The drums started up again, and I could tell that Kaavi was walking in with her parents. In Sri Lankan culture, it’s typical for both parents to accompany their child to the Poruwa, and Kaavi was no different. I was glad I’d seen enough of her Instagram to know how she looked, because I didn’t have binoculars and the balcony view was not doing me any favors. I longed to see her up close—maybe I still could, later.

I could see Spencer smile as Kaavi was led up to him, and they were asked to climb onto the stage with their right foot first. They greeted each other with their palms held together, and when Kaavi smiled at him, it was like the clouds had parted and the sun shone through. Mr. Fonseka took Kaavi’s hand and placed it on top of Spencer’s—the symbolic handing over.

The familiar feeling of wanting to throw up took root in my throat, and I had to look away, blinking back tears. I couldn’t believe this. I never in a million years imagined that this would happen to me. How could he do this? How could she?

I tried to take a sip of my tea, but it had gone cold. I went inside and dumped it in the sink, my hands trembling so much the cup almost crashed down on the counter.

When I returned, they had finished dropping the seven sheaves of betel leaves onto the Poruwa, and Spencer was standing behind Kaavi, attempting to clasp a necklace on her. Kaavi giggled a little at Spencer’s fumbling, and a few guests clapped, cheering Spencer on. They were shushed quickly—it would have been a bad omen if he didn’t succeed. The thought cheered me up a little, but it took him a few tries and he finally got it. The necklace was gold—I could see it glinting even from where I was. Of course rose gold or even white gold wouldn’t do. It didn’t hold its value like real gold did, and besides, it could be mistaken for copper or silver or some other metal, and that simply wouldn’t do in Colombo, regardless of Kaavi’s usual aesthetic.

A man I didn’t know, I’m guessing an uncle of Kaavi’s, climbed onto the Poruwa and started to tie their little fingers together with a gold thread. In Sinhala, the term for marriage is bandinawa, which means, literally, “to tie.” We well and truly believe in tying the knot, in every sense of the word, even if the knot is more of a noose. The uncle poured blessed water over their fingers and climbed off the stage.

Six girls dressed in white lama saris—the traditional Sri Lankan outfit of a white skirt and frilly blouse specifically worn by young girls—came before the Poruwa and started to sing Jayamangala Gatha, a Buddhist chant meant to bless the marriage. But it was in vain. I don’t care what it took: there wouldn’t be any blessings here.

There was more to do. There were coconuts to be smashed and lamps to be lit and parents to be worshipped—but I couldn’t take it anymore.