Over time, I developed a great fondness for Simi. She was adorable and a fool. Anyone could take advantage of her with the merest show of friendship, and my affection for her grew out of a fierce protectiveness that wanted both to stop her from being so open to hurt and yet never, ever have her change.

Devika’s was a destination wedding, a novel concept at the time. Since the facade of upholding communist principles had to be maintained, the destination was in West Bengal itself, at an imposing old British-era fort on the banks of the Ganges. The fort had been converted into a plush five-star hotel by Sunny Arora, the groom’s father, but thankfully, the architects, designers, landscapers et al. had been able to resist the urge to stain warm red brick with cold stretches of glass and steel.

The Aroras had rammed all their Punjabi aesthetic into the wedding parties. The fort lay silhouetted against lawns laden with festivities. In a nod to his immense wealth, Sunny Arora had asked that the traditional dhol and shehnai players be supplemented with an international DJ—‘from the Europe only, ji.’

All around, everything was awash with the bright fluorescence of lights under a canopy of alternating royal-purple and rani-pink bands. The canopy stretched so far and wide that the eye searched in vain for a single spot of sky. Finding none, it moved down to the party below, where beautiful people moved about like the heartbreaking strains of a violin, resplendent in silk and chiffon and rouge and polki. The only breaks in the riot of colours were tables draped in white linen and studded with Baccarat dinnerware, glittering like calm pebbles against an endless shore.

I felt intolerably gauche in my powder-blue Swarovskistudded lehenga. The luxurious fabric swam around me, making me look like an imposter. I was better off in my refuge of jeans and an oversized T-shirt.

‘Shoot, Ma’s coming.’

Aunty was heading to where Simi and I stood cornering jacketed waiters and clearing out their platters of hors d’oeuvres, ostensibly to drag us off for another round of introductions. I wished again that Button and Cookie had been allowed to attend the wedding.

My family had been loath to let me partake of Debi Mullick’s hospitality as well. The politician was a pariah amongst the old order. He had been born into our world, for shame. How greed had led him astray! He had become a follower of Marx, of all the wrong ideas. He had wasted the good blood (Bengali, Brahmin, pure), and that was unforgivable.

In the end, I had been allowed to come only because my parents adored Simi.

‘Simi, Tara, come meet Choruji.’