Years flew by, and before we knew it, we were deep into our second year of engineering at a bustling college in Pune’s outskirts. The campus was alive with the grind of lectures, late-night study sessions, and the thrill of budding independence. We’d chosen mechanical engineering together, dreaming of building machines that could change the world—or at least land us solid jobs. That particular weekend, excitement crackled in the air as we gathered at Himashu’s family home in Baner to get ready for Manoj’s wedding. The house was a whirlwind of preparations: aunties fussing over garlands, the scent of fresh marigolds mingling with sizzling samosas from the kitchen. I stood in front of the mirror, adjusting my sherwani’s collar, while Pawan wrestled with his tie, cursing under his breath. “Bro, this thing is choking me—why can’t weddings be in T-shirts?” he grumbled, eliciting a laugh from Himashu, who was meticulously folding his pagdi. “Come on, it’s Manoj’s big day. We’ve got to look sharp for the baraat,” Himashu shot back, his eyes gleaming with pride. As we helped each other with final touches—polishing shoes, pinning boutonnieres—the room filled with our easy banter, a echo of those schoolyard days. Little did we know, this wedding would spark changes that tested our bond in ways we never imagined.
The day of the baraat dawned bright and chaotic, Pune’s morning sun filtering through the smoggy haze as relatives and friends converged on Himashu’s family home like a colorful storm. Laughter echoed from every corner—uncles barking orders, cousins chasing each other with garlands, and the rhythmic beat of dhol drums warming up in the courtyard. Manoj, the groom, looked resplendent in his cream sherwani embroidered with golden threads, a sehra veiling his face as he mounted the decorated horse, his nervousness hidden behind a forced smile. The air was thick with the scent of incense, fresh flowers, and sizzling street food from vendors setting up nearby.
We—Pawan, Himashu, and I—had spent the morning helping with last-minute tasks: stringing lights, folding invitation extras, and ensuring the DJ’s playlist had enough Bollywood hits to keep the procession alive. Himashu, as the brother of the groom, was the unofficial commander, darting around with a checklist, his face flushed with excitement. “Akshat, make sure the car’s ready! Pawan, grab those extra water bottles—we don’t want anyone fainting in this heat,” he called out, his voice cutting through the din. By noon, the baraat was assembled: a vibrant caravan of cars, bikes, and a few tempos blaring horns, all decked with ribbons and marigold streamers. The procession was set to wind through Pune’s bustling streets, from Baner to the wedding venue in nearby Pimpri, a journey that promised dancing, fireworks, and the kind of joyous pandemonium only an Indian wedding could deliver.
As the group piled into vehicles, a slight mix-up in seating led to an unexpected arrangement. My mother, Kalpana, had insisted on joining the baraat early to help with any family duties at the venue. Dressed in a elegant red silk saree that shimmered under the sunlight—her choice for the occasion, blending tradition with a touch of modern flair—she ended up in the same car as us boys. “Beta, I’ll ride with you three; it’ll be fun reminiscing about your school days,” she said with her warm smile, sliding into the back seat beside me. Pawan took the wheel, his engineering instincts making him the default driver, while Himashu shotgun-called the front passenger seat, fiddling with the radio. I squeezed in next to Mummy in the back, the car’s AC blasting cool air against the rising humidity outside.