Dolly Chopra, all five feet two of her, stood that day draped in her favourite sky blue chiffon sari. Impressive diamonds twinkled on various parts of her anatomy. At 55, she still considered herself young and desirable, failing never to mention that fact to her friends, family and above all her husband, the long-suffering Mr B. K. Chopra. He of the meringue-round and laddu-soft demeanour.

An air of excitement hung over the Chopra household that day. Feverish activity could be observed in every corner. Baby-pink chandeliers with shiny open glass mouths were being polished to a diamond shine, mother-of-pearl inlaid coffee tables were pushed from one corner to another and the Lladro figurines of dancing ballerinas, (Mrs Chopra's pride and joy) were being feather-dusted by none other than the chief peon from the French Embassy. Not that all this scrubbing and shining was entirely rare, after all Mrs Chopra as the doyenne of the South Delhi social set was used to flaunting her house as a repository of good taste and opulence. What made this day different from any other was one simple fact. Anshu, their only child was flying home to introduce his American fiancée for the first time and Dolly Chopra wanted to leave no stone unturned in her quest to impress her American daughter-in-law to be.

The news of the engagement had come as a shock. Mr Chopra as usual had shrugged his shoulders philosophically, muttering about fate and destiny, before beating a hasty retreat to his import-export factory in Noida. Dolly Chopra reacted quite differently: for two days and nights she hurled virulent abuse at the heathen, cow eating, non virgin who was wresting away her son from his cherished homeland. When Mr Chopra quietly reminded her that it was they who had pushed Anshu into doing his post-graduation in the US, he was shouted down. Dolly Chopra had other plans for her son. For a start there was Mr Nanda's daughter, an only child, who had an intrinsic talent for cherry-picking the biggest jewels in town. Every September she would decamp to Dubai, coming back laden with the most exclusive Cartier creations, ready to hit the Diwali party circuit.

Delhi was teeming with eligible, fair-skinned, convent-educated only daughters who would make an eminent match for Anshu, but Dolly Chopra's entreaties were to no avail. Anshu insisted in letter after letter, phone call after phone call, that he had met his soulmate. "Let her be your soulmate," Dolly had pleaded in vain. "Have your fling but at least get your worldly mate here in Delhi." The phone invariably went silent at this point. But Anshu was now finally coming home, worn down by his mother's persistence over the phone. He wanted to bring Katherine home, not for approval or veto, but merely to introduce his wife-to-be to the whole conundrum that was India.

Dolly Chopra dressed with particular care that day. She wanted to remind this American impostor that India was more than just a land of starving swamis and skinny snakes. And so when Katherine finally did meet her at the airport, she was dazzled by the frothy concoction of diamonds and chiffon that welcomed her. Dolly was determined not to be upstaged by an upstart, so imagine her surprise when instead of a strapping blonde with china-white skin and blazing blue eyes, a slight looking, bespectacled girl with limp, brown hair and a shiny nose stepped out from behind Anshu's shadow and greeted her with folded hands. Katherine had small sweaty hands, Dolly noted with satisfaction and she in her three inch Manolos easily towered over her. Standing in the ice-cold arrivals hall of the Indira Gandhi airport that day, Dolly was seized by two sets of conflicting emotions; disappointment that her handsome, broad shouldered son, could not have netted a more desirable catch, a blonde version of Aishwarya Rai, and satisfaction that this mousy looking creature, could be easily moulded and manipulated.

Over the next few days, Dolly Chopra overwhelmed her American arrival with lavish displays of Indian hospitality. A massage lady was summoned to knead and pummel Katherine's tired limbs into repose. The head beautician of Oberoi Hotel attempted to coax her brows and hair to glossy perfection. Tailors from Lucknow competed with jewellers from Jaipur, each intent on transforming this sad specimen of Western womanhood into a vision fit for Bollywood. But to no avail, the ugly duckling refused to transform into a swan. The final straw came when Katherine announced that she was a teetotal vegan owing to a chronic stomach condition. Dolly Chopra threw up her hands in despair and sent away all the creamy, Mughlai lamb creations she had bribed the chef from Bukhara to make.

What was she to do, Dolly asked her husband after the third night. "She just sits there, eating boiled rice and curds, with chappals on her feet and face hiding in a book. "This was not the type of bahu we wanted. How can I even show her to my kitty friends? I will be the laughing stock of Delhi."

Mr Chopra tried his best to calm her down. "But have you seen the loving way they look at each other? I am telling you my dear, Anshu will be most happy with her. How carefully she listens to him." Mr Chopra of course knew that these reassurances were like water off a duck's back. Dolly refused to be satisfied. He also saw how uncomfortable Katherine was with all the attention Dolly insisted on showering upon her.

"Try this Kitty…" (Dolly had shortened the name Katherine to a racier version) she would entreat her, forcing a pearl encrusted bangle over her wrist.

"And what about this blue silk…it will brighten up your complexion."

Katherine declined each time, politely and firmly; the cotton kurta and jeans she had brought from the US would do her just fine. As for the jewellery, she hardly ever wore any, except for a small wooden cross she had picked up in Naples.

Dolly continued fuming behind closed doors…. "What a ziddi ladki, stubborn mule she is. No idea about family or status. God knows where Anshu picked her up, some hippie commune no doubt. And now she is here, hell bent on making my life a misery. I wish Mr Chopra would do something at least for once in his life."

But Mr Chopra remained impervious to his wife's turmoil. He would politely speak to his son each morning; enquire about their plans and then pleading work commitments escape to his factory in Noida. When Dolly berated him about not trying hard enough to lure their son back into the fold, he would shrug his shoulders with quiet resignation. "Everyone has their own star to follow Dolly, why bring him back to this khichdi, that is India today? Far better we let him carve his own future under the clear blue skies of the USA."

There was, as is usually the case, another reason for this unnatural paternal sanguinity. After years of wandering in an emotional wilderness, Mr Chopra had found an anchor for his emotional needs. Every evening, at precisely quarter past seven, he could be espied making his way, timidly, yet confidently to the bicycle shop next to the Eros cinema. He would then without hesitation, looking neither left nor right, make his way up the 22 steps to Neeta's massage parlour, a one-roomed affair perched precariously on top of the bicycle shop. Waiting for him there would be Nandi, the doe-eyed young Nepali girl, who somehow possessed the gift of washing out the worries from his tired limbs. Under her soft, soothing ministrations, Mr Chopra would revert once again to what he used to be, before Dolly and the whole untidy business of making money had made him take a detour in life.

Meanwhile, the delicate dance-like feud continued between the waif-like American and Dolly the Determined until one hot Monday afternoon, things reached a climax. Dolly had insisted on taking Katherine to her Gymkhana Club, a last ditch attempt to knock some sense into this stubborn American. Katherine, immersed in her Rough Guide to India, had resisted at first, but then finally relented; after Anshu persuaded her that it would be a conciliatory gesture towards his mother. The Club, as Katherine had correctly anticipated, was full of tittering women, acting all Memsahib-like over their potato cutlets and cold coffee. Katherine's non manicured hands and frayed shirt were greeted with open disdain as the women went back to their rummy game, full of audible sighs.

Dolly incensed by this poor reception, stormed out of the club, still smarting over the pitying glances of her so called friends. And no one but Katherine was to be blamed. She needed to be taught a lesson. Katherine wanted to dip her toes in the 'real India'. Her glib remark that 'surely this club doesn't symbolise India…all these ladies seem so artificial Mrs Chopra', kept echoing in Dolly's mind. No one ever dared to call her world artificial. Katherine wanted to see the real India; well, she would bloody well make sure she did. Abruptly, she ordered the driver to turn the Mercedes around. Instead of going home, they were going across the river.

Slowly, imperceptibly the landscape changed. Gleaming office blocks of glass and steel turned into a sea of cardboard, shanty huts with over flowing sewage pipes running freely through them. Vacant-eyed men squatted on charpoys playing cards, while naked children with running noses defecated boldly by the roadside. Tears welled up in Katherine's eyes as she quickly held a handkerchief to her nose.

"Well my dear, out you go now, let's sample some real India." And Katherine, too shocked to protest, found herself being pushed firmly in the direction of a lone hawker, who stood picking his nose disconsolately under a tree. A thin cloud of flies hovered over his meagre offering of cut potatoes, chillies and onions. The yoghurt which he was stirring listlessly had a faint yellowish film on top.

"One plate papdi chaat, and make it quick will you," Dolly ordered the hawker whose face had lit up on seeing such illustrious customers.

Katherine protested again but Dolly was adamant that she had to try the authentic local fare.

A small crowd now gathered around the two women, amused to see the older woman almost force-feed the sobbing white woman. Tears ran down Katherine's face, as she felt her stomach churning at the prickly taste of the chillies. Her nose was itchy and she could feel a stray dog licking her bare ankle. Retching as the unfamiliar food attacked her insides, the back of her neck covered in droplets of sweat, she looked up to see Dolly, arms folded, watching her with calm detachment. A smile, of almost pure childish cruelty played upon those perfectly made-up features.