Life on cue, there was a knock on the door. That would be the round, pink face of Dorchester, cobbled with early folds and split into a grin from ear to ear. He would have been sent up by an array of aunts and cousins who had painted themselves permanent fixtures in Vir’s life for the occasion. I can’t believe you’re actually getting married, bhaiya! Sit here, beta, sit next to Panditji—do you know what you’re supposed to do?

Dorchester, though, had actually been around for some time now, ever since Barakhamba Road met Mayfair during freshman orientation at Princeton and discovered a mutual love of Calculus, Apple Jacks and leggy redheads. Now, Vir returned his grin, both of them back, for an instant, on the way to crew at the lake, rising American sun fresh in their eyes.

In the recesses of his consciousness, Vir noted that Dorchester had never said a thing to him about his fiancée. He questioned, briefly, the fact that his closest friend hadn’t made the jokes required to sign off the last few days of bachelorhood, made none of the bawdy mentions men are expected to make about the marital bed. But that was the thing about Anaya. You didn’t discuss her porcelain restraint. You didn’t crack a dirty quip about her measured manners. She was perfect. Quite perfect. Bulletproof, really.

‘Ready?’

An ancient priest tied the ancient knot. He pulled it tight, because some sixth sense sharpened by ninety-three wizened years told him to provide extra insurance to the union being formed. She placed her henna-adorned, gold-encrusted hands in Vir’s, and his fingers reflexed into the merest suggestion of a protective caress. Her bangles clinked together in his wet palm, the sound muffl ed by the pitter-patter of the first few winking drops of rain.

The moment was here. It was about to happen. Everything was waiting.

As the timeless, ageless chanting began gluing their dynasties together, he looked at her for a long minute. First, at her face, which was lowered and lit by the flickering fire—she was shy and beautiful and alive in the way that only a bride can be. And then, as he looked at her hands, encased in his, pouring samagri into the flames, he found himself unable to stop imagining those same hands, wrinkled and lined thick with veins, pouring the grey dust of his ashes into the Ganges, letting the blue water swallow him whole.

Thanks, guys.

Okay, full disclosure: I’m lazy. I’m as stay-in-bed-all-day, let-the-dishes-pile-up, buy-new-clothes-instead-of-doing-laundry lazy as they come. So the fact that this book actually exists right now is a miracle and a testament to what the unflagging support of an incredible network of people can do.

Thank you so much to my parents—I will (literally and figuratively) never be able to pay you back.