“Oh! But, Neeraj, have I told you who’s bought the old Dayal house? Third fresh-off-the-boat family moving into the subdivision in six months. I am starting to wonder where all the Americans have gone. Would you believe it, the other day a white family drove into the neighborhood looking for their friend’s house, and they asked some auntie on her afternoon walk if she knew where the Georgemeisters or the Johnsmiths or whoever lived. And this auntie, you know what she said? She told them, ‘There are no foreigners on this street, you are in the wrong place.’ Pah! These new immigrants, very arrogant, they have much more money than Daddy and I did when we moved here, they waltz-faltz into Hammond Creek, and we had to scrimp and save, no idea how hard it was for us…”

On the Saturday of the wedding weekend, my father and I vaguely attempted to help with the setup for the mehendi in our backyard but were rendered useless by our masculinity. We stood on the fringes, eating catered samosas, taking in the pleasant chaos playing out in front of us. Cousins and neighbors and the new generation of Hammond Creek Indians gyrated to songs in languages only a fraction of them spoke. Keya and Hae-mi and Maya were all there, having their henna done. Across the grass, Anita was placing one hand on my mother’s shoulder. My mother gestured inside, and Anita entered our basement—which had been finished during the past year, bearing lovely cream carpeting and an untouched exercise room. She came out wielding a flower arrangement in the shape of a heart that read PRACHI WEEDS AVI. She caught my eye through the mess and gave a small, sweet shrug.

“She is a good girl,” my father said stiffly. “Attractive, too.” I badly wished he hadn’t added that. “Make sure she does not steamroll you. Other than that, I think she may be a very good match.” He belched, a big rippling sound. “Samosas are very oily today.”

I’d been conscripted into folding name cards according to the seating chart, since Prachi had fired her wedding planner at the last minute in a rare fit of fury. This was how I came across a row of Bengali names—cousins of Avi’s sis-in-law, Prachi had written above them on the legal pad. And one name stood out: Ramesh Chakraborty.

It might not be him. Ramesh—a common-enough name. And there were no shortage of Bengalis in Atlanta. But just in case. I moved myself to that table, leaving poor Anita seated with my family.