Cars were parked haphazardly in every available spot—shiny Innovas and Scorpios proudly adorned with “Just Married” banners and floral decorations, bikes leaning casually against walls, and even a few tempos still unloading excited relatives. Pawan killed the engine with a sigh of relief, and we all spilled out, stretching our cramped legs and shaking off the road weariness. Mummy stepped down gracefully beside me, adjusting her shimmering red pallu with a soft, melodic laugh that cut beautifully through the night’s lively hum. “Finally! I thought that stubborn tyre would never get fixed. What an adventure, na?” Her voice carried that familiar lightness and warmth, instantly easing the lingering tension from earlier. We wandered around the bustling parking lot for a minute, soaking in the vibrant scene—groups of men sharing beedis and laughter near the gate, women in shimmering lehengas and sarees chatting animatedly in clusters, and kids running wild with sparklers, their joyful shrieks adding to the magic.
Ravi pulled out his phone first. “Let me call Manoj bhaiya and let them know we’re finally here.” I dialed a cousin, while Pawan quickly messaged the group chat. Responses flooded in almost immediately: “Arre, late ho gaye! No problem at all, change karo, fresh ho jao, have some snacks—cold drinks are in the fridge. Phir seedha bride ke ghar aao for the main function. Location is just 3 km away—walk kar lo or grab an auto. Jaldi aao, dancing shuru hone wala hai!”
The dharmshala itself was a sprawling single-story complex—simple yet welcoming, with long rows of rooms for overnight guests, a large central courtyard perfect for functions, and a communal dining area already buzzing with activity and delicious aromas. We grabbed our overnight bags from the trunk and headed inside one of the allocated rooms for the groom’s side—a basic but comfortable setup featuring traditional charpoys, a couple of ceiling fans whirring overhead, and attached bathrooms for convenience. Relatives waved enthusiastically as we passed: “Vivek beta! Pawan! Ravi! Aao aao, come have something cold to drink!” Someone promptly thrust paper cups of refreshing Rooh Afza into our hands. We freshened up quickly in the room—splashing cool water on our faces, combing our hair, and shaking off the dust and sweat from the long journey. Snacks were thoughtfully laid out on a nearby table: crispy samosas still warm from the fryer, packets of salty namkeen, fresh seasonal fruits, and bottles of Thums Up chilling invitingly in ice buckets. We devoured a few bites greedily, the spicy crunch providing the perfect revival after the exhausting day.
Then came the exciting part—the changing into our full wedding finery. We’d packed our outfits carefully for the occasion. I slipped into mine first: a tailored cream sherwani with subtle, elegant zari embroidery that caught the light beautifully, paired with a matching churidar and traditional mojari shoes that felt slightly tight but looked impeccably sharp. Pawan’s was a richer, deeper gold that accentuated his broad shoulders and height—he cursed playfully while adjusting the heavy dupatta. “Yaar, these things feel like armor. How do grooms even manage to dance in all this?” Ravi opted for a sophisticated navy blue sherwani with intricate silver threading, looking every bit the proud younger brother—polished, confident, and handsome, his pagdi tied with expert flair. We helped each other with the final meticulous touches: pinning safa brooches securely, straightening collars and stoles, and spraying a generous dash of attar whose rich oud and rose fragrance filled the room with a luxurious, masculine scent that perfectly complemented the festive mood.
