Amritsar Di Raat – Part 1: Three Nights

Three wedding nights and a man from Canada.

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The dhol started before dawn, and by the time the sun rose over the Golden Temple, Amritsar was already awake. Marigold garlands hung from every doorway. The lanes smelled of ghee, cardamom and the sweet smoke of the langar kitchens, and somewhere a radio was playing an old Bhangra tune at full volume.

Simran had been up since four, helping her aunts fold silk and count out the wedding gifts, and she was tired, happy and very much in charge of the mehndi.

"Get the cone," her aunt said. "And don't let the bride see you make a mess of her hands."

"I'm never messy, Mummy-ji."

"You're always messy. You just wear it well."

The wedding was in a large courtyard house in the old city, with a stage at one end and rows of chairs decorated in gold ribbon. Guests arrived in waves: uncles in pressed suits, cousins with babies on their hips, a dozen grandmothers in their best phulkari shawls, all shouting greetings across the crowd.

Simran was on her way to the henna corner when she saw him.

He was standing by the gate, a little apart from the crowd, in a dark blue bandhgala that fitted his shoulders beautifully. He had short black hair, a neat beard and the kind of quiet, watchful expression that made her think he was listening to a conversation in another room. He was holding a paper cup of lassi and looking at the dhol players as if they had told him a joke he did not quite understand.

"Who's that?" she asked her cousin Harpreet, who was passing with a tray of samosas.

"Gurpreet. Jaskaran's best friend from school. He flew in from Toronto yesterday." Harpreet grinned. "He's single, if you were wondering. My mother has already asked him twice about his prospects."

"I wasn't wondering."

"You were."

Simran rolled her eyes, but she did not look away.

When the dhol players started a fresh set, the guests surged toward the centre of the courtyard, and Simran was swept along in the crowd. She found herself next to the stranger from the gate, and when the drums rose to a crescendo and a cousin pushed her forward, she stumbled, and he caught her by the elbow.

"You're going to end up in the middle of the dance floor," he said, amused, in English with a soft Canadian lilt.

"That's the plan," Simran said, laughing, and let him steer her into the circle. "Can you dance?"

"Badly. My mother taught me in the kitchen, and I stepped on her feet for three years."

"Then you'll step on mine," she said, "and we'll be even."

He laughed, a warm, unexpected sound, and took her hand. They danced badly, both of them, bumping shoulders and missing steps, while the cousins whooped and the grandmothers clapped and the drums beat on and on.

Halfway through the third song, when she was breathless and flushed and her braid had come loose, he leaned close enough for her to feel his breath on her cheek.

"You're much better at this than you pretend," he said.

"So are you."

"I'm terrible," Gurpreet said, and grinned. "But I'm having a wonderful time."

Simran looked up at him, and her heart did something undignified.

"Three nights," she said. "That's how long the wedding goes on."

"Then I'd better learn fast."

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Next: Part 2, The Phulkari Shawl. A borrowed shawl, a late-night rooftop and a choice that is more than just a dance.