Chapter 6: Abeer

The wedding was: a production.

Not a wedding — a: production. Four days. Three venues. Seven ceremonies. The specific orchestrated excess of a Delhi Punjabi wedding between two families whose combined net worth required: security, logistics, and a wedding planner named Ritu who operated with the: authority of a field marshal and the: budget of a small nation.

Day one: the Mehendi. At the Khanna farmhouse in Chattarpur — the farmhouse that was not: a farm but was: a five-acre property with manicured gardens, a pool, and a: banquet lawn that could accommodate four hundred people and did, because four hundred was the: intimate version of a Khanna event. Gauri's hands were: painted. The henna was: dark, the patterns: intricate, the mehndi-wallah — a woman from Jaipur who had been flown in specifically because Khanna women had been getting: their mehndi from Jaipur since 1979 — the mehndi-wallah worked for: six hours. In the pattern, hidden among the: paisleys and the peacocks, she had hidden: my name. Tradition. The groom finds his name in the: bride's mehndi. If he can't: find it, the bride: rules the household.

I found it in: four minutes. Mohini timed me. She was: unimpressed.

"Four minutes? Gauri's ex took: forty-five seconds with a word search."

"Gauri had: an ex?"

"Gauri had: a life. Before: you. Shocking: concept."

Mohini and I had developed: a relationship. The relationship was: adversarial, warm, the specific bond between a man marrying into a family and the: younger sister who served as both: gatekeeper and: interrogator. Mohini tested me: constantly. She asked: questions designed to reveal whether I was: genuine or: strategic. The answer was: both. Which Mohini, being: both herself, understood.

Day two: the Sangeet. At the Malhotra estate in Vasant Vihar — the bungalow transformed by Ritu into a: spectacle. Lights. Stage. Sound system that could have served: a stadium. The families: performed. The Khannas — led by HK, who sang "Mere Yaar Ki Shaadi" with the: specific enthusiasm of a Punjabi father who had been waiting for this: moment and who intended to: enjoy it with: full volume — the Khannas danced and sang and: celebrated with the: energy of people for whom celebration was: a competitive sport.

The Malhotras were: quieter. Papa gave a: speech. Not a performance — a: speech. About Maa. About how arrangement became: love. About how the: ring on Gauri's finger had been on: his wife's finger for twenty-seven years and how seeing it on: another finger was: both grief and: joy, both ending and: beginning.

Papa: cried. Papa never: cried. Papa who ran: steel mills and negotiated: contracts and wore the same moustache since: 1985 — Papa cried on a stage in front of four hundred people because his dead wife's ring was on his: future daughter-in-law's hand and the: beauty of it was: too large for the: container.

I stood: beside him. My hand on his: shoulder. The weight of his body: shifting toward mine, the way a body shifted toward: support when grief was: too heavy to: stand alone.

"She would have: loved Gauri," Papa said. Into the: microphone. Into: the garden. Into: the night. "Kamini would have: loved her."

*

Day three: the Haldi. At both houses — simultaneously, the tradition of turmeric paste applied to: bride and groom in their respective: homes, the families separated before they would be: joined. Bimla aunty made the: haldi paste — fresh turmeric from the: market, ground with sandalwood and rosewater, the paste that was: golden, fragrant, the: colour and smell of an Indian wedding compressed into: a bowl.

The women: applied it. Gauri's aunts, her: cousins, Mohini who applied: extra on Gauri's nose because sisters: weaponised every tradition. The photographs from: Mohini's phone — which she sent me in real-time, because Mohini believed in: information warfare — showed Gauri: laughing. Yellow-faced. The lehenga: already stained. The: beauty of a woman who was not: posing but: living.

At the Malhotra house, my: haldi was applied by Papa's sisters — Bua ji from Ludhiana and Bua ji from Chandigarh, the two women who constituted: the Malhotra matriarchy and who applied turmeric with the: enthusiasm of plasterers and the: commentary of film critics.

"Too thin," said Ludhiana Bua ji.

"He needs: feeding," said Chandigarh Bua ji.

"The Khannas will: feed him. Punjabis: feed."

"We are: also Punjabis."

"We are: Malhotra Punjabis. Different: category."

Day four: the wedding.

The: Gurudwara. Bangla Sahib. The golden dome catching: the morning light, the: sarovar reflecting the sky, the: sound of the shabad kirtan filling the: space with the specific peace of a place that had been: praying for three hundred years. We chose: Bangla Sahib not because of: spectacle but because of: Maa. Both Maas. Kamini Malhotra had been: married here in 1989. The symmetry: continued.

Gauri arrived in: red. The red of: Rajasthani brides, the red that meant: everything in every Indian language. The dupatta covered: her face. The: jewellery was: heavy, the kind of heavy that made you aware of: the weight of tradition, the: physical weight of what was being: undertaken.

I sat beside her. The Granth Sahib: open. The Granthi: reading. The pheras — the four rounds around the holy book, the four promises, the four: vows that constituted: marriage in the presence of: God and: five hundred people and: two families whose combined: anxiety could have powered: the national grid.

During the: third phera, Gauri's hand: tightened on mine. Not from: ritual — from: choice. The specific tightening that said: I am here. I have: chosen this. Not because our fathers: arranged it, not because the portfolios: matched, not because Delhi: expected it. Because on a terrace in March, a man: stayed.

"I'm: staying," I whispered.

"I: know," she whispered back.

The fourth phera: completed. The: Ardas said. The karah prasad: distributed — the warm, sweet, wheat-and-ghee offering that tasted like: devotion. Man and: wife. Calculator and: Foundation.

Arranged: and: chosen. Both.