Page 67 of The Rules of Playing with Fire

It wasn’t that I couldn’t dance, but dancing wildly at a club or a party and dancing gracefully with all eyes on me were two completely different things.

“Come on, Sona. Let’s show these haters how it’s done.” Sameer took my arm, and we danced. Not superbly, but decent enough to earn enthusiastic claps and whistles. When we finished two songs, I signaled Tara to push Mihir into the theatrics. I needed my revenge.

“Friends,” Tara yelled over the dying music. “Give it up for the groom’s best friend! Mihir, show us what you got.” She bellowed with laughter, quite unbecoming of a typical Indian bride. Tara was anything but typical.

Ignoring Mihir’s smirk directed at me, I began to walk away, but he gripped my arm and jerked me toward him. Sameer gave him a dirty look and a silent mouthful.

“Hey, I need a partner too,” Mihir said, and demanded, “Turn up the music.”

Then he danced. Like a pro! As if he’d practiced the choreography to that particular song. He kept his hands on me, holding me at my elbows, arms, and waist unabashedly in front of everyone present. Using my waist, he spun me. I didn’t know I could spin that way. My skirt twirled with glee, and it garnered sharp wolf-whistles, howls, and cheers. Then he twirled me back, right into his chest, his masculine freaking scent pushing all the right buttons in my body, his eyes set firm on my face. I wanted to abandon all rules and kiss him right there, then kick him in the shin for turning us into a spectacle.

“I want you in my bed tonight,” he said in my ear.

“No.”

He waited until the music soared again, then said, “Are you trying to kill me with this look?”

“Weren't you the one who wanted to see me all dolled up?” I said, trying to keep my henna hands out of trouble.

He spun me again, and this time, he didn’t pull me back.

As the song faded into another, he turned his attention off me and invited Sameer’s cousin to join him. I stepped away and settled down to watch him go through the same motions with her. His hands were on her arms and shoulders—but not her waist, I noted. Even so, I felt a sharp tinge of jealousy. He threw me a cocky smile, and I flicked it away with a toss of my head.

When the music turned raucous, people joined in for the fun. This was the ad hoc dancing I loved. I immediately went back in, urging Sneha aunty and Tara’s mom to join me for a little hip-shaking. They indulged me for a bit before settling back down beside the bride-to-be.

When the young bodies were tired, the music faded into the background. Men took their spots beside their sisters, cousins, and spouses, feeding them as their hands soaked up the color of the henna. I felt awkward beside Tara and Sameer, who were soaking up color of a different kind.

Just then, Mihir approached us with a dinner plate and handed it to Sameer. Sameer repositioned his chair to move between Tara and me. Lovingly tearing off a piece of naan, he rolled some paneer and brought it to my mouth. My jaw dropped, and a wayward tear gathered in my eye.

“You’re family now,” Sameer said and put the food in my mouth. The silly tear then had the audacity to slip out without warning.

Tara smiled and leaned in to bump her shoulder against mine. “Hey, silly girl, you know you’ll always be loved!”

At Tara’s words, my eyes darted to Mihir. He stood behind Sameer’s chair, smiling down at us. Pulling an empty chair, he nodded for Sameer to move over.

“Let me do the honors,” he said. “If you don’t mind, Sona.”

I responded with a shy nod. Sameer hesitated, but even he couldn’t deny the feeling of love in the circle right then.

“Be gentle,” he warned Mihir.

“Oh, she can handle him,” Tara said. “She’s more resilient than she looks.”

My shy eyes darted to the plate as Mihir scooped up some dal makhani, mixed it with the rice, and brought the spoon to my mouth.

Mihir and I both knew we wouldn’t get a chance to spend the night together, but somehow it seemed superfluous in the light of this newfound kinship. Mihir was mine; he could be mine.

SONA

The Haldi ceremony was an intimate affair, with just the immediate family and close friends in attendance. Sameer’s cousins and I helped Tara don her floral necklace, earrings, and bracelets. The bright pink and yellow flowers complimented the yellow lehenga Tara had chosen in keeping with the occasion.

When Sameer emerged in a yellow kurta and white leggings, the couple was seated under the pergola. Gone were the colorful flowers from last night. The space now glowed with yellow and white ones, with shades of green and pink thrown in for contrast.

The ceremony began with Tara’s mother blessing her with a ghee diya. Then, with the fragrant turmeric-sandalwood paste on mango leaves, she placed it on Tara’s feet, knees, elbows, and shoulders, ending at the head, a ritual that would be performed in reverse after the wedding. Sameer’s mother went next, going through the same motions with her son, with some changes added in per their customs. Aunties and cousins followed. On Tara’s insistence, her mother started a Marathi song traditionally sung during Haldi. The act gained quick popularity, and Sameer’s family broke into traditional Haldi songs in Hindi and Punjabi.

The aunties then encouraged the couple to smear some of the magical paste on their unmarried cousins and friends in the hopes that they’d get hitched soon. I was the first one Tara grabbed.

“Here’s hoping you find true love and the happily ever after you deserve,” she whispered as she smeared my cheeks with the yellow paste. Mihir’s mother, who was right beside us, patted my back and placed a loving hand on my head in blessing.

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