20. Sona
SONA
T hings had certainly changed when I saw Mihir in December. It had been only three weeks since Montréal, but we had talked over the phone almost every night.
On the first night, I had erroneously mentioned that the massages he had arranged for us in Montréal had helped relax me immensely. The next thing I knew, he had located an exclusive spa close to my apartment and booked massage sessions for me every other weekend. I had always been a gift giver , and receiving gifts, apart from my parents, had always been weird for me. I tried telling him that, but his approach was straightforward.
“You work too hard. I can’t be there to care for you personally, so this is what I’m going to do,” he had said when I objected.
Two sessions in, I wasn’t complaining. It relaxed me more than I had expected, and it helped with my overall mental health.
During this visit to Dallas, despite Tara’s strenuous objections, I checked into a hotel. I didn’t want to cramp Tara’s space with everything going on during her wedding, but I also wanted to steal some alone time with Mihir. Having a hotel room all to ourselves seemed like the safe solution that wouldn’t raise eyebrows.
The wedding venue was a ranch in Parker, but the Mehndi and Haldi ceremonies were planned at Sameer’s parents' home. Late morning on the day of the Mehndi, I carried my luggage over, and Riya set me up in one of the rooms on the second floor of their palatial home.
I hadn’t had a chance to see Mihir all day. I kept daydreaming about him in traditional Indian clothing, and it had set my heart thrumming. After helping Tara and Riya get dressed for the event, I returned to my room to change. I had just locked the door when I heard a soft knock. Assuming it was Riya, I opened it with haste, only to find Mihir slipping in stealthily.
“What are you doing?” I whispered as he locked the door behind him. “You can’t be here!”
“Shh, let me kiss you quick. I stole a minute from Sameer. He’s been watching me like a hawk.”
“That’s why you need to stay away,” I warned in a hushed voice.
He pulled me close but didn’t kiss me. Leaning in, he buried his face in my neck and inhaled as if he’d been waiting for that particular breath all day long. “Oh, Sona,” he said, and I wrapped my arms around him.
“I need to be downstairs soon. Tara’s waiting for me,” I said to distract myself from the fact that both my stomach and my heart were in knots.
He peered straight into my eyes, and my heart stumbled over itself before he placed his lips gently upon mine. The tenderness, however, soon turned into wildfire, like it always did between us.
He put his hand underneath my T-shirt, snapped open the hook closures of my bra, and pushed it up to free my breasts. With his hand flat on my abdomen, he slid it up slowly as his frenzied mouth continued to devour me.
His thumb landed on my nipple with just the fabric of my T-shirt between us, and I lost my bearings. When I moaned in his mouth, his touch turned to fire and he pinned me against the door. I reached out to touch him, but before I could, he pushed my shirt up and squeezed my breast. I clutched his hair in my fist as he moved to the other.
I was ready to take him on. I extended my hand again toward his jeans to grab what was mine, but he caught my wrist and pulled it away. Promptly dropping his grip on me, he replaced the lust on his face with severity.
“And that, darlin’, is payback for your torture in Montréal,” he said while pinching my nipple. He slipped his hand between my legs to cup me, hissing at the heat he had managed to generate there.
“Hold on to this feeling until I’m ready to fuck you hard and long,” he commanded in my ear, and I got hotter and wetter.
If I’d had the presence of mind to anticipate his villainy, I would’ve been better prepared with an angry frown. Instead, I stood stupefied, my mouth gaping in disbelief, hands in mid-air where he had left them. A frown did finally appear, but it was, at best, a feeble afterthought. If I could curse, I would have unleashed a string of the choicest words.
But all I could manage was, “You are the devil. You are as heartless as they come!”
“Yes, babe. Didn’t you know that already?” He dragged his thumb with some force across my lower lip and along the dent in my chin. “Now, don’t be late. I’ll go change, but I want to see you all pretty and dolled up. Got it?”
Oh yeah, I had got it . I would give him dolled up in a way he would never expect.
After I chucked him out of the room, I changed into a fresh pair of hipsters. Then, I slipped into the teal lehenga Tara had custom-made for me and went to the large guest room, where the make-up artists had set up shop.
When they began draping the dupatta, I asked them to leave my back and waist bare. My plan was to put myself on full display, then deny him the pleasure of my body. Two can play at that game. Instead of fashioning my hair into an updo, I opted to let my curls cascade along my back.
If he didn’t die to dig his fists into them, I’d change my name, as they say in Hindi.
The make-up was simple but irresistible. Sheer foundation, light shimmery eyeshadow, false lashes, and a plum lipstick that complemented my bright pink dupatta. Finally, I put on a kundan necklace that sat comfortably on my collarbone. The big but surprisingly lightweight earrings came mid-way to my shoulders.
I glimpsed at my reflection in the mirror. Try resisting me now, Mihir Seth .
As I descended the stairs, I caught him ambling around aimlessly, waiting for me. His gaze froze on me like it had once before, and he mouthed an expletive, which make me gush inwardly. Turning my nose up, I brushed past him and across the foyer.
I would be remiss if I didn’t say that seeing him sent my heart and other things throbbing. He wore a kurta that showed off his toned torso, with tight cotton leggings that accentuated his strong calves, making his legs longer and sexier. The beard added to his regal look. The only things missing were a royal turban and a string of pearls around his neck, and he’d pass as royalty.
He followed me to the grand living room where everyone had gathered. I settled down beside Tara while we waited for the henna artists to arrive. Mihir followed me and took an empty seat on the couch, diagonal from where I sat.
I played the demure, good girl with downcast eyes that were set firmly on the hands in my lap. Then I glanced up at him and winked. His face changed, and he quickly scanned the company around us to check if anyone had noticed. I, for one, remained unperturbed. I knew there was too much commotion for anyone to pay heed to us.
When I was sure I had his attention again, I pretended to adjust the dupatta in my lap while tracing a seductive finger along my neck and chest. I looked up once more and winked again. He froze again. From the corner of my eye, I saw him shift in his seat, then get up and walk away.
When the henna artists arrived, we settled under the shaded pergola in the backyard. The waning sunlight made for a pleasant evening, and the outdoor heaters were already set to a cozy temperature. The pergola had been decorated with floral arrangements and garlands. Bright, vivid cushions flanked the elegant seating, making it a picturesque background for colorful photos. Tara sat with her feet propped up on low stools as two artists began working on them. She looked gorgeous. I pulled out my phone, clicked a few pictures, and uploaded them to Instagram.
As the guests arrived, I chatted with Mihir’s parents, got introduced to Sameer’s cousins, and joined in their shenanigans while strategically avoiding Juhi.
When the artists finished adorning Riya’s hands and arms with delicate floral designs, I took her spot. As I settled down with pillows under my elbows, Riya came over and held out her hands.
“Absolutely gorgeous!” I said. “Now make sure you don’t touch anything until it’s dry, or it will smudge.”
“I’m hungry,” she said.
“Uh-oh.”
“And I can smell the goodies.” She eyed the buffet table being set up on the lawn. The smell of all kinds of fried goodness gave me hunger pangs too.
“Okay, hold on for a minute,” I said. “Mihir, can you come here, please?”
“Yes?” he said, annoyed that I had so brazenly summoned him.
“Can you get Riya something to eat and feed her?”
“What?” they both cried in unison.
“Well, someone needs to feed her. The women all have henna on their hands,” I said with a serious face.
They looked at each other and cringed.
“I’ll get her food, then ask my mom to feed her,” Mihir said, giving her a stern look.
“Oh, too late!” I grinned as another artist began working on his mother’s hands.
“What about Sameer? He’s the brother. She’s his headache.” He growled at Riya, and she snarled back defiantly.
“He’s the groom, and he’s busy. Can’t you see? You are the stand-in brother. Do your duty.”
Mihir grumbled and gave me one last glare before walking toward the buffet table.
Riya remained standing near me. “That dude is intimidating,” she said.
“Hey,” I whispered. “It’s time to get even. Boss him around. It’s payback time for all the growling.”
That perked her up. Her wide eyes brightened, and she skipped to Mihir. I saw her give him directions around the buffet table. I couldn’t see his face, but I was sure he was cursing in his head.
They came back with food on a plate and pulled chairs near me. Mihir scowled at me, and I smiled back sweetly as he fed her.
“Dude, at least see where the spoon is headed,” Riya said, following my instructions to a T. “And I want paneer with the rice, not dal. You’re not doing a good job.”
“I know this is your doing,” he said to me. “What did you say to her?”
I ignored him and focused on my hands. I’d already caught a glimpse of tenderness in his eyes. He was enjoying playing a big brother to Riya.
When all the women had henna on their hands, the soft music playing in the background turned louder and brassier. It was Bollywood dance time!
Sameer’s cousins and friends began urging him to dance. A microphone suddenly appeared, and Sameer’s cousin held it for Tara, whose voice came loud and clear over the music.
“Family and friends,” she began, “who wants to see Sameer dance?”
People cheered and whistled. The music got louder. Sameer’s fair face turned red. He was an abysmal dancer.
“I can’t do this alone,” he said, pulling the mic from his cousin. “I need a partner.”
“Sorry,” Tara said. “I have henna on my feet.” She gave a sweet, teasing smile.
“The next best thing is the bride’s friend,” Mihir’s loud voice declared above the noise of the music. He put his fingers in his mouth and blew a shrill wolf-whistle, then winked at me.
My body froze as people cheered around me. Someone pulled me and placed me next to Sameer, the loud music blaring in my ears.
I looked at Tara with terrified eyes. I wasn’t her! She was the spirited, take-everything-in-your-stride gal. I was more of an I-might-be-cool-but-I-have-a-very-narrow-comfort-zone person. She nodded and smiled in encouragement.
It wasn’t that I couldn’t dance, but dancing wildly at a club or a party and dancing gracefully with all eyes on me were two completely different things.
“Come on, Sona. Let’s show these haters how it’s done.” Sameer took my arm, and we danced. Not superbly, but decent enough to earn enthusiastic claps and whistles. When we finished two songs, I signaled Tara to push Mihir into the theatrics. I needed my revenge.
“Friends,” Tara yelled over the dying music. “Give it up for the groom’s best friend! Mihir, show us what you got.” She bellowed with laughter, quite unbecoming of a typical Indian bride. Tara was anything but typical.
Ignoring Mihir’s smirk directed at me, I began to walk away, but he gripped my arm and jerked me toward him. Sameer gave him a dirty look and a silent mouthful.
“Hey, I need a partner too,” Mihir said, and demanded, “Turn up the music.”
Then he danced. Like a pro! As if he’d practiced the choreography to that particular song. He kept his hands on me, holding me at my elbows, arms, and waist unabashedly in front of everyone present. Using my waist, he spun me. I didn’t know I could spin that way. My skirt twirled with glee, and it garnered sharp wolf-whistles, howls, and cheers. Then he twirled me back, right into his chest, his masculine freaking scent pushing all the right buttons in my body, his eyes set firm on my face. I wanted to abandon all rules and kiss him right there, then kick him in the shin for turning us into a spectacle.
“I want you in my bed tonight,” he said in my ear.
“No.”
He waited until the music soared again, then said, “Are you trying to kill me with this look?”
“Weren't you the one who wanted to see me all dolled up?” I said, trying to keep my henna hands out of trouble.
He spun me again, and this time, he didn’t pull me back.
As the song faded into another, he turned his attention off me and invited Sameer’s cousin to join him. I stepped away and settled down to watch him go through the same motions with her. His hands were on her arms and shoulders—but not her waist, I noted. Even so, I felt a sharp tinge of jealousy. He threw me a cocky smile, and I flicked it away with a toss of my head.
When the music turned raucous, people joined in for the fun. This was the ad hoc dancing I loved. I immediately went back in, urging Sneha aunty and Tara’s mom to join me for a little hip-shaking. They indulged me for a bit before settling back down beside the bride-to-be.
When the young bodies were tired, the music faded into the background. Men took their spots beside their sisters, cousins, and spouses, feeding them as their hands soaked up the color of the henna. I felt awkward beside Tara and Sameer, who were soaking up color of a different kind.
Just then, Mihir approached us with a dinner plate and handed it to Sameer. Sameer repositioned his chair to move between Tara and me. Lovingly tearing off a piece of naan, he rolled some paneer and brought it to my mouth. My jaw dropped, and a wayward tear gathered in my eye.
“You’re family now,” Sameer said and put the food in my mouth. The silly tear then had the audacity to slip out without warning.
Tara smiled and leaned in to bump her shoulder against mine. “Hey, silly girl, you know you’ll always be loved!”
At Tara’s words, my eyes darted to Mihir. He stood behind Sameer’s chair, smiling down at us. Pulling an empty chair, he nodded for Sameer to move over.
“Let me do the honors,” he said. “If you don’t mind, Sona.”
I responded with a shy nod. Sameer hesitated, but even he couldn’t deny the feeling of love in the circle right then.
“Be gentle,” he warned Mihir.
“Oh, she can handle him,” Tara said. “She’s more resilient than she looks.”
My shy eyes darted to the plate as Mihir scooped up some dal makhani, mixed it with the rice, and brought the spoon to my mouth.
Mihir and I both knew we wouldn’t get a chance to spend the night together, but somehow it seemed superfluous in the light of this newfound kinship. Mihir was mine; he could be mine.