It was the summer of ‘99, a month after we had graduated. We stood huddled, comparing marksheets. It was then that she announced she was getting married, while most of us were trying to still figure out our futures, talking about fulfilling dreams and conquering the world. And there she was happy to trade all this for domesticity and the ‘soulless sameness’ of marriage so early on in life. Most of the girls gawked while others dared her to show a picture of the fiancé. What I saw across many bobbing heads was a very fine young man, well-educated and well-heeled, no doubt. And it was obvious she was deeply in love with him. They’d make a good pair I thought to myself and forgot all about it till an invitation to join the family for dinner three days before the wedding landed at my doorstep.
Almost all of us turned up for dinner at her parents’ place, eager to be a part of the first wedding of the batch. The lawns were decked out in fairy lights and a fabulous meal was served. She looked incredibly pretty in a pink and gold ghagra, her hands turning a deep crimson from the freshly-drawn mehendi. And we all did a double take when she brought her sherwani-clad fiancé by the arm to introduce him. When they left, we all hissed and mooned about how lucky she was to have found a real Prince Charming.
It was almost 11 when dinner wound up. I left the gathering still crowding the lawns for a glass of water. The caterers who were leaving directed me to the kitchen. Thirst quenched, I turned to leave when from a room across the landing I heard the murmur of voices and then a high-pitched giggle followed by what was unmistakeably the sound of a very passionate kiss. Through the open door I saw the back of a man in a sherwani. It was him. How romantic, I thought and smiled to myself. But my smile froze when I saw who he was kissing. Not the bride, but one of her close friends. As the door closed on them, I stumbled my way back to the revellers outside.
I could hardly believe my eyes but when he emerged first from the house followed by the friend minutes later, I knew for sure. I dragged another classmate, who was wise beyond her years, and told her what I saw and whether we should warn the bride. But she said that it was too late — the bride was too much in love, and the couple’s names were printed on every gift bag, every serviette and emblazoned on the big gas lantern that swung above the terrace. She said let’s hope it is a passing madness. And that was that. They were married and we went our ways until Facebook found all of us on the same page. Whenever the bride, now with children of her own, posted family pictures, I’d scroll down to see if the ‘friend’ had liked it.
At a class reunion with spouses and children in tow, I saw her introducing him to the ‘friend’. “We must’ve met at that dinner. But it was so long ago I can’t seem to remember,” he said. “I don’t think we did,” she replied with a knowing smile.
I winced, and went away to look for the friend who was wise beyond her years.
