Why aren’t you signing the marriage certificate on the day of the Poruwa? a follower had asked.

Because, my lovelies, and this is supposed to be a surprise, our guest of honor who will also sign as witness to our wedding—now don’t ask me who, okay? Like I said, it’s a surprise—he’s only available to attend the next day.

Knowing the Fonsekas, it was probably the president himself. Come to think of it, it must be, if they weren’t following tradition and signing the documents on the day of the Poruwa. It wasn’t entirely uncommon for Colombo’s elite to request parliamentarians or movie stars to be witnesses at their weddings. I had been to one many years ago where they had the current president sign right next to the previous president. It really was a who’s who of affairs.

There were videos about choosing flower arrangements, entertainment, and even the menu options.

I was just watching an Instagram story that encouraged her followers to vote between two dazzling centerpieces when a white Land Rover pulled up next to me and the passenger side window rolled down.

“Amaya Akki,” Mahesh called out from behind his mirrored aviator sunglasses. He gestured to his driver, who hopped down and opened the back. I started to carry my luggage over, but it was quickly yanked out of my hands and loaded up for me.

“Stoothi,” I said, giving the driver a smile, but he didn’t make eye contact. Was my accent really that bad?

“Get in, men, it’s fine,” Mahesh urged, waving to the back seat, and I abandoned my trolley and climbed in. The driver pushed it away to the collection point, and several cars started honking at us, though both Mahesh and his driver seemed completely unbothered by this.

I twisted around in my seat, trying to make eye contact with the person in the car behind us to wave an apology, but Mahesh gave me a little snort.

“Relax, men, really. It’s fine.”

His driver made his way back to us, so I did relax a little.

“Thanks for coming to get me. Really. I could have just taken a cab.”

“Are you mad, men? I told you it’s fine, no? We’re family, after all.”

I gave him a small smile. Yes, I suppose we are family, even though we’re only related in the way Sri Lankans consider themselves to be connected—our parents were distant relatives. Or rather, his parents were a part of the rare few who didn’t stop speaking to my mother even after she eloped with a foreigner.

I welcomed the icy blast of the air conditioner as I settled in, even though Mahesh was so generous with his aftershave that it burned my nostrils a little.

He turned around now and gave me a grin, and the vestiges of the little boy who used to follow me around, hanging on my every word, glimmered up for just a minute. Who would have thought that gawky little kid who blushed every time I asked him how his day was would grow up into, well, I don’t think I had ever given any thought to what Mahesh would grow into, but boy, had he grown. Folds of flesh dripped down over the collar of his short-sleeved linen shirt, unbuttoned at the neck to show a thick gold chain. The slicked-back hair on his head was thinning, but the tufts on his arms and chest were abundant. There was really no getting around it—Mahesh had transformed into a Sri Lankan uncle.