Cars were parked haphazardly everywhere—Shiny Innovas and Scorpios adorned with “Just Married” signs, bikes leaning against walls, even a few tempos unloading more relatives. Pawan killed the engine, and we spilled out, stretching our cramped legs. Mummy stepped down gracefully, adjusting her pallu with a soft laugh. “Finally! I thought that tyre would never get fixed.” Her voice carried that familiar lightness, cutting through the night’s hum. We wandered around the parking lot for a minute, taking in the scene—groups of men smoking beedis near the gate, women in shimmering lehengas chatting animatedly, kids running wild with sparklers. Himashu pulled out his phone first. “Let me call Manoj bhaiya—tell them we’re here.” I dialed a cousin, Pawan messaged the group chat. The responses came quick: “Arre, late ho gaye! No problem, change karo, fresh ho jao, snacks khao—cold drinks fridge mein hain. Phir seedha bride ke ghar aao. Location 3 km door hai, walk kar lo ya auto le lo. Jaldi aao, dancing shuru hone wala hai!”
The dharmshala itself was a sprawling single-story complex—clean but simple, with rows of rooms for guests, a large courtyard for functions, and a communal dining area buzzing with activity. We grabbed our overnight bags from the trunk and headed inside one of the allocated rooms—a basic setup with charpoys, a couple of fans whirring overhead, and attached bathrooms. The groom’s side had claimed a block of rooms for changing and resting. Relatives waved as we passed: “Akshat beta! Pawan! Himashu! Aao aao, thanda piyo.” Someone thrust paper cups of Rooh Afza into our hands. We freshened up quickly—splashing water on our faces, combing hair, shaking off the road dust. Snacks were laid out on a table: samosas still warm from the fryer, packets of namkeen, fresh fruits, and bottles of Thums Up chilling in ice buckets. We devoured a few bites, the spicy crunch a perfect revival after the long day.
Then came the changing. We’d packed our wedding finery carefully—crisp sherwanis in shades of ivory and gold, with embroidered motifs that caught the light. I slipped into mine first: a tailored cream piece with subtle zari work, paired with a matching churidar and mojari shoes that felt a bit tight but looked sharp. Pawan’s was deeper gold, accentuating his broad shoulders—he cursed playfully while adjusting the heavy dupatta. “Yaar, these things are like armor. How do grooms even dance?” Himashu opted for a navy blue sherwani with silver threading, looking every bit the proud younger brother—polished, confident, his pagdi tied with flair. We helped each other with the final touches: pinning safa brooches, straightening collars, spraying a dash of attar that filled the room with oud and rose.
But Mummy… god, when she emerged from the ladies’ section next door, borrowed for a quick change, she stole the show without even trying. She’d refreshed her makeup subtly—just a touch of kajal to deepen her eyes, a fresh coat of maroon lipstick that matched her saree, and her long hair loosely pinned with jasmine flowers borrowed from a relative. The red silk saree draped her like it was made for her alone: rich crimson with golden borders that shimmered under the tube lights. But it was the blouse that elevated everything—a backless halter design, low-cut in the front, revealing just enough cleavage to be elegant yet breathtaking. The fabric hugged her toned figure perfectly, the low neckline framing her graceful neck and the soft swell of her breasts. From the side or back, the open blouse exposed smooth, flawless skin, the thin strings tying it in place like delicate accents. She was 42 now, but looked a decade younger—full of life, radiant, with that perfect hourglass body honed from years of yoga and daily chores: curves in all the right places, a flat stomach from discipline, hips that swayed naturally as she walked. Her face—cute yet strikingly beautiful—with those expressive eyes, high cheekbones, and that infectious smile that lit up rooms. She adjusted her pallu modestly, but the overall effect was stunning: no less than a bride herself, turning heads effortlessly.