Nala shifted uncomfortably. Her hips were aching from standing for so long. From time to time, the smoke made her chest tighten. Priya hovered anxiously, asking her to sit, but she had a duty to perform and it was important to her.

It had been a long time since she had stood this close to a fire, a long time since the last wedding, a longer time since a fire had curled its fingers around her. The mix of milk, honey, ghee and flowers was burning, spitting and fusing together as an offering to the divine. The smoke settled like a heavy blanket around her shoulders. They were more tired now than they were the last time.

Nala didn’t like fires, even small ones.

She straightened the folds of her wedding sari out of habit. It was a deep crimson silk, an unusual colour for its time, when all the girls were wearing bright reds. The gold work on the sari was in perfect condition; its elaborate thread work had not been unravelled by the decades that followed. It had survived a civil war, a move to a new country, sixty-four years of marriage and six months of widowhood. It was still very beautiful, although more fragile.

Today, once again, her wedding sari was called upon to provide an important service. It was spread over her granddaughter’s wedding seat, the raised platform upon which the bride and groom sat during the ceremony. The priest sat on the ground, by the fire, performing the ritual of marriage. It was the only time in a young Hindu’s life when they would sit higher than the priest. During the ceremony the couple would be elevated to the status of Lord Shiva and the Goddess Parvathi.

Nala smiled to think of Smrithi representing the supreme Mother Goddess. She reached out a scarred hand to touch the girl but thought better of distracting her. Instead she waited impatiently, standing behind her and Prashanth under the canopy of garlands.

She straightened her wedding sari again, and counted in her head the number of times it had been used on the wedding seats of her children and grandchildren—five times: once for two of her children, and once for three of her grandchildren. After today there would be one more grandchild to marry. She said a silent prayer to Lord Murugan, asking him to let her live long enough to see them all married, to give her the privilege of completing the task she had performed for the others, the task she was about to repeat now.