She pulled at the gold threads on her wedding sari. Amma had told her not to, but she couldn’t help it. The embroidery spread like a forest of flowers over a deep crimson earth, telling a story no one but the weaver understood. She picked a golden flower, then traced the thread of the petals to the leaves down to the stem. Amma nudged her sharply again.

The ceremony was long and Nala struggled to stay focused. Leaning back a little, she tried to catch her cousin-brother’s eye. Mohan was standing behind Rajan on the other side of the canopy and he was probably laughing at her. He was Rajan’s groomsman. The position should have been given to one of the twins, but she had argued convincingly that they were only eight years old and too young for the job. It would be unfair to choose between them. When Amma finally conceded, Nala winked at Mohan behind Amma’s back. She knew she would feel better if Mohan was there on the dais with her.

Not that she felt bad. Amma had tried to reassure her as she was getting dressed, ‘Don’t be nervous, mahal, everything will be fine today and tonight. He’s a good man, your Appa has chosen well. He’ll be kind. And you must be kind … and quiet too, Nala; not all men will listen to your talk like Appa and Mohan. You listen to him, you be what he needs.’

After a while, she had stopped listening to her mother, who continued to dress her and scold her. Instead, Nala had sat at the changing room mirror and admired the bride that was emerging. Her wedding sari was tightly pleated at her waist and across her chest, making her look more womanly than she was. The vibrant colour suited her. She hoped Rajan would like it.

The ceremony had almost ended, and although Nala and Rajan had sat next to each other for four hours, they were yet to look at each other directly. Finally, the priest nodded at her. The musicians took their cue, and accelerated the wedding song towards its frenetic peak. Amma nudged her and she straightened her back, leaned towards the man next to her and bowed her head. He reached around her neck with the thick gold wedding chain. Once tied it could never be untied. His fingers fumbled against the back of her neck, and she felt her mother bend down to help him. As Amma closed the chain’s clasp, the crowd showered them in flowers, and she could hear Amma stifle a sob.

Rajan dipped his finger into the pot of kunkumam powder the priest held out to him. Slowly and carefully, he placed a small red moon on her pale forehead.

She was married.

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