Chapter Four
Four
By the time Priya and her parents arrived at the banquet hall, the party was already in full swing.
Outside, a mix of Gujarati and Bollywood tunes spilled from the speakers.
A colorful sign welcomed guests to the sangeet, a pre-wedding ceremony that promised an evening of music, dancing, and celebration.
“Welcome, Rakesh.” Anandji greeted Puppa with a hug. “We’re so happy you could join us.”
“It’s an honor to be a part of your daughter’s sangeet,” Puppa replied, then offered Anandji’s wife a slight bow. “Thank you, Meeraji, for inviting us.”
“The pleasure is ours,” she said warmly before turning to Mumma and Priya. “It’s so lovely to see you both again.” She smiled at Priya. “It’s been a while, Priya. Are you settling in okay, beta?”
The older woman knew about her divorce, and Priya was thankful for the way she handled it, without fuss or awkwardness.
“I’m well,” Priya replied, glancing at the brightly lit hall behind Meeraji. “Looks like it’s going to be a fun evening.”
Meeraji’s smile turned brighter. “I hope you enjoy it. Come, Anand and I will show you to your table.”
She led them into the hall, past tables dressed in crisp linens.
The walls were draped in bright saris, and fairy lights twinkled above like a sky full of stars.
When they reached table 6, Meeraji and Anandji introduced them to the three women already seated, then excused themselves to greet more guests.
The Solankis took their seats, and after a few polite comments about the decor, one of the women smiled and gestured to the vertical strings of marigolds that hung like curtains behind the stage.
“They always remind me of back home,” she said. The others nodded, and the conversation shifted to where everyone was from in India.
“What about you?” they asked Mumma and Puppa.
Puppa hesitated for a split second. Priya sensed his discomfort as he steered through the conversation, aware of the subtle cues hinting at the women’s upper-caste backgrounds.
While Solanki wasn’t a common Dalit surname, the little bits Puppa shared about her family’s origins and occupation were enough for the women to figure out their caste.
“For us, marigolds have always been tied to funerals,” he continued. “We still use them when we can—woven into garlands or just the loose petals. I guess you could say they are our flower.”
Priya glanced at the golden strands. Marigolds threaded through every rite in their culture—birth, prayer, celebration, mourning. Always present, from first to last, sacred and enduring.
The conversation moved on, light and pleasant, as if nothing had been revealed.
But Priya saw how her father seemed to shrink inward, as if the unspoken had chipped away at something inside him.
Her parents did their best to wear a mask of ease, but Priya knew that if they had the choice, they would keep their Dalit identity tucked away, even around people who didn’t seem to care.
“Hello, hello!” A woman in a beautiful sari approached the table, gold necklaces glimmering at her neck. Her earrings sparkled as she paused, a younger man trailing behind her.
“Kem chho? How’s everyone doing?” she asked, her voice lively as she glanced around the table.
“Shruti,” one of the women greeted. “You look absolutely beautiful. Just as the mother of the groom should.”
“So lovely!” Mumma said, as everyone rose to congratulate Shrutiji on her son’s wedding to Anandji’s daughter.
“Thank you.” She beamed. “Have you met my other son, Ravi?” She motioned toward the man beside her. “MIT graduate. Top class. Already a senior software engineer in Silicon Valley.”
Priya froze, her gaze snapping to the man beside Shrutiji. Though his features had changed, there was no mistaking Ravi Tiwari. She remembered him from the computer camp they’d attended together as kids. He looked every bit the dashing, successful man his mother was painting him out to be.
“Haveh taaro vaaro chhe,” the ladies said to him, almost in unison. Your turn next.
Ravi laughed politely, and Priya felt a bit sorry for him. No Indian wedding was complete without a swarm of matchmaking aunties descending upon unmarried guests.
“Indeed.” Shrutiji smiled, pleased they had caught on to the true purpose behind her bragging—to find a suitable match for her son. “Ravi is a catch. Only the best will do.”
Ravi’s eyes drifted to Priya, a flicker of recognition passing over his face.
“Priya?” he asked, his face breaking into a smile. “Priya Solanki?”
“Hello, Ravi.” Priya grinned back at him. “How are you? It’s been a while.”
“Hello, beta,” Puppa cut in, stepping forward with an outstretched hand. “Congratulations on your brother’s wedding.”
“Thank you,” Ravi replied, shaking hands with Puppa and Mumma. He then turned to Priya, reaching for her hand, his fingers holding on a moment longer than necessary.
“I haven’t seen you in ages. How have you been?” he asked.
Before Priya could answer, Shrutiji stepped in.
“Come, Ravi,” she said, placing her hand on his arm.
“You must meet Joshiji’s daughter. She’s just completed her studies in London.
It’s time you met someone more your match.
You don’t mind, do you?” She gave Priya a brief, dismissive glance before escorting Ravi away.
Priya wasn’t interested in Ravi romantically, but the slight from Shrutiji still stung.
Being a divorced woman from a less prestigious background, she knew she didn’t fit Shrutiji’s vision of a suitable partner for her son.
She told herself it didn’t really matter, but it still left a bad taste in her mouth.
“I’m going to get something to eat,” she announced and began making her way to the buffet line, which was quickly growing.
“Priya.” Mumma’s hand shot out, pulling her back into her seat. “We have to wait our turn.”
Priya let out a sigh, familiar with the routine. There were no rules about who could head to the buffet, but her parents would wait until all the other guests had gone first.
“Fine,” she muttered. “I’ll go get mehndi on my hands.” She spun around and walked off, not bothering to look back.
Standing in line at the henna station, her annoyance only deepened—first at Shrutiji’s snub, then at the way her mother still treated her like a reckless teenager who needed managing.
The lively strains of garba music enveloped her, pulsing and thrumming all around.
She glanced at the dancers, spinning and clapping in perfect unison.
They moved in a blur of color and light, their laughter blending with the vibrant beat.
The music was contagious, pulling her in, urging her to move.
Priya’s feet tapped along, her body swaying to the rhythm.
Then the music shifted, and a playful, familiar tune filled the air.
Her heart gave a small jolt. A song she used to love.
She could see herself as a carefree girl, her bangles jingling in time with the beat, twirling and smiling so hard that her cheeks ached.
Priya found herself stepping out of the henna line and joining the garba. Her first few steps were small and cautious, but soon she was spinning and clapping, her laughter spilling out with each turn. The more she danced, the more her spirits lifted, her earlier frustrations slowly fading away.
Then she noticed Ravi watching her from the sidelines. He smiled and mimed a dance step, asking if he could join the fast-moving circle. Priya made room for him, and he quickly fell into step beside her.
“Think you can keep up?” Priya challenged, raising her voice to be heard.
“As long as you don’t step on my feet!” Ravi shouted back, grinning as their movements aligned—small steps, then large, in sync with the rest of the dancers. As the tempo of the music quickened, Ravi’s eyes lit up.
“Let’s see if you can keep up!” He grabbed Priya’s hand and drew her to the center of the circle.
Priya felt a pang of awkwardness, dancing in the middle of the garba circle with Ravi as her only companion. But as the music picked up, her hesitation dissolved.
“Bet you can’t do this one!” Ravi shouted over the song, switching to a complicated step.
“Oh yeah? Watch this!” Priya shot back, adding a playful twist.
As they danced together, laughing and clapping to the beat, the colors of the crowd blended into a vibrant whirl.
Priya’s dupatta came undone, leaving her stomach exposed, but she was too wrapped up in the moment to care.
There was something freeing about just dancing and forgetting everything else.
She felt light and unchained, as if casting away the burden of her divorce, her failures, and the unseen restraints that held her back.
Her movements turned bolder, and she added her own flair to the traditional steps, moving with wild, untamed energy.
When the track ended, Priya slowed to a halt, her breath ragged and her cheeks warm from the rush of really dancing. She turned to Ravi, a breathless smile on her lips.
“Don’t tell me you’re done already?” Ravi said, wiping a sheen of sweat from his own brow. “Guess I win this round.”
“Win?” Priya scoffed, trying to catch her breath. “You were two beats behind the whole time.”
“Strategy,” Ravi replied. “I was pacing myself. It’s called endurance.”
“Fine.” Priya laughed. “Let’s call it a tie, just like old times.
” She gave him a quick nod before leaving the garba.
But as she moved toward her table, she was suddenly aware of the weight of countless eyes following her.
The hum of murmured conversation seemed louder, and Priya could feel the buzz of attention her dance with Ravi had stirred.