Chapter 24
Wedding Day
Simran is bleary-eyed and sleep-deprived and deliriously happy.
After sneaking into Iyer House as dawn was breaking, she had just enough time to shower before the family returned to the hotel.
Now she hears faint beats of music and steps out of the double doors that lead to the balcony of the bridal suite, where she and Kavitha are helping Geeta get dressed.
The high vantage point allows her to see the flat, vast grounds of the hotel sprawling under the endlessly blue midmorning sky dotted by a handful of cotton ball clouds.
Gathered around the two-tiered fountain at the entrance gate is the baraat.
All the guests from the boy’s side, plus anyone else who wants to join in, escort Rishi, seated on top of the back seat of a red convertible Maserati (replacing the horse he’d traditionally ride with horsepower) towards the wedding venue.
His face is shrouded by his sehra and the veil of flowers swings from side to side when he stands and dances.
Other hotel guests step out on their balconies to watch as the group dances and cheers their way down the long driveway.
Simran goes back inside and closes the doors behind her, the air-conditioning a relief on her already clammy skin. Kavitha clears her throat obnoxiously and taps her collarbone before pointing at Simran. She looks down and goes red, adjusting her dupatta as her cousin smirks at her.
“Okay, I’m ready,” Geeta calls and steps out of the walk-in closet.
Simran is stunned into silence at the sight of her youngest cousin in her full bridal regalia.
Geeta is in a crisply pleated Kanjeevaram sari, the silk a rich and vibrant red with spun gold threads that make her look like she’s wearing the sun itself.
A gold chain kamarband cinches her waist and her hair is smoothed into a long braid adorned with flowers and jewels, while a traditional sun-and-moon hair piece and rows of gold chains rest along her middle part and hairline.
“You look otherworldly,” Simran says. “Like a goddess,” Kavitha agrees.
Geeta’s smile rivals the sunshine outside. “Thanks!”
“You finally look the way you’ve been acting all these years: like you’re God’s gift to the world,” Kavitha teases and Geeta sticks her tongue out at her sister. She suddenly gives Simran a stricken look and shrieks. “A hickey? Are you guys sixteen?”
The main door to the suite opens, and Veena perima and Ashok peripa enter.
Her aunt is dewy-eyed and doesn’t say a word.
She reaches out to adjust a pleat but instead just smooths it, as if she can’t improve upon how perfect her daughter is in this moment.
Geeta pulls both her parents in for a hug and Simran aches with a million different feelings.
But she leans into the happiness, watching Ashok peripa kiss his daughter’s forehead so gently that it’s almost reverent.
Veena perima cups Geeta’s cheek and she reaches over to wipe her mother’s tears away.
Outside, the baraat crescendos as it reaches the entrance, ready to finish.
Veena perima and Ashok peripa rush downstairs to greet the boy’s side, while Simran and Kavitha stay upstairs to escort Geeta in a little while.
Though their parents organized most of the pre- and postwedding events, Geeta tells Simran that she and Rishi insisted on planning the ceremony to reflect them better, with a mix of practices from both their cultures, along with things they’ve liked from non-Indian friends’ weddings, like having an aisle for the family to walk down before Geeta does.
Simran opens one of the balcony doors so the three of them can get a peek out at the baraat: It’s a hive of bright colors and brown skin, pulsing to the reverberating twang of the live dhol player cutting over the piped-in music.
Simran’s eyes find Leo, standing out, tall and handsome in a navy-blue-and-gold sherwani and a gold safa around his head, as he dances a little but mostly watches the crowd.
They match, she realizes with a smile. Her outfit is the inverse combination, a navy blouse under a shimmering, biscuit-colored chiffon sari with a zari border.
“Your gora boy is pulling off desi formal wear,” Geeta says, resting her chin on Simran’s shoulder. “He’s going to look really good at your wedding.”
She opens her mouth to protest, to say it’s way too early to be talking about getting married, but the words that tumble out are, “I always knew I wanted to get married, but I could never picture it before.” She blinks, snapping out of her haze to find her cousins gaping at her.
“Aww, Geeta, it’s like when the Grinch’s heart grows three sizes,” Kavitha says. She pats her on the back. “Don’t worry, we’ll throw you a killer wedding too.”
Cheeks on fire, Simran brushes them off, refastening a bobby pin to hold the flowers in her hair more securely; she loves wearing jasmine in her hair, her favorite smell in the world wafting over to her.
When she turns back to the crowd below them, her gaze stops on a man towards the back of the baraat whose face is strangely familiar.
He’s very tall and his skin is a rich mahogany tone contrasted against a wide, white smile.
“Oh my god,” she murmurs when she realizes who it is.
“What?” Geeta asks, jewelry jangling as she turns her head to look at Simran.
“Oh my god!” This time it’s Kavitha, stepping forward on the other side.
Geeta’s head jangles in the opposite direction. “What?” she asks, a little more impatiently, not enjoying being left out.
“Is that … Kamal and Payal?” Simran asks, and Kavitha nods comically slow.
“Wait, as in Kamal Kumar? Chennai Kamal Kumar? The boy from next door?” Geeta asks.
“The boyfriend from next door,” Kavitha adds.
“Not my boyfriend,” Simran says, the same way she used to years ago when her parents would tease her. For a second, she wonders what he’s doing here. Apart from following each other on Instagram, she’s not talked to him in years. Why is he at Geeta’s wedding?
“So, speaking of things that happened when we were teenagers,” Kavitha says, her voice small. “Remember how I said my first kiss was with a girl I knew when I was young?”
It dawns on Simran, just as Geeta asks, “Payal?”
Simran looks down at the girl dancing next to Kamal, who shares the same features but set in a delicate, heart-shaped face. “Which means, outside of the three of us and your other halves, she’s the only person in the world who knows I’m gay.”
“Oh god,” Simran says, pinching the bridge of her nose.
“Why would Amma even invite her?”
“Because she invited Kamal,” Simran says flatly. “Probably to set him up with me.”
“Oh god,” Kavitha repeats, pinching the bridge of her nose. But when she pulls her hand away, she goes back to watching Payal’s dancing form.
“Maybe Amma just wanted more guests on the girl’s side than the boy’s side,” Geeta reasons. “You know everything’s a contest between her and Rishi’s mom.”
Neither Simran nor Kavitha reply, both looking down at the gyrating crowd until Geeta wraps a hand around each of their arms and pulls them back into the room, turning them to face her.
“Stop stressing. Well, stop stressing about anything that isn’t about making this the best day of my life, okay?
” She jangles as she turns to Simran. “Your scheme?” Jangle-turn to Kavitha. “Your secret? They’re both safe.”
“How do you know that?” Simran asks.
“Because there’s going to be a lot of things that distract Amma and Appa and the Chopras today,” Geeta says, a knowing smirk playing on her lips.
“Rishi and I have changed some stuff. We’re not, like, taking a stand or anything; we’re just getting married in a way that feels right to us.
And the parents are going to have capital ‘O’ opinions about that.
Like they do about everything! So trust me and don’t freak out.
” The way Geeta speaks now, voice fluid with confidence, gentle with warmth, makes Simran understand exactly why her cousin was meant to be a doctor.
It’s time for them to leave. Simran and Kavitha escort Geeta down to the entrance of the hotel as the baraat reaches fever pitch, the entire group crowding the front driveway and open-air lobby for the final few minutes of no-holds-barred dancing.
Leo catches her eye and gives her a secret, beckoning smile over the tops of everyone else’s heads.
Despite the worry that’s gnawing at her, she smiles back, a frisson of heat making her shiver as she remembers last night.
Directly behind him, Kamal gets the force of her look accidentally and waves at her. Hesitantly, she waves back.
The front entrance to the hotel is packed with wedding guests, jostling for the best vantage point. An older white couple walks out and, upon seeing the crowd, turns right back around. At the top of the steps, Rishi and Geeta face each other, their respective parents and family members behind them.
“It’s time for the maalai maatral!” one of the aunts on the Iyer side declares.
A murmur of confusion goes through half the crowd until Ravi uncle says, “Arrey, it’s just the varmaala. They call it something different in South India.”
“In Tamil,” Geeta corrects him, annoyed.
But it’s all lost in the shuffle as Rishi’s cousins move forward to lift him to put the garland on Geeta, usually a contest over whether the husband or wife can do it first, and therefore, as the lore goes, call the shots in the marriage.
Instead, he bats them away. Grinning at his bride, Rishi kneels and waves his hands, telling Geeta to go first. She has found something more precious than winning; she’s found someone who wants her to win, always.
She puts the maalai over his head before Rishi stands and does the same to her.
The dhol player bangs out a raucous beat again to signal the completion of the first ritual of the marriage as everyone cheers.