Chapter 25
So that was Ganesh puja,” Poonam aunty, who Leo’s not sure is related to either family, explains to him.
Since the moment he sat down next to her, she’s been narrating the wedding (without his asking), explaining the significance of everything from the holy fire, or agni, that the rituals will be centered around to the lavishly decorated four pillars around the stage, covered in flowers.
“We also call him Ganpati, you know: the god with the elephant head. He is the remover of obstacles, so we always pray to him before any important occasion.”
The remover of obstacles. What a wondrous thing to have on your side.
Leo’s not particularly religious or spiritual, mostly because he doesn’t know how to be.
There’s something bigger than this everyday living, he’s sure of it.
He’s felt it. In the perfect pass of the puck on the ice.
When he stood in front of The Persistence of Memory at MoMa and tears came to his eyes, even though he couldn’t explain why.
In that hotel room last night with Simran.
And in this vast, usually unremarkable hall, today wholly transformed by the brightness of the marigolds, the incantations of the priest, and the winding, earthy smell of incense as these two longtime loves adhere to eons-old traditions for the most human of acts: binding yourself to another for life.
“You can leave, you know,” Poonam aunty says, turning fully to him.
Leo blinks. “Excuse me?”
“You can leave. Anyone can. This will take at least two hours so you can go to the bathroom or grab a drink—of water, no alcohol during the ceremony!—in the hallway. See now, even Veena is getting up. It’s normal in Indian weddings,” she tells him.
Leo rubs his left temple, which still throbs from the pressure of the tight safa he wore earlier.
This is so different from any wedding he’s ever been to, which have been short, a little stiff, and, frankly, pretty white.
He kind of likes that this barely contained chaos, the many rituals, the humanness it invites, could be what his wedding looks like.
Plus, Rishi’s outfits are cool as hell.
Over these last two weeks, being the only white guy in most rooms, having everything explained to him, or getting things wrong because everyone knows them but him has given him a fresh perspective.
He’s understood, for a long time, that the world was set up for him, where others have to work years—sometimes over generations—to get to what he’s been born with.
Even though he tries to move through the world conscientiously, it will always tilt in his favor.
He’s never not been the default until these last two weeks.
It feels like something he needed to understand and something he’s a little ashamed he didn’t contemplate more deeply—after all, how he feels here is probably how Simran has felt at some point.
Onstage, Geeta and Rishi have exchanged another set of thick flower garlands when Kavitha reaches down to tie the end of Geeta’s dupatta to the end of Rishi’s sherwani scarf.
“Oh! They’ve forgotten to do the kanyadaan,” Poonam aunty says.
“It’s the part of the wedding where the bride’s father gives her to the groom, thanking him for taking her on.”
Onstage, Manjula aunty must have just quietly said the same thing. But when Rishi replies, also inaudible, her discrete manner is replaced with a loud “What do you mean we are not doing a kanyadaan?”
Poonam aunty leans towards Leo. “Uh-oh! Looks like there’s some drama.” She’s practically bouncing in her seat from excitement as she turns back to the stage.
“What nonsense are you talking?” Ravi uncle says, before realizing that he’s speaking so loudly even the last row can hear. He lowers his voice. “How can you skip the kanyadaan?”
Leo glances around and it’s as if all four hundred attendees have leaned forward to hear every detail of the argument. Some have even moved up a few rows.
“Dad, it’s an outdated tradition,” Rishi says. “At best, it makes the girl seem like a burden and, at worst, property.”
“Those are the old ideas, Rishi beta,” his mother says, as if she were explaining it to a small child. “Of course Geeta is an independent woman and we love her like she’s our own. The tradition has no meaning.”
“Then why do it?” Geeta asks.
“Because … it’s a tradition!” Manjula aunty replies, bewildered by the question.
“Geeta! This is part of how we show our respect and love for Perimaal,” Veena aunty says, sounding exasperated that she has to explain this.
“No,” Geeta says, glancing towards their captive audience.
She doesn’t lower her voice. “Our marriage will be blessed by God because we love each other and because we strive to be good people. That’s what I learned, what you taught me, Amma, during all those years when we’d go to temple.
It’s not disrespectful to change outdated rituals, especially ones that exclude or oppress others.
As long as God is in our hearts, then our practices can change as we as people change.
” Her voice is so assured that it invites anyone to challenge her; Leo can’t imagine who would.
“Rishi and I both feel strongly about how we want to start our marriage.”
“Should have let me make the PowerPoint,” he jokes, and the two of them laugh.
This seems to displease the parents further. “But how can you—” Manjula aunty says as Ravi uncle begins, “This generation and their feelings—”
“Okay, Mummy-ji. There is one solution,” Geeta says to her soon-to-be mother-in-law. She glances at Rishi, who nods firmly. He’s got her back. “We will do a kanyadaan—but only if you also give Rishi away to my mother.”
Veena aunty opens her mouth to protest but then shuts it, as if she wants to see where this goes. The laugh melts from Manjula aunty’s face when she realizes it’s not a joke.
“What?” Ravi uncle says. “Why would we do that? You are the one joining us, Geeta.”
“Why?” Geeta probes. She and Ravi uncle are both squared off, the agni crackling between them.
“Because you’re the daughter!” he says.
Rishi throws his hands up in the air. “Dad, that’s exactly what we mean.”
“You should know, Uncle, that we’re both keeping our last names,” Geeta says, chin raised and shoulders set. “My lineage deserves to be passed on too. Our children’s names are going be hyphenated.”
Leo swears he sees a tiny upwards flick of Veena aunty’s mouth, as if she likes that idea.
Ravi uncle sputters. “What nonsense! We—”
“I think we should move on.” Everyone goes silent as they realize who has spoken: Ashok uncle.
After a few moments of glaring, Ravi uncle reluctantly mutters “Fine” and Manjula aunty throws her hands up in defeat.
Leo is impressed by Ashok uncle’s influence but he knows he shouldn’t be.
When a man is of few words, the ones he says carry more weight than anyone else’s.
Veena aunty does that Indian side-to-side head nod meaning “yes,” and looks over the crowd.
“Let’s keep going. We can discuss this later.
We’re late as it is and we don’t want the shubh muhurat to pass before we finish the rituals,” she says to the whole hall.
Leo notes that they swiftly move on. Geeta is not given away by or to anyone (and neither is Rishi).
Half an hour later, the ceremony still going, Veena aunty steps off the stage and comes to him.
“Leo, there’s a stack of silk saris in a bag at the back of the hall.
Bring them to the room behind the mandapam,” she instructs.
“Sure, Aunty,” Leo replies. Yesterday, after the sangeet, he would have said he was well on his way to her approval. But that walk down the aisle told him how wrong he is. Up until now, Leo was competing against himself. Now there’s a contender.
When he gets to the green room, Veena aunty is already in there. “We need those saris folded quickly but properly, seri?” she tells him, like a pint-size drill sergeant.
Veena perima holds up a tight rectangle of fabric with the sides tucked in, the creases perfect, the whole thing appearing to be seamless. “Use this one as an example. We need them all done in the next fifteen minutes, otherwise you’ll hold up the whole wedding!”
“Uh, Aunty, could you show me how to—”
The door to the green room opens again and Kamal walks in. “Can I help?”
“No worries, I got this,” Leo says despite being about to ask for instructions.
“All good,” Kamal says, coming to stand next to Leo. He’s an inch taller. “It’s a two-person job anyway.” Leo stands up straighter.
Veena aunty’s stern, round face softens.
“Kamal,” she says, smiling, and then she holds up a sari and instructs how to fold it in rapid-fire Tamil that Leo’s beginner skills are no match for.
Surely she didn’t say the word for “banana”?
Veena aunty’s usual flat-mouthed expression returns as she looks at Leo. “Help Kamal properly, okay?”
Spinning on her heel, she heads back out to the wedding.
Of course Kamal is right. It is a two-person job and they follow a carefully choreographed process, opening the nine-yard-long sari fully before each grabbing opposite ends and coming together, Kamal folding while Leo holds the material tight to ensure there’s no slack.
It’s practically a dance, as Kamal points out after the fifth sari, pretending to do a little waltz as they step towards each other.
Leo laughs, despite himself. This guy speaks fluent Tamil, is funny, and has the face of an Indian Oscar Isaac. How the hell can Leo compete?
“You’re pretty good at this,” Leo notes.
Kamal chuckles. “You would be too, if you had to help your sister and mother fold these for years. When we were kids, our moms used to give us old saris to play with. They doubled as superhero capes, magic carpets, fort walls. One time, Simi and I wrapped Kavitha in one and rolled her down a hill.” Leo catches his easy use of the nickname he’s only heard family members use.
“Our parents grounded us for the afternoon, though Rangan mama later told me he thought it was hilarious.”
And he knew Simran’s parents. Leo sighs.
Kamal’s eyebrows raise and he misinterprets it. “Listen, sorry I took your spot in the walk,” he says. “I know you’re Rishi’s friend, but I didn’t want to make a whole scene back there.”
Leo can’t hold it against him; he climbed on a roof because Veena Iyer told him to. “It’s not a big deal.”
They walk to each other and fold the length in half, then in quarters, before he takes the material from Leo.
“No, it is. I’m not in this wedding,” he says, tucking the ends in smoothly so it looks exactly like Veena aunty’s prototype.
“I was texting my girlfriend about it and she made me realize just how inappropriate it was.”
Leo expects a cool flood of relief from this news but it never comes.
As they fold the last of the saris, he realizes why.
He’s not jealous of Kamal over Simran; he is jealous of Kamal over Veena aunty.
Leo wonders what his mother might say about him being in a love triangle with his girlfriend’s aunt.
But it’s not just Veena aunty. It’s the culture, the language, the history, all these points where Kamal is woven into the fabric of this family, so much so that he can come in and out with decades in between and still fit in.
Leo has spent the last two weeks shoehorning himself into every space and any acceptance he’s gotten, he knows, is only because everyone loves Simran so much.
Veena aunty comes back in to survey their work.
She gives a gentle head waggle of approval before plucking one of the saris from the center of the stack.
“How did this one get in here? This was my sister’s.
” She pauses for a minute, running her fingers over the thick green border.
It’s as if her whole being is muted in that moment, almost shrinking, shoulders dropping.
And then it crosses her face: a look of such pure sadness.
Leo has seen it only once before, on one other person.
And just like her, he watches Veena aunty purse her lips and pack it away somewhere deep inside, returning to her usual brusqueness.
“We won’t be using this one today. Put it aside, I’ll add it to the things I’ve saved for Simi’s wedding trousseau. ”
He leaves the green room and takes his seat next to Poonam aunty, who immediately resumes her narration.
He’s barely listening as she explains sapthapadi, where Geeta and Rishi walk around the fire seven times with a special meaning for each round, binding them together for seven lifetimes.
When he looks up at Simran, he forgets everything.
She is participating in all the activities and rituals with cheer and enthusiasm but something is off.
Leo’s seen her snarky or passionate or even sad, but there’s never been this absence of vitality.
He’s trying to catch her eye to tell her to meet him outside when one of Rishi’s cousins grabs his arm and drags him out to the hallway.
A pair of ornate gold-and-cream slip-ons studded with pearls—Rishi’s shoes—is put in his hands.
And then pandemonium ensues.