While I understand why weddings employ loud bands, I just don’t get the need for loudspeakers at a prayer meeting. Six speakers surround the shamiana we are sitting under and all are blaring with the same raucous bhajans. Following some perverse law of public loudspeakers, the sound quality is terrible—more static and scratching than anything tuneful.

The music is a shocker too. Instead of the traditional songs, these bhajans have all been set to popular Bollywood tunes. I visualize Madhuri Dixit’s heaving bosom each time the Mata ka chehra song comes on—the bhajan is set to the tune of the infamous choli ke peeche number. The whole atmosphere is more ‘party’ than prayer.

It’s a bit weird to see the usually jeans-clad younger women sit with their sari-pallu over their heads. The covered heads notwithstanding, the neighbourhood women are perfectly accessorized and wear their best saris.

Some of the blouses, though, are definitely not meant for prayer meetings—super-chic with thin straps, deep-cut backs and deadly cleavage display. I’ve also noticed at least five women wearing black, lacy bras—they’re quite visible through their rather sheer blouses.

They’re not the only ones, though—I, too, am in my first lacy lingerie that I bought earlier at the market. I am somewhat self-conscious in it, though—it doesn’t give much support and I feel kind of topless in it. However, I’ve bought two pairs and hope Sid likes the one I plan to wear tomorrow night—it’s his welcome-home surprise. I look at Mata Rani’s idol and send her a silent prayer for Sid’s approval.

‘Arre wah Polly beta, you must be asking for something really special—you’ve been staring at Mata Rani’s face for the last twenty minutes!’ says Mrs Mishra, my ground-floor neighbour and Dragon’s best friend.

Dragon stares at me suspiciously.

‘You have such a good bahu, Mrs Sharma,’ Mrs Mishra says.

‘Why thank you Mrs Mishra, I married my son well, didn’t I?’ Dragon replies with a smile. She still eyes me suspiciously, though.

I can’t get over her outright lie—she makes it sound like she believes I am the best thing that happened to her son.

‘Indeed, indeed,’ Mrs Mishra sighs dramatically, ‘as I said, you are very lucky—it’s not the same with all of us, though. Take my case only. Not only does my bahu have a crafty brain, she even manages to brainwash my son. That’s what I am praying for—better sense for my son and patience for me.’

Mrs Mishra looks at the goddess’s idol with such fervent hope and devotion that it worries me. I sincerely hope her daughter-in-law Neha is ‘crafty’ enough to win against any possible divine intervention.

‘May the Mata hear your prayers,’ Dragon says.