“So how’s wedding planning going?”
It was a few weeks before the wedding and we were hanging out with Romil’s sister, Kinjel, and her husband Maulin in a crowded Mexican restaurant.
“Great,” I said. “We hired someone else to do the decorations. All the parents are afraid Jafar will do something to sabotage the wedding weekend or sue us, so we’re just going to put up with him until it’s all over.”
“That’s so crazy, I really liked him when we interviewed him for our wedding,” Kinjel said. “I’m glad we didn’t hire him. I knew his kids and everything.”
Jafar is someone’s dad? I scrunched my nose up at the thought.
“There was all this drama with his family back then, which was the only reason we went with someone else,” she continued, taking a sip of her jalapeno margarita. “We felt like he’d be distracted and drop the ball.”
“Yeah. He’s definitely distracted now. You should listen to this voicemail he left me. He has no clue what’s going on. We’re so close to the wedding and I feel like he doesn’t even know who we are.”
Kinjel put my phone to her ear. This time, she was the one scrunching her nose.
“Wait. This doesn’t sound like Jafar.” She handed the phone back to me and grabbed her own.
“This is the Jafar that I’m talking about. Jafar Patel.”
“No…” I slowly said as I stared at the Google Image of an entirely different person. “The Jafar Patel we’re working with looks nothing like that. Here, I’ll show you.”
But of course, thanks to his zero internet presence, I couldn’t find a single picture of him online.
“You’re positive that isn’t him?” Romil asked. He had only talked to Jafar on the phone.
“Yes, I’m positive. That’s definitely not him.” I gave my head a little shake and put my hands up. “Wait, so there are 2 Jafar Patels, planning Indian weddings in the same state?”
My mind started to race over everything Jafar-related that confused and frustrated us.
The fact that he wanted to charge us for travel expenses to attend meetings in Raleigh, when we thought he lived in Raleigh.
He sucked, but had great recommendations from local friends, family, and vendors.
And Romil’s parents. They did see Jafar at a restaurant that night. But it was the other Jafar, not ours.
It finally dawned on me. We hired the wrong guy.
We hired the wrong Jafar Patel.
Because apparently, there are 2 OF THEM. Older Indian men. Planning weddings in the same part of the country. Without social media accounts or websites. With identical business names.
Wide-eyed, we all looked at each other and started laughing.
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