The wedding hall wasn't fancy. That was the first thing Arjun noticed as he stepped inside. Cream-colored walls, a tiled floor that looked like it had seen a thousand weddings, and a ceiling fan that spun lazily, pushing around the Chennai heat. The owner, a man in his late fifties with a receding hairline and a gold chain around his neck, wiped his forehead with a handkerchief as he led them in.
"Here's the main hall," he said, gesturing to the open space. "Fits about a hundred people comfortably. More if you squeeze."
Arjun's father walked around, hands clasped behind his back, inspecting every corner like he was buying the place. He stopped near the stage, tested the strength of the railing, and nodded. "This'll do. Simple. Clean."
Arjun's mother was already at the back, peeking into the kitchen. She ran a finger along the countertop, checked the stove, and turned to the owner. "The food's going to be homely. No fancy buffet. Dal, rice, sabzi, curd, and a sweet. That's it."
The owner nodded. "Yes, madam. We'll keep it like home cooking."
She gave a single, firm nod. "Good."
By noon, the papers were signed, the advance was paid, and they were out of there. Arjun's father tucked the receipt into his wallet. "One thing done."
The priest's office was a small room attached to a temple, the walls lined with calendars and framed photos of gods. The priest, an old man with a white beard and a calm voice, listened as Arjun's father explained what they needed.
"We're mixing traditions," his father said. "North and South. The boy's from Delhi, the girl's Tamilian."
The priest didn't even blink. "Traditions change. Blessings don't." He flipped open his calendar, ran a finger down the dates, and circled one. "Three days. I'll be there."
The caterer's place smelled like food. Like spices and oil and something sweet in the air. Arjun's mother took one look at the setup and marched straight to the cook. "Show me the sambar."
The cook, a broad-shouldered man with a towel slung over his shoulder, ladled out a spoonful. She tasted it, thought for a second, then nodded. "Good. Keep it like this. No extra oil, no extra masala. Just like this."
The caterer, a thin man with a notepad, scribbled down the menu. "Dal, rice, sabzi, curd, and a sweet. Got it, madam."
She fixed him with a look. "And no cutting corners. This is for my son's wedding."
He swallowed. "Yes, madam. No corners."
The first ceremony was at Priya's house that evening. The place was already decorated—marigold garlands hung over the door, a small puja setup in the living room, the scent of incense thick in the air. Only family was there. Priya's parents, her brother, Arjun's parents, and Ria.
The priest started the Panda Kaal Muhurtham, chanting in a low voice while Priya's mother lit a lamp. Arjun stood beside Priya, watching as her father applied a tilak on his forehead. "Welcome to the family," he said, his voice gruff but not unkind.
Arjun's father handed over a box of sweets and two coconuts. "Our ways might be different, but the heart's the same."
Priya's mother tied a rakhi on Arjun's wrist. He looked at Priya, and she smiled. Small. Private. Just for him.
Back at Arjun's place, the haldi ceremony was in full swing. His mother and Ria had him cornered in the living room, a bowl of turmeric paste in hand.
"Stay still," his mother ordered, dabbing the yellow paste on his face. "You're glowing like the sun now."
Ria grinned. "Finally, someone's making an honest man out of you."
Arjun laughed, trying to dodge another smear. "I don't know about honest, but I'll try."
His father watched from the side, arms crossed. Then he stepped forward, dipped his fingers in the paste, and marked Arjun's forehead. "You're ready, son."
At Priya's house, the scene was the same but different. She sat on a stool in the courtyard, her mother and aunts applying haldi to her arms and face. The paste left golden streaks on her skin, bright against the red of her saree.
"You look just like I did on my wedding day," her mother said, smoothing a strand of hair behind Priya's ear.
Priya laughed as her aunts teased her. Her brother snapped photos, the flash lighting up the courtyard. The women sang, their voices rising and falling in time with the rhythm of the paste being applied.