We rushed through the small glass doors, setting a tiny bell jingling as we entered. My cotton tunic had soaked all the way through; I pulled on the fabric but it clung stubbornly to my skin. Hisham stepped in beside me and shook his head, spraying droplets of rainwater in every direction. “Hey!” I protested, holding my hands up as a shield. He laughed.

Inside, the familiar scent of ghee and coconut filled my senses. Every wall was lined with glass cases, and behind them, heaps of laddus—in every color and variety—lay on beautiful silver trays. I turned toward Hisham.

“This is just like a dream I once had!” I remarked incredulously. He looked at me with a huge smile across his face.

“You’re not the only one who knows her way around a sweets shop.” He pointed toward the cases. “Shall we give some of these a try?”

“I really shouldn’t . . .” I hesitated, staring at the beautiful globes of sugar beckoning me from behind the glass.

“Meena and Haroon deserve the best. We should personally make sure they get it.” His eyes twinkled.

“I suppose if it’s for Meena and Haroon—”

“Consider this a familial sacrifice.” Hisham grinned, gesturing to the uncle behind the counter.

For the next half hour, we waded into the waters of laddu paradise as we tried boondi laddus and coconut ones. We tried some with almonds and others covered in pistachios. We ate laddus made with pure ghee and some made with brown sugar. Hisham knew all the good ones to try, and not once did I feel him judging me for my massive appetite for sweets. By the time we were finished, we had selected more than two dozen boxes for Meena and Haroon’s reception party.

As the uncle carefully wrapped our selections in beautiful red boxes decorated with gold foil, Hisham went outside to hail a taxi. I gazed through the shop window at the rain, watching all the people running along the side of the street. Some were wearing dhotis, long yards of fabric that were tied baggily to form pants, and brown leather chappals. The women wore rain-soaked kameezes and carried newspapers, flour bags, or whatever they could find to cover their heads. The vendors were bringing in baskets of fruits and spices they had laid out earlier in the day, while cascades of water gushed forcefully from the flimsy roofs of their street-side shops. I couldn’t believe how quickly the weather had shifted.

“Here you are,” the uncle said, breaking up my thoughts. I thanked him, grabbing the boxes, and ran outside to where Hisham was waiting with a cab. I jumped into the back seat as he held the door open for me and placed the sweets carefully on my lap.

Hisham climbed in beside me and leaned forward to give the driver directions to the next stop. As the car pulled out slowly into the crowded streets, Hisham scooted back, wringing out the edge of his rain-soaked T-shirt. “So, I’m guessing you’ve never experienced monsoon season before?”