I managed to give my partner a tiny smile before we started striking our sticks in a five-beat step. I twirled in and out of the circle around the boy. He kept the beat of raas like a real Gujju, a Gujarati, should. I was giddy with rhythm and motion, when Mummy pulled me out of the dance.

“What’s the matter with you, Jeeta?”

“Nothing.” I pretended not to understand what Mummy was upset about. But I knew she wasn’t happy that I was dancing with a stranger.

“What makes you so bold? I don’t want you dancing and smiling with a no-name person, for the world to watch.”

“I am sure he has a name. He came over and stood next to me, Mummy. He seems nice.”

“Ja, ja” she said. “Nice, your tail. Do dandia raas with someone you know, or sit down.” Mummy turned to Mohini, who’d just come over for a drink of water, and told her to stand right next to me to make sure I danced with one of our relatives.

My ex-partner stood waiting for me. I handed him my sticks and disappeared into the ladies’ room, where two women sat nursing their infants. The infants’ faces and bodies were completely covered with their mothers’ saris, and only their tiny legs were sticking out. Since I didn’t feel like smiling or talking to them, I sat in one of the chairs, partially covering my face with my odhani.

After a few minutes, Mohini came and asked, “Why are you sitting here? Come, dance.”

“I don’t want to.”

“It’s all for Nimita.”

“Then she can dance.”

“She’ll miss you if you’re not there. Let’s make it happy for her. Please?” Mohini tugged at my hand.

I went out and did the dandia raas with Mummy’s cousin, Kirti Auntie’s son Meenal. He was fourteen and had no rhythm in his hands or legs. Several times he hit my fingers instead of my sticks, and twice he stepped on my bare toes, but at least Mummy was happy.

On the day of her wedding, Nimita wore a white silk sari with a red batik design. The gold thread embroidery was intricately woven into all six yards of the sari, and her silk blouse had matching embroidery on the sleeves. The twenty-two-karat gold jewelry that covered her neck, hands, and fingers was of the latest fashion, because Pappa worked as an accountant at the biggest jewelry shop in the Zaveri Bazaar.

“You look like one of the models for the jewelry-shop ads,” Chiraj said to Nimita.

“Is this too much, Mummy?” Nimita asked, fingering her gold necklace.

“Na-re-na. What does Chiraj know about these things?”

“It’d be perfect to have the name of Pappa’s shop on the back of Nimita’s blouse. Just think how much business they’d get,” Chiraj said.