A food court on the second floor gave brides the opportunity to sample the samosas and paneer that would inevitably end up on their wedding menus. (Prachi: “Hey, do you think someone would do collard green pakoras?”) A runway show was scheduled on the third floor at noon. (Prachi: “You’re kidding me—Bubu Mirani? Manish Motilal? Monika Dongre?”) A fashion show, followed by a raffle—the raffle—at four. (Prachi, unbidden, pulling a ticket from a dispenser: “Let’s not miss that!”)

In the mix was a DJ booth manned each hour by a new spinner; notepads were extracted from purses and people listened, seeking the right mix of Pitbull and Pritam. We stopped so Prachi could swoon at one bearded artiste—DJ Jai Zee—wearing dark gasstation-quality sunglasses and beating an enormous dhol.

I was finding it hard to breathe. The smell of baby powder and rose-water perfumes mingled with something deep-frying in the food court. Above us, the sun peeked through, throwing rhomboid patches of light on an Indian flag dangling from one of the beams.

I had the last of my summer’s coke supply in my pocket. I hadn’t touched the stuff since before things had begun with Anita, and I hadn’t made up my mind about whether I wanted to make use of it today. But I was weighing what that bump or two could bring me. I shoved my hand in my pocket. Help was just a trip to the bathroom away.

PRACHI AND I DISEMBARKED from the escalator on the third floor to find Anita power-stomping through a swarm of photographers. Girls posed in front of white backdrops. (“Toss your dupatta, now, it’s your wedding day, best damn day of your life, that’s it.”) Wearing a black pencil skirt and blazer and a black almost-pleather top, Anita looked like a candle wax, whip-wielding dominatrix. I was not opposed to the sartorial choices. She waved a walkie-talkie.

“Guess who demanded a location switch-up at the last second,” she said through clenched teeth. “The photographers wanted to be near the retail people, so girls could have their ‘pics snapped.’ ” (Air quotes, demarcating the fobby phrasing.) “Oh gosh, hi, Prachi.”

The former pageant rivals hugged.

Prachi glanced curiously at a square-jawed photographer cleaning his lens in front of a banner reading RAJA RANI PHOTOS: BE ROYALTY ON YOUR SPECIAL DAY. Behind him, so many people’s special days collaged on top of one another. Dark brown eyes and richly hennaed hands stroking bearded jawlines.

“Ooh, I’d love a photo.” My sister pointed.

Something sputtered on Anita’s walkie-talkie.

“Linda?” Anita pressed her lips to the speaker. “All good?”

“Ooh, honey!” came the voice. “Just playing around! These are so new…”

Anita lowered the device and rolled her eyes. “This event liaison I have to coordinate with from the convention center is a moron; anyway, I tried to leave her with the interns…”

“The raffle?” I reminded Prachi.