Chapter 3—Chapter 3—Turmeric and Song (The Wedding Sequence)
The wedding unfolded like a manuscript written long before the ink dried: rituals, colors, and the careful choreography of family. They chose a small hall in South Delhi that smelled of marigold and incense, a place where neighbors could bring laddu and traffic would be a manageable nuisance.
Ananya's mother, Vandana, arranged the haldi first. It was an intimate morning; women in soft salwars were squeezing turmeric with hands that knew the recipes of blessings. Rahul sat with a shy grin while cousins daubed his forehead. Ananya's face, smeared with bright paste, lit up in a way mornings rarely permitted. Haldi was messy and merciful—the sun on the balcony that day caught the powder like molten gold.
Mehendi followed, and the house filled with the smell of henna and lemon. Ananya's palms became a private cartography of vows: paisleys interlaced with tiny poems scrawled in an idle hand. Rahul tried to help and only made her laugh when he smeared a line. It became, for both, another tiny rehearsal in accepting imperfections.
Sangeet night was loud with borrowed voices. Cousins performed, friends sang film songs in off-key devotion, and Ananya's father—usually a man who rarely sang—threw himself into an old Punjabi number that made people clap and cry for different reasons. Rahul and Ananya practiced a duet that could have been a disaster; instead, it became a private joke between them: they forgot the chorus, rasped through the bridge, and kissed off-camera to roars of approval. It was not glamorous, but it was true—their truth.
On the morning of the wedding—baraat and varmala—they dressed into ritual like actors stepping into a role that was also their life. Rahul's kurta was a deep cream; he wore his father's watch, the old metal a small inheritance that felt larger than money. He threaded marigolds into his hair because a cousin insisted; he laughed at the silliness and felt the levity pocket his nerves.
Ananya wore a saree in a soft, old-rose shade, the pallu edged in beaten zari. Her mother had adjusted the pleats with hands that trembled with pride and a trace of letting go. Ananya's makeup was minimal; her beauty was not a thing to create but to reveal. She moved with calm rehearsed by long habit—her posture a language of endurance.
Varmala was a circle of garlands, laughter, and quick, clumsy attempts at romance. The pheras were quieter: four rounds around the sacred fire, each step a pledge. The priest intoned, and around them the relatives recited blessings like a chorus. Rahul's voice broke slightly on one promise—sustenance—because the sound of responsibility had weight. Ananya's vow was a measured, brave thing: to share the burdens and to ask for help rather than carry them alone.
The final ritual—bidaai—arrived like a tide. Vandana wrapped her daughter in the familiar shawl, pressed her forehead to Ananya's, and let water that had been saved for the day fall into her palm. Tears, salty and bright, found their way down cheeks. Rahul stood waiting outside the threshold, feeling suddenly adult, the weight of other people's love like a garment thrown across his shoulders. When Ananya stepped out, hand in his, the world outside felt both foreign and imminently theirs.
They celebrated with modest food, modest music, and a modest, monumental tenderness. They moved into Rahul's home that night—Mango watched from a corner, suspicious but compliant—and began the slow domestic choreography of married life: who would boil the kettle, who would sweep the balcony, and which Sunday they would visit Ananya's mother and leave ample leftovers.
The wedding unfolded like a manuscript written long before the ink dried: rituals, colors, and the careful choreography of family. They chose a small hall in South Delhi that smelled of marigold and incense, a place where neighbors could bring laddu and traffic would be a manageable nuisance.
Ananya's mother, Vandana, arranged the haldi first. It was an intimate morning; women in soft salwars were squeezing turmeric with hands that knew the recipes of blessings. Rahul sat with a shy grin while cousins daubed his forehead. Ananya's face, smeared with bright paste, lit up in a way mornings rarely permitted. Haldi was messy and merciful—the sun on the balcony that day caught the powder like molten gold.
Mehendi followed, and the house filled with the smell of henna and lemon. Ananya's palms became a private cartography of vows: paisleys interlaced with tiny poems scrawled in an idle hand. Rahul tried to help and only made her laugh when he smeared a line. It became, for both, another tiny rehearsal in accepting imperfections.
Sangeet night was loud with borrowed voices. Cousins performed, friends sang film songs in off-key devotion, and Ananya's father—usually a man who rarely sang—threw himself into an old Punjabi number that made people clap and cry for different reasons. Rahul and Ananya practiced a duet that could have been a disaster; instead, it became a private joke between them: they forgot the chorus, rasped through the bridge, and kissed off-camera to roars of approval. It was not glamorous, but it was true—their truth.
On the morning of the wedding—baraat and varmala—they dressed into ritual like actors stepping into a role that was also their life. Rahul's kurta was a deep cream; he wore his father's watch, the old metal a small inheritance that felt larger than money. He threaded marigolds into his hair because a cousin insisted; he laughed at the silliness and felt the levity pocket his nerves.
Ananya wore a saree in a soft, old-rose shade, the pallu edged in beaten zari. Her mother had adjusted the pleats with hands that trembled with pride and a trace of letting go. Ananya's makeup was minimal; her beauty was not a thing to create but to reveal. She moved with calm rehearsed by long habit—her posture a language of endurance.
Varmala was a circle of garlands, laughter, and quick, clumsy attempts at romance. The pheras were quieter: four rounds around the sacred fire, each step a pledge. The priest intoned, and around them the relatives recited blessings like a chorus. Rahul's voice broke slightly on one promise—sustenance—because the sound of responsibility had weight. Ananya's vow was a measured, brave thing: to share the burdens and to ask for help rather than carry them alone.
The final ritual—bidaai—arrived like a tide. Vandana wrapped her daughter in the familiar shawl, pressed her forehead to Ananya's, and let water that had been saved for the day fall into her palm. Tears, salty and bright, found their way down cheeks. Rahul stood waiting outside the threshold, feeling suddenly adult, the weight of other people's love like a garment thrown across his shoulders. When Ananya stepped out, hand in his, the world outside felt both foreign and imminently theirs.
They celebrated with modest food, modest music, and a modest, monumental tenderness. They moved into Rahul's home that night—Mango watched from a corner, suspicious but compliant—and began the slow domestic choreography of married life: who would boil the kettle, who would sweep the balcony, and which Sunday they would visit Ananya's mother and leave ample leftovers.