightening prospect of bankruptcy, Anjali was beginning to have second thoughts. Simmering down a little, she realised that the old curmudgeon might just be of some use after all. Her dad was right. There had never been any doubt that Jeevan had a gift for business. He had the uncanny instincts of a lion, a bloodhound, and a fox, all mixed together perfectly.

Placing the last sari in the cabinet, Anjali looked at her wristwatch. It was nearly closing time. She needed to get her mind off work and business—and her uncle’s impending visit. Maybe she’d call her boyfriend, Kip, and meet him later for a drink. He’d help her relax.

For lack of a better term, she thought of Kip as her boyfriend. He was her friend for sure, her lover too, and a comfort to have at times. But he wasn’t a boyfriend in the true sense of the word. Their relationship was neither sweet nor romantic. It didn’t involve whispered sweet nothings, or flowers and chocolates, or holding hands and walks in the moonlight. It was just a friendship with some free drinks and sex thrown in when it was mutually convenient.

She’d been seeing Kip Rowlingsecretly for nearly two years now, mainly because widowhood was lonely and frustrating. She had friends of course, but she never fit in anywhere anymore. All her Indian girlfriends were married and enjoying husbands, homes, and children. They were involved in a variety of careers, too. As a single woman who worked seven days a week, Anjali was the odd one out, the one to be pitied and condescended, and occasionally, the one to be eyed with suspicion as a potential husband-snatcher.

She had some non-Indian girlfriends—women she’d gone to college with. They were single like her, but they’d never been married like she’d been. She got together with them for drinks or dinner once in a while. But she didn’t have any close friends. Her work was her life. There seemed to be hardly any space left for any kind of intimacy, be it platonic or otherwise.

Although she was a mature woman, in charge of her own life, if her parents ever found out about Kip, a white Protestant guy with little formal education, who owned a bar and lounge in the heart of New Brunswick, and wore an earring in one ear, she’d be in deep trouble. respectable Gujarati women with strong family values weren’t expected to fraternise with barkeepers, especially not 37-year-old Hindu widows.

All the Indian guys her parents and relatives tried to fix her up with, wanted marriage, and she was afraid of marriage after what had happened to Vik. Most of these men that she met were either widowed like her, or even divorced, but almost all of them had kids. Anjali didn’t want to play mom to anyone’s children, not when her life was consumed by business.

It wasn’t that she disliked children. She’d hoped to have her own when she was married to Vik, but that dream, too, had become a blur, and then vanished.

And apart from all this, every Gujarati man she’d been introduced to, till now, had turned out to be

Reviews for The Sari Shop Widow

[steadfastreader · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

This book was terrible! I guess I picked the book by its name, because that was the only good thing about it. Don't bother.

[bookczuk · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I was not as enchanted with this book as I'd hoped to be. There were small nuggets of life in an Indian family or living as a woman of Indian heritage in New Jersey that were interesting, but somehow, the story lacked passion to me (which is kind of ironic since it was a love story.) I think also stumbling into dacoits (armed bandits of the sort who killed my brother last year in India) probably did not help me find a "happy place" with this book. One thing that was interesting was that a huge premise of the book was that being a widow was not a death sentence for a woman. While I wholeheartedly agree, I can't say that Anjali's life was necessarily proof of that. She was active in her work but her world certainly didn't expand much beyond the shop -- they'd come home to sleep and eat food they'd carried out from a restaurant because they were too tired to cook. Then wake up in the morning and go back to the shop. That's a pretty narrow space to dance in, it seems. Or at least it seems to me. Makes the title just a little more telling.

[dk_phoenix_1 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Ugh. And this book looked so good when I saw it in the library... attractive cover, intriguing premise (albeit a little unoriginal, but I thought it might be interesting from an Indian perspective), author with several other books under her belt known as 'Bollywood-in-a-Book' stories. This one was apparently a bit of a departure for her, as it's set in the U.S. rather than India, and it's a little more 'chick lit' in tone... but ultimately I was sorely disappointed.The main character is perfect. Oh, how I abhor perfection in main characters. The only flaw she has is falling for the wrong guy and having casual sex with him now and then, but even that isn't portrayed as a "bad" thing because it's her only attempt at being with a man since her husband died ten years ago. This woman is in her early thirties, and yes, I understand that the grieving period can last for a very, very, very, long time. I certainly would mourn my husband for decades, so I can understand that, but at some point you really do have to move on -- especially so young! According to the story, the main character's marriage was so brief that as a reader, I wondered whether she really had a chance to get to know her husband, and as a result, why did she keep moping about ten years later?!?Oh, but back to the story. The characters are flat. The romance is contrived and there's no chemistry between the main character and the love interest. We get chapters from the POV of the love interest that are: a) not believable as a man's voice; b) boring as heck; c) consisting mostly of mooning about how perfect the main character is and how he loves her even more because she doesn't know how wonderful she is.The most interesting part of the story was the subplot of the rich, dying (oh nooo, spoiler that you saw coming ten miles away!) uncle -- well, that is, until he stopped being obstinate (read: having a personality) and became as bland as the rest of the cast.I wondered if maybe this novel was a fluke -- an experiment that didn't quite work out for the author. I've looked up her other novels on Amazon and on here, and unfortunately... none of her other books seem to garner all that much praise, either. How disappointing! To be quite honest, I might try her newest book (released next month, The Unexpected Son... touchstone not working ) simply due to curiosity, but if it's as poorly constructed as this one, I won't finish it and I'll just have to admit that this author's work is not for me.

[auntmarge64 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Set in Edison, NJ, this romance tells of a 30-something widow who is a fashion designer and owner of a sari shop with her parents. When the business founders, her overbearing but business-smart uncle arrives from India to advise, and he brings a surprise guest, whom he hopes will marry his niece. After a few twists and turns, all's well, as might be expected. The cultural setting was interesting, especially since I have family in Edison, but the plot (initial distrust, misunderstandings, family connivings, and the inevitable reconciliation) were a bit too pat for me. Fans of the genre might like it, though.

[jo3jo_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

As this book opens, Anjali is helping her parents run the Silk and Sapphires boutique in a community known as Little India in New Jersey. After her beloved husband passed away ten years before, she has invested all that she had into the little boutique, so she definitely has a vested interest in the success of the business. Anjali found that she had quite a knack for design so she ran that aspect of the business while her father took care of the administrative side.Anjali has noticed that business has been a bit slow lately, so she really wasn't too surprised when her father informed her that the boutique is in serious financial trouble and they stand to lose everything. Not knowing where to turn, her father decides to seek advice from his older brother Jeevan. Jeevan has been known to always have a good head for business and if anyone was going to help them get out of this jam he knew Jeevan would be the one to accomplish the task.Since uncle Jeevan lives in India, he has only been to the United States to visit his family a few times, but the impression from those few visits as being the rich, tyrant uncle was embedded into everyone's minds. When Anjali and her parents are informed that Jeevan will be helping them with their dilemma, and he will be staying with them until the task is completed, everyone is on pins and needles awaiting the arrival of this demanding man. When he does show up at their doorstop everyone is quite shocked when they find that not only will he be staying with them for the duration of the project, but he has also brought along his business partner Rishi as a consultant.As Rishi and Anjali are working so closely to get the store on the right track they can't help but notice the spark that has been created between them. Anjali knows that she hasn't felt anything like this since she lost her husband but is worried about the outcome of their relationship if it should develop. She thinks that after his consultation project is over he will be on his way and out of her life, so she finds it very difficult to let her guard down around Rishi and allow her to share her true feelings.While Rishi and Anjali are appearing to be building a relationship, Jeevan uses this time to try to mend his own relationships with his family. As the story develops we find that Jeevan came to the United States with his own secrets and we learn more about what made him the businessman that he has become. It is not until Jeevan confides honestly in his family that they can finally come to terms with his demanding ways and accept him wholly into their lives. I believe that this book may fall into the romance genre, but to me it was really much more than that. This book really gives you a good taste of the Indian culture. It helped me to visualize the beauty of the elegant silk fabrics and smell the aroma of the ethnic foods. I loved how this novel shared the importance of family bonds, stressing that when one is in trouble you strive together as a unit to work it out.