As I stepped out of my taxi and looked up, I beheld a grand mansion that stood tall in its splendor and was adorned to the hilt with thick strings of flowers, sparkling drapes and mesmerising lights. The flirtatious smell of fun, frolic and festivities soared high in the air. Little girls draped in colourful chaniya-cholis ran from one end of the courtyard to the other, giggling naively along the way. Young men carrying baskets of marigolds passed by, throwing occasional furtive glances at the younger ladies in the gathering who responded by flickering the furrows of their lips. In the middle of this grand conglomeration sat my best friend Raamya – the bride, getting mehendi applied on her palms; it was her wedding day!
If I were a man, I wouldn’t hesitate to describe Raamya, in Wordsworth’s parlance, as a ‘phantom of delight’. One look at her and fifteen years that we had spent together talking about our wedding day, finding the perfect man, the colours and details of our trousseau, et al, flashed past my mind screen. Lost in her thoughts, she looked coy and nervous, her right thumb fumbling the embroidery of her crimson lehnga. Finally, as if waking up from her thoughts, she spotted me. “Pallo!” she screamed in glee. I rushed towards her and hugged her tight. A petite tear-drop bordered her large kohl eye, and then, began a relay of unstoppable laughter. I wonder if this is how all friends meet after intermittent periods of separation! Before we could collect our thoughts, someone signaled the arrival of the groom and his baraat.
The holy fire at the canopy gleamed with majestic yellows, oranges and reds, casting its glowing effect on the bride and the groom-to-be who sat hand on hand, performing their marriage rites. Raamya looked regal – the marigolds and jasmine tucked in her hair and her bejewelled stance adding to the elegance. Then began the pheras or the seven auspiscious rounds. As Raamya sauntered graciously behind her groom, carefully listening to each duty that she had to abide by as a wife, memories of our little jokes about what we would make our husbands do sprouted in my mind. The ironical idea must have brought an impish smile on my face, or so I thought, since Raamya looked at me at that very moment and seemed to smile back in agreement. That’s called telepathy between best friends!
Finally, it was time for Raamya’s vidaai or departure with her groom. A beautiful horse carriage decked with ruby-roses and a silky parasol appeared. Raamya’s groom, a handsome young man, held out his hand for his new bride. It was an emotional high point. While the bride’s family was morose at the idea of parting with their daughter, the groom’s side looked peachy to welcome its new daughter-in-law. In this sea of mixed feelings stood my best friend and I. We had, since childhood, spun stories and woven dreams of our wedding day. But the idea of parting had never struck us. Suddenly it was upon us. We hugged each other, in happiness and sadness, all at once. But she looked contented and I was extremely happy for her.
“Good luck darling! I know you’ll make a fantastic wife.” I whispered in her ear.
“Hey, my turn to attend my best friend’s wedding next!” she replied.
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