Chapter 32
Ohhhhhhhh
Goa, Monday
There are a few seconds of silence before Rudra and I collectively go, “Ohhhhhhhh.”
Just when I thought we couldn’t be closer to the truth, we find out that this whole time, it wasn’t the bride at all.
It was the bride’s sister.
Priti hesitates for a moment before speaking. “I met Nikita in Powai when I was doing my internship. She was staying with
Amrit’s family during that period because she’s, well, his cousin. We broke up because I’d just started applying to FIT with you, Ruds, and there was no way we would’ve been able to sustain a long-distance relationship.
Not when her life is here, in India.” She smiles sadly at me, shrugging. “And as you already know, I’m not exactly an expert
when it comes to long-distance relationships.”
I shake my head, bewildered. “But, Priti, you loved her. You still do. You came all the way to Goa just so you could see her again. It was different with us. We were kids. Young. I moved when I wasn’t fully me yet.
Things are always changing when we’re growing up.
They don’t stick. And they’re rarely constant. But you and Nikita
are adults. Why would you break up over the fear of a long-distance relationship?”
“Because you leaving affected me more than you know, Krish,” Priti says, and her eyes glitter with tears. “If there’s one
thing I’m terrified of, it’s change. I’m not good at adjusting. Applying to American colleges was the most daunting decision
I’ve ever made in my life. I couldn’t imagine going so far away from home at eighteen. I still don’t think I can.”
“I get why you didn’t tell me about Nikita when you were in a relationship with her. You didn’t want to set things in stone before you were sure about her. At least you told me you were
dating someone.” Rudra’s voice quavers. “But why wouldn’t you let me be there for you when you were dealing with a heartbreak?
We’re best friends.”
Priti’s face saddens. “Trust me, Ruds, I wanted to. I felt so alone that whole time, because I was going through a horrible
heartbreak, but if I’d told you why Nikita and I broke up, you would’ve said I could manage long-distance—and I should, for her—and that would’ve had me second-guessing everything.
“I didn’t want anything or anyone to affect my decision about going to FIT. I needed to see the applications through. It wasn’t
about you at all. It was about me. I needed to keep some things to myself. I’m sorry if I hurt you in the process.”
Rudra’s shoulders seem to loosen, as if a tense cord holding them taut snaps. “Don’t apologize. I get it.”
“I’ll tell you this, though,” I say, and squeeze Priti’s hand. “Just because one long-distance relationship didn’t work out for you doesn’t automatically mean all long-distance relationships are doomed.”
“But what if we get back together and it doesn’t end up working out?” Priti says, staring down at our linked hands, her voice
cracking. “It’ll break my heart, and I can’t go through that again, Krish. I can’t.”
“But would you rather spend the rest of your life regretting not having at least given it a try?” I say, tipping her chin
up with my other hand and fiercely meeting her gaze. “You’re in love with her. You haven’t moved on, and it’s been almost
a year. If you don’t take this chance right now, you could end up regretting it forever. There’s a reason you came on this
trip with me. Because a part of you knows—”
“That I want to try,” Priti whispers, ducking her head, and a tear slips down her cheek. I’m not used to the sight of her
crying, but I know she needs to let it out. This road trip has been way too overwhelming for all of us. It’s sapped our energy
and brought out the absolute worst in us.
“Exactly.”
“I want to,” she says, her voice small. “But I’m so scared she won’t want me anymore.”
“Trust me, we know.”
Priti looks up at me, then Rudra, her eyes shining. She’s so earnest; my heart goes out to her. “Do you really think I should
go find Nikita and talk to her right now?”
“Yes!” I say.
“One hundred percent,” Rudra says firmly.
Priti swipes at the tear, a small laugh breaking out of her. “I can’t believe you guys were actually going to wreck this wedding
for me.”
“Trust me, we were legit this close to seeing it through.” I raise my hand and bring my pointer finger and thumb really close
together, not letting them touch. “I don’t know about Rudra, but I was scared.”
Priti crows with laughter again, and it’s full of life, swelling with happiness. “You mean you would’ve actually emptied that buffet table and let me climb on top to profess my love?”
“We would’ve carried you on our shoulders and paraded you around so you could tell everyone how much you love the bride and
how this wedding needs to end,” Rudra says, grinning.
“Like in the movies,” I say. “?? ???? ???? ?? ????!”*
“And you would’ve braved the fury of five hundred guests?” Priti says. “Aunties and uncles? The security at the hotel?”
“Yes, yes, and yes.” Rudra gets into the passenger seat and wraps an arm around Priti. I watch, heart pinching in my chest
as she sinks into his hold and he pecks her on the forehead. And that hankering, that utter, gutting longing for what they
have, the sort of friendship and care Priti and I had once, nearly knocks the breath out of me. I step away, feeling like
I’m privy to something I shouldn’t be . . .
When Priti tightens her grip on my hand and pulls me into a side hug. The three of us huddle close, giggling, arms wrapped
around each other. I can’t put into words how at home I feel with them. I’ve never ever felt more like I’ve belonged.
“I thought you weren’t a hugger,” I tease, one arm around Priti and the other around Rudra. It’s a mess of limbs, what with
the steering wheel and the seat restricting our movements.
“I’m not, but you guys are the biggest, most idiotic pair of dorks, and I love you both to death.” Priti pulls us in even
tighter, and we stay like that for a long while, just soaking up the comfort. “And I’m sorry,” Priti says suddenly, focusing
on me. “I’m sorry for being an absolute bitch to you, Krish. I know we’ve made up and fought too many times now for you to
believe my apologies mean anything, but I am. I truly am sorry.”
“I’m sorry too,” I say, and my eyes are burning with tears again. “For not trying to mend whatever went wrong between us from the start.”
When Priti looks up, she’s crying. “You more than made up for it.”
My next words are a blubber, and oh boy, I’m crying too. “Will you come see me in Baltimore? Can we not make this our last
interaction?”
“Yes. Yes.” Priti hugs me tight. “We’re going to make up for all the years we lost.”
I hug her back even tighter. “Yes, we will.”
In this moment, it’s like the tension that has been building up in me for years and years suddenly dissolves, moving down
my skin like rivulets of water and seeping into the ground. It makes me feel so calm, so free inside that I nearly crumple over.
When we break apart, crying and giggling, Priti dabs at her eyes even though our makeup is already running down our faces.
“Okay, I hate to ruin the moment, but now we should really go in,” Rudra says, even though he’s grinning ear to ear.
Once both Priti and I have adjusted our lehengas and salvaged our makeup, the three of us head toward the entrance. For a
moment I feel like we’re part of a Bollywood movie montage, Priti in the middle and Rudra and I on either side of her. It’s
just the universe’s way of proclaiming to me that I was never meant to be the main character.
And I’m okay with that.
It’s glittering chaos inside. There are hundreds of people loitering about the gorgeous reception, intermittently pausing
by a banner that reads Mansi Weds Soumyaroop in cursive letters. Everyone is dressed in traditional Indian finery—women in exuberant sarees, stylish lehenga cholis, and
sweeping anarkalis, and men in sharp sherwanis, kurta pajamas, and lungis.
We fit right in; nobody throws us a second glance. Priti eyes our surroundings nervously, doubt crawling over her face again, and I take her hand, squeezing. She looks down at me gratefully, and a small smile appears on her face. Her mouth sets with determination.
Loud wedding music thrums through the floor and the soles of my feet. Most of the guests seem to be heading down a corridor
decked in bright, flower-packed lights. The floor is lined with a red carpet, and the three of us push through the throng
hand in hand, the air in the tunnel thick with perfume and suffocating warmth. Lights hang from every corner of the space
possible.
We step out into a gallery by the beach. The carpet slashes to the sand, down between rows and rows of velvet-covered chairs
facing the sparkling sea. The sun is slowly sinking into the horizon, filling the sky with startling colors of gold and pink,
sporadically daubed with midnight blue.
A grand mandap has been constructed on the beach, a few meters short of the waves licking the sand, inching ever closer as
the furious night tides start to take over. It’s so beautiful I have to force my mouth shut to not gape at it.
It’s a pavilion with four pillars standing atop a platform that’s three steps high. Billowing sheaves of cloth twine around
and up the pillars, wreathed with leaves, flowers, and more lights like the ones in the corridor, and a swinging chandelier
throws flickering light on the darkening sand around it.
Mummy once told me the four pillars of the mandap symbolize many elements from Hindu myth: the four Vedas, the four stages
of life, the four directions, and most of all, balance, with the pillars signifying the stability required to hold a relationship
together.
At the center of the altar is the stone pedestal for the sacral fire, and right behind it, at the edge of the mandap overlooking the sea, are two chairs set side by side, for the soon-to-be married couple.
The bride and groom themselves are having a photo shoot on the beach, interrupted by the occasional guest offering their congratulations.
I can’t help but stifle a hysteric giggle at the thought of how Rudra and I might’ve ruined the wedding of two innocent, very-much-in-love people if we hadn’t spoken to Priti first.
The three of us pause at the edge of the wedding scene, staring at the beautiful sight, the guests laughing and chattering,
the happiness and excitement of the moment coasting in waves along the beach.
Indian weddings are so beautiful. They remain unmatched.
“So—” Priti says, and gulps hard. “I’m doing this.”
“Yes, you are,” Rudra says, smiling tenderly down at her.
I let go of Priti’s hand. “Shoo, now. Go find Nikita.”
Priti’s eyes sparkle, and she starts walking backward, blowing us kisses, before she turns and briskly heads in the direction
of the guests. Rudra and I watch her go, and I just feel so emotional I think I’m about to sob.
But most of all, I feel happy for Priti. For my cousin, my sister.
My best friend.
When Priti disappears into the crowd, I turn to Rudra. He stares after Priti for a bit. Then, sensing my gaze on him, he meets
my eyes. The part of his hair not gathered in a man bun swells in the sea breeze, brushing the edges of his sharp face. The
sun has fully sunk into the sea now, and it’s dark, but the whole place is aglow with a thousand lights. It reminds me of
the sight of him standing a step below me, under all those fireflies.
The music is soft and sweet, flutes playing in the background, signaling that the bride and groom are soon going to step onto
the altar. I can see the reflection of all the mandap’s lights in Rudra’s dark eyes.
My throat tightens. There are so many things I want to say. It’s all brimming to the surface now that I’ve had a chance to help Priti find happiness again. I need to tell him how I—
“Krishna?”
My heart lurches so hard in my chest I nearly gasp in shock while Rudra’s eyes darken. I turn to the source of the voice,
the oh-so-familiar voice I swooned over all summer.
Standing a few feet from me is Amrit Acharya.