Page 102 of Better Catch Up, Krishna Kumar
“I thought you weren’t a hugger,” I tease, one arm around Priti and the other around Rudra. It’s a mess of limbs, what with the steering wheel and the seat restricting our movements.
“I’m not, but you guys are the biggest, most idiotic pair of dorks, and I love you both to death.” Priti pulls us in even tighter, and we stay like that for a long while, just soaking up the comfort. “And I’m sorry,” Priti says suddenly, focusing on me. “I’m sorry for being an absolute bitch to you, Krish. I know we’ve made up and fought too many times now for you to believe my apologies mean anything, but I am. I truly am sorry.”
“I’m sorry too,” I say, and my eyes are burning with tears again. “For not trying to mend whatever went wrong between us from the start.”
When Priti looks up, she’s crying. “You more than made up for it.”
My next words are a blubber, and oh boy, I’m crying too. “Will you come see me in Baltimore? Can we not make this our last interaction?”
“Yes.Yes.” Priti hugs me tight. “We’re going to make up for all the years we lost.”
I hug her back even tighter. “Yes, we will.”
In this moment, it’s like the tension that has been building up in me for years and years suddenly dissolves, moving down my skin like rivulets of water and seeping into the ground. It makes me feel so calm, sofreeinside that I nearly crumple over.
When we break apart, crying and giggling, Priti dabs at her eyes even though our makeup is already running down our faces.
“Okay, I hate to ruin the moment, but now we shouldreallygo in,” Rudra says, even though he’s grinning ear to ear.
Once both Priti and I have adjusted our lehengas and salvaged our makeup, the three of us head toward the entrance. For a moment I feel like we’re part of a Bollywood movie montage, Priti in the middle and Rudra and I on either side of her. It’s just the universe’s way of proclaiming to me that I was never meant to be the main character.
And I’m okay with that.
It’s glittering chaos inside. There are hundreds of people loitering about the gorgeous reception, intermittently pausing by a banner that readsMansi Weds Soumyaroopin cursive letters. Everyone is dressed in traditional Indian finery—women in exuberant sarees, stylish lehenga cholis, and sweeping anarkalis, and men in sharp sherwanis, kurta pajamas, and lungis.
We fit right in; nobody throws us a second glance. Priti eyes our surroundings nervously, doubt crawling over her face again, and I take her hand, squeezing. She looks down at me gratefully, and a small smile appears on her face. Her mouth sets with determination.
Loud wedding music thrums through the floor and the soles of my feet. Most of the guests seem to be heading down a corridor decked in bright, flower-packed lights. The floor is lined with a red carpet, and the three of us push through the throng hand in hand, the air in the tunnel thick with perfume and suffocating warmth. Lights hang from every corner of the space possible.
We step out into a gallery by the beach. The carpet slashes to the sand, down between rows and rows of velvet-covered chairs facing the sparkling sea. The sun is slowly sinking into the horizon, filling the sky with startling colors of gold and pink, sporadically daubed with midnight blue.
A grand mandap has been constructed on the beach, a few meters short of the waves licking the sand, inching ever closer as the furious night tides start to take over. It’s so beautiful I have to force my mouth shut to not gape at it.
It’s a pavilion with four pillars standing atop a platform that’s three steps high. Billowing sheaves of cloth twine around and up the pillars, wreathed with leaves, flowers, and more lights like the ones in the corridor, and a swinging chandelier throws flickering light on the darkening sand around it.
Mummy once told me the four pillars of the mandap symbolize many elements from Hindu myth: the four Vedas, the four stages of life, the four directions, and most of all, balance, with the pillars signifying the stability required to hold a relationship together.
At the center of the altar is the stone pedestal for the sacral fire, and right behind it, at the edge of the mandap overlooking the sea,are two chairs set side by side, for the soon-to-be married couple. The bride and groom themselves are having a photo shoot on the beach, interrupted by the occasional guest offering their congratulations. I can’t help but stifle a hysteric giggle at the thought of how Rudra and I might’ve ruined the wedding of two innocent, very-much-in-love people if we hadn’t spoken to Priti first.
The three of us pause at the edge of the wedding scene, staring at the beautiful sight, the guests laughing and chattering, the happiness and excitement of the moment coasting in waves along the beach.
Indian weddings are so beautiful. They remain unmatched.
“So—” Priti says, and gulps hard. “I’m doing this.”
“Yes, you are,” Rudra says, smiling tenderly down at her.
I let go of Priti’s hand. “Shoo, now. Go find Nikita.”
Priti’s eyes sparkle, and she starts walking backward, blowing us kisses, before she turns and briskly heads in the direction of the guests. Rudra and I watch her go, and I just feel so emotional I think I’m about to sob.
But most of all, I feel happy for Priti. For my cousin, my sister.
My best friend.
When Priti disappears into the crowd, I turn to Rudra. He stares after Priti for a bit. Then, sensing my gaze on him, he meets my eyes. The part of his hair not gathered in a man bun swells in the sea breeze, brushing the edges of his sharp face. The sun has fully sunk into the sea now, and it’s dark, but the whole place is aglow with a thousand lights. It reminds me of the sight of him standing a step below me, under all those fireflies.
The music is soft and sweet, flutes playing in the background, signaling that the bride and groom are soon going to step onto the altar. I can see the reflection of all the mandap’s lights in Rudra’s dark eyes.