For six weeks, she had been running. From one mandap to another. One thali to another. One “when is your turn?” to another. She had treated this season like a chore, a gauntlet, a tax on her time.
It was her childhood best friend, Meera. The wedding was in a small town near Varanasi. Riya drove six hours through fog so thick it felt like driving through a bowl of milk. She arrived at 2 AM. The wedding was at 8 AM. indian wedding season
The first wedding was a classic Punjabi affair. 500 guests. A baraat that was two hours late. A dance floor where her 60-year-old uncle dislocated his shoulder doing the Ranjha step. Riya ate four gulab jamuns before the main course even arrived. She told herself it was fuel. For six weeks, she had been running
The season wasn’t over. But for once, she didn’t mind. One “when is your turn