8. Deshi Wedding: Part 1

"Call me West," I mimicked him, feigning a squeaky voice. "Bloody jerk!"

Fuming vehemently, I rode DiCaprio home. West had come to school yesterday after skipping the first three days of the week and had asked for permission to sit with us at lunch, from EVER, not from me, as if we didn't have a heart-to-heart a few days before. Proceeding to climb in beside me (which earned me equally suggestive looks from Lee, Art, Troy and Ever), he barely acknowledged my existence and instead blabbered on to Ever about basketball strategies. And then, after school today, even after I'd called after him twice, he'd brushed past me. So it's official: Just West is ignoring me.

Sticking the dull key into the doorknob, I kicked my shoes off, leaving them to lie wildly in the foyer. I climbed the steps to my room - two at a time. As I plunged face-first into my bed and clutched the kolbalish tightly in my arms, I felt like crying.

Sitting upright, I grimaced at the sight of the gorgeous forest green lehenga sprawled on my bed, sent by the bride's mother for me to wear tomorrow night so that all the girls could wear the same outfit. By the looks of the embroidered details on the lehenga, it was apparent that these relatives of mine had both taste and opulence.

I'd once read in a book that if you stood in the sun with a clove of garlic under your armpit, you'd get a fever. Maybe I should try my luck with garlic tomorrow?

Bailing out would be escapist, I supposed. I glanced at the mirror across the room. The reflection stared back at me with passive, watery eyes which made me pity myself and a double chin beginning to jut out courtesy of all those unaccounted for pizza slices. Gazing at my lap ruefully, I was quick to reach for my phone when it buzzed in the netted pocket of my teal bag.

- A surprise for you tomorrow. Be there or be square - W

The text from a private number made me gaze in wonder at the iPhone screen chipped in a corner as the keyboard clicked with each letter of my reply.

-Not even gonna ask how you got my number

-You suck

West left me seenzoned. Geez, I don't get him at all.

My fingers itched to dial up Sharmaji for a couple of kaju katlis. Sharmaji, owner of the only Indian shop in Edelweiss, had grown so fond of me - a regular visitor and connoisseur of Sharma's Sweetmeat - over the past few years that I got a generous discount nearly every time I went there or ordered something. I think it was partially because I was the only one besides his wife and children who spoke his native language. Again, brown privilege.

After Sharmaji had written down the order for two kaju katlis and a laddu with an extra topping of slivered almonds, chewing absentmindedly on my lips, I remembered what West had said earlier this week about the need to be brave. I realised that I'd never really needed to be brave before (except the time a ginormous spider got into my room and I'd screamed bloody murder, but this wasn't a spider).

My phone pinged again.

'Be brave.'

I marveled at the coincidence - it was as if he'd read my mind. Weirdly enough, for a moment, I felt as though I wasn't alone in all of this.

I decided to try my best to follow P*******t's advice: to be soft & have courage.

-

From the back seat, I checked my reflection for a final time in the Uber's rear-view mirror. I'd conditioned my hair and had let it cascade down in shiny curls to its full length, nestling just above my waist. The chocolate lipstick I wore was classy enough to smooth away the faint scrunches on my forehead that I hadn't even noticed.

As Bapi showed the guard a screenshot of the e-vite on his phone, the tall gates gracefully swung open to let us - fashionably late by two hours - into the minute-long driveway. Clambering out of the car with my jhumkas jingling merrily, I shivered when the chilly night air grazed my arms.

From up close, the pearly white fairy lights strewn over the mansion and along the driveway looked almost celestially beautiful. Suspiciously, no music could be heard.

I smiled warmly at the trio of young boys excitedly bouncing down the staircase with garlands they had probably stolen from the stage. We soon discovered, that this was a twist on the traditional Gaye Holuds. Our hostesses, Khammi and Salma Chachi, approached us. While both donned georgette sarees matching the colour of my lehenga, Salma Chachi had a brilliant glow about her face that came from finally managing to make her daughter agree to conjugal life.

Exchanging greetings, she ushered Ma and Bapi, both of whom were also wearing dark green traditional wear, into a large hall. A banner hung above the doors of the hall that read 'Moms & Dads' in the font used in old newspapers. With awkward hesitance, I took half a step to follow them in when Salma Aunty placed a hand on my shoulder and pointed down the entrance hall.

"You'll find a room reserved for the young people, sweetheart," she smiled kindly. Hell yes. With no aunties' and uncles' overbearing pointed looks, tonight is gonna be chaotic. This will be perfect for my scheme.

Smiling in return, I headed to the hall and found a banner hanging over a tall set of doors with 'Gen Z, Millennials and 00's Kids' printed in cursive. Taking a deep breath, I pushed the door open.

The trendiest pop song blared from the speakers inside, making me discover that the room had been sound-proofed. Decorated with gorgeous multicoloured lighting and curtains, the hall with its high ceiling was filled with the sweet smell of jilapi, a heavenly sweet, cooking in a huge pan in a corner. Sucking in the sudden urge to turn back and run away, I walked in with steps shortened under the burden of my lehenga.

For those who don't know, in brown families, the cousins are either air-tight close buddies or snakes - there's no in between (there's also a category of cousins who lowkey want to marry each other, and they're usually weird as fuck). This would be a good time to tell you that of my three first cousins and forty-three second cousins, every last one was a snake. At weddings, we fake smiled each other, pretended to enjoy hanging out with each other and roasted the beyains or brothers-in-law trying to hit on us. Nevertheless, these cousins of mine were great partners at dancing to Bollywood songs with too much bass, so I sometimes found myself looking forward to their company.

I dished out the first exclusive fake smile of the night to Khammi's daughter Fariah as I made my way over to her, dodging people carrying out elaborate photo shoots. Flashing me an equally artificial smile, she led me to the throng of girls laughing loudly at a corner. As they plunged into a competition about whose boyfriend was the best, I amusedly listened with a luscious, warm and dripping  jilapi in my hand.

My heart trembled a little in trepidation even though Zayan Elahi was nowhere to be seen. Yet.

A short English man sporting a goatee and a name tag reading Rudyard rapidly clicked away photos in his oddly large camera. I soon understood that it was a Polaroid camera when I noticed him handing out printed photos to people, making delighted smiles appear on their features. Fariah said that he'd been hired by Luthfar Uncle for surprising the guests.

My mind wandered back to West and his promised 'surprise'.

Once most of the guests had arrived, the music stopped. Everyone was made to part and give the ones about to perform their space.

A well-known voice cleared its throat in front of the mic. "This is Zayan and you're at Razia Apu's Holud Nightt! Lemme hear some noise, everybody!" As everyone clapped and cheered, I moved to the front of the audience, desperately trying to get rid of the loose strands of doubt in me. "Brilliant! Hold on to your horses, because things are about to get wild. At first, we'll have the performances. Then we proceed to a couple dance," people 'ooh'ed in unison to that, making him laugh; I felt my blood curdle. "And lastly, after dinner, we let the DJ take over. Have a great night everybody!"

An adorable trio of toddlers bounced up to the dance floor and started dancing in a peculiar fashion, making good-natured laughters to erupt from the crowd. This was followed by duos and troupes of people swaying and shimmying to loud Bollywood tunes, catchy Bangla songs and the occasional English lyrics.

As people giddily started to pair up for the duet, just as I'd hoped, a finger tapped on my shoulder. When I turned around, Zayan flashed me his signature wolfish grin. "May I have this dance, m'lady? After all, your boyfriend isn't here tonight."

Nodding, I shuddered at his touch as he placed a hand on my waist and took mine in the other, but I was intent on teaching him a lesson. I mentally groaned when the lights dimmed and Ed Sheeran's 'Perfect' started playing, because I'd always been endeared by the thought of dancing to it with someone special. Zayan skillfully wove through the crowd, swaying to the melody, and managed to get us to an intimate corner where nobody would notice us. I didn't complain.

"Your boyfriend seems like a bore," he purred. "You're only with him because of his looks, huh?" he let his palm drop below my waist. That's fucking it.

"At least he isn't a fucking psycho," I breathed, grabbing his shoulders and bringing my right knee up as forcefully as I could to his crotch. He fell to his knees, howling in pain, but the chorus drowned him out. Besides, everyone was busy enough staring into each other's eyes to notice us anyway.

My plan was to slither away after I'd managed to give him a good kick (although a police complaint was far more preferable). However, the enormous dish of warm syrup for dipping the jilapis standing harmlessly right next to him made an idea pop into my head. While the bastard was busy clutching his crotch with both hands, I heaved the incredibly large spatula with both hands from the dish and gave him a mean shove. He toppled right into the dish, honey-coloured syrup seeping into his panjabi, and, dropping the spatula on top of him, I turned to make a run for it.

That's when I noticed the figure with arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the wall, clad in an absolutely stunning forest green punjabi, judging my actions with a smile that made pride shine in his eyes.

I was afraid that my eyes would pop right out of their sockets from staring at him with incredulity, but thankfully, before such a tragedy could happen, the song slowly sizzled to an end.

West quickly crossed the space between us and grabbed my hand as the lights brightened.

"Let's run," we said in perfect unison.

-

The tingling sensation on my palms as West let go of my hand was new. I welcomed it.

Laughing, I bent over the chest-high railing. Even I'm-so-brooding West couldn't help a wide smile. We'd just witnessed Zayan become the centre of everyone's ridicule as he staggered across the hall, dripping head-to-toe in syrup while we crept out to this balcony.

West's eyes twinkled infectiously, leaving me a little breathless. "Looks like you handled it without my help, after all. By the way, aren't you wondering how I got here?" he asked, leaning his back against the railing with his arms propped up on it.

"What's the point in asking? You never tell me anything anyways," I said, imitating him and pushing up against the railing with my elbows propped up.

"If you don't wanna know, then fine-"

I quickly cut him off, "No! I mean, yes, I wanna know."

He rolled his eyes, the ghost of a smile still on his lips. "Shuan taught me how to hack into simple systems earlier this week. Basically, I had your aunt's wedding organisers email me an invite. Pretty smart, huh?" his signature small smirk  graced his features, the arrogance dripping from it.

"That can't be something good," I shook my head, smiling. "Why'd you do it, though?"

"Well," West stared at the grey marble floor for a few moments, "to be honest, if I were you, I'd want somebody to be beside me while I dealt with a pedophile."

Taken aback, I gazed at him in wonder. "But, like, since when do you care?"

"I'm really not sure," he muttered absentmindedly, his gaze trailing on my figure. "It's a good look on you, Rashid."

"You mean the lehenga?" I managed to twirl on my feet to show off my attire despite my warm cheeks and ears. Thank god for the horrible heavy curtains Khammi loved - there was barely any light slipping into the balcony.

"I meant courage, but okay."

"Wow. That's probably the nicest thing you've said to me," I mused, expecting him to roll his eyes, but he smiled again, making- never thought I'd actually say this - butterflies appear at the pit of my stomach.

Not letting him reply, somebody at the microphone requested everyone to finish dinner quickly, and we cautiously entered the hall again when Zayan couldn't be spotted anywhere. From the luxurious buffet, I picked a couple of  slices of naan bread, chicken fresh from the tandoor and mutton curry (with a side of some mushroom salad because I felt bad for the veggies), while West piled a generous serving of nearly everything on the menu onto his plate. When I raised an eyebrow at him, he shrugged. "I haven't had desi food in ages, don't judge."

As we were looking for a place to sit at, the table full of my cousins beckoned us over. Surprising me, West  began to walk over to the table, leaving me to follow him.

"Aditi, won't you introduce your handsome friend to us?" Adnan, a squishy second cousin of 14, piped up on behalf of the others when enough girls had poked him in the stomach.

About to dig into the plate, I paused. "Um- everyone, this is West, my-"

"Her boyfriend," West stole the conversation. As he waved and greeted everyone, I glanced at him, unsure, until I remembered that Zayan thought that we were a couple and we'd have to keep up the charade. "You guys do us a favour and don't tell the parents, okay?" West said funnily.

Making everybody chuckle, Fariah chimed in, "Don't worry, what happens at holud nights stays at holud nights."

When the photographers zoomed in on us as we ate, I felt like shoving some curry on their faces but decided against it. After we'd finished with our plates and held champagne glasses (full of Coca Cola, mind you) in our hands, the tables were noisily removed by the maids and the chairs were arranged with their backs against the longest wall, and the DJ climbed into his booth in the middle of the cleared floor. I recognised the familiar tune of 'Abhi Toh Party Shuru Hui Hain' beginning to buzz from the speakers. One by one, boys and girls made their way to the dance floor.

West's breath tickled my neck as he leaned closer in order to be heard the booming music. "Have you got moves other than kicking people in the balls?"

"I don't know. Why don't you find out?" I managed mischievously.  I was only this confident because at the last wedding of the family, as Fiona Api was very close family, I'd learned rigorous choreography routines, sharpening my dancing skills to a degree not much shabbier than Sonam Kapoor's. Moving closer to the pulsating crowd of dancing people, I found him immediate on my trail. I felt my nervous shyness melt away as West's intoxicating smirk challenged me to step just a little out of my comfort zone.

The music turned impossibly upbeat, and we danced. We danced like savages. West had me laughing while I prayed that my heartbeat was not loud enough for him to hear, because he was absolutely gorgeous in the way he flailed his limbs. We twirled, shimmied, punched the air enough to send it to the emergency room and did my favourite step where you wash an imaginary cloth between your palms. I'd never felt so blissfully out of breath.

On my way out that night, unable to keep the smile from my lips like a girl with her first crush, Rudyard the Polaroid Guy handed me a hard, square piece of paper with a warm smile gracing his lips. In the picture, I was laughing with delight, eyes closed in contentment, as West was in the middle of twirling me around by one hand, making me relive his electrifying fingers on mine. The camera had managed to capture the twinkle in his smiling eyes perfectly, in the perfect moment in time.

And then, just like that, I fell in love.

-