“Flávia,” I say, and she brightens at the sound of her name, like she really didn’t expect me to remember.

“You look nice in that.” The words slip out, and I immediately feel heat rushing up my cheek. But she does look nice. She’s wearing a salwar kameez that a Desi girl wouldn’t be caught dead in at a wedding, but Flávia wears it with such nonchalance that she pulls it off. It’s royal blue, with a silver floral pattern on its torso. She’s wrapped the urna around her neck like a scarf, with the long end of it hanging off to the side. It’s beautiful, but far too simple a design for an elaborate wedding like this.

“Thanks.” This time she does smile, dimple and all. “I like your henna. Did you do it yourself?”

I look at both sides of my right hand, filled with vines and flowers and leaves darkened to a deep red.

“Yes. I’ve been trying to teach myself.”

“Do you find it difficult?”

I shrug. “A little. It was … really just for the wedding.”

“Oh …” Her eyes leave me, and travel up to the stage where Sunny Apu and her husband are sitting with a group of people that I don’t recognize.

“Do you want to go up?” she asks. “I don’t really know anyone else here.”

She doesn’t really know me either. It’s been years since I last saw her. She’s changed so much that I hardly recognize her now. And we weren’t exactly friends back in primary school, either, but now I’m kind of wishing we had been.

“Sure, yes. That’d be nice,” I say.

“You haven’t yet?”

“No, um … there’s a queue.” It’s not so much a queue as people pushing in front of each other whenever they get the opportunity.

“I think you have bridesmaid priority. Come on.” She takes hold of my hand. Her grip is soft and warm and kind of sweaty because there are a lot of people around us, but I don’t really mind. I’m on cloud nine because this beautiful girl is holding my hand. I’m sure it doesn’t mean anything, but my heart is beating a mile a minute and I can’t help but think that this is better than the kebab. Maybe even the kebab and the biryani combined.

I’m barely aware of pushing through the crowd and onto the stage. I only realize we’re there when Flávia lets go of my hand and smiles. She takes a seat next to Dulabhai and I slip into the space beside Sunny Apu, suddenly uncomfortably aware of how small the settee is.

“Congrats,” I whisper to Sunny Apu, taking hold of her hand and giving it a small squeeze.

“Thanks, Nishat,” she says. “Where’s Priti?”