Meena’s eyes suddenly met mine and she nodded at the empty seat beside her. I stepped over the platform and made my way next to her. Before sitting down, I carefully adjusted the bottom of my sari, the jingling of my glass bangles barely audible as the music from the speakers thumped behind us.

“How are you doing?” I leaned in and whispered into her ear.

She looked at me with both her arms outstretched and shrugged. Her thin arms were covered with intricate patterns of lotus buds, peacocks, and flowers spiraling delicately along the curves of her forearms, adorning every inch of skin all the way up to her elbows. I laughed, wondering how she managed to stay so composed with everything going on around her.

While we waited for Meena’s arms to dry, the henna aunty hunched over and carefully applied the dark green paste to Meena’s feet using a paper cone with a fine tip at the end. We watched as the aunty expertly drew in each pattern, adjusting her designs to follow the shape of Meena’s foot. Her hands were steady, yet quick with each movement.

“What is the significance of all these designs?” I asked.

“Lotus signifies beauty and femininity,” the aunty explained. “And these spirals,” she said, drawing delicate vines that curved up and around Meena’s ankles, “these are for longevity.”

“And the flower buds?”

“The start of new life.”

I looked at Meena and smiled.

“The meaning is not just in the design,” the aunty continued, “but also in the color of the mehendi. The darker the color, the deeper the love between the couple.”

“Shall we take a look?” I whispered to Meena. She nodded, her eyes sparkling with anticipation.

Both of us watched with bated breath as I scraped a tiny section beneath Meena’s wrist with my fingernail. The dried, hardened paste flaked off, leaving dark red stains across the skin beneath.

“Ohh, it’s beautiful!” we exclaimed at the same time.

“Waah.” The aunty smiled and tilted her head. “It looks like the new couple will be very happy, insha’Allah.”

“Insha’Allah,” I repeated, grinning widely.

“Okay, one final touch.” The aunty picked up a fresh cone. “What is the groom’s name?”

Meena’s cheeks flushed a deep red. “Haroon,” she said quietly.

“What is that for?” I asked, watching curiously as the aunty drew out each letter of Haroon’s name within the different motifs on Meena’s arm.

“This is a game for the newlyweds.” The aunty smiled as she finished up the final N, which she squeezed in between the mango-shaped design near Meena’s wrist. “The groom searches for each letter of his name in the designs drawn on his new bride on the night of their wedding.” She gently lifted Meena’s chin and looked into her blushing face. “And the bride is not allowed to give any clues as he searches, even if it takes him all night!”

“Oh, how scandalous!” I blurted, and the three of us broke into giggles.