Amritsar Di Raat – Part 2: The Phulkari Shawl

On the second night, Gurpreet taught her to walk the way he had seen his grandfather walk, with his chin up and his hands loose at his sides, as if the street belonged to him. She taught him to haggle for a silver bangle with a vendor near the clock tower, and he paid three times the price just to watch her face when she scolded him.

On the third night, the wedding was loud and joyful and endless. The bride was radiant. The groom was nervous. Simran's aunts were in tears and in charge of everything. By midnight, Simran was so tired she could barely stand, and Gurpreet found her sitting on the steps of the courtyard, her shoes in her hand, her hair full of marigold petals.

"Come with me," he said.

"Where?"

"Somewhere the drums can't reach."

He led her up a narrow staircase at the back of the house and through a low wooden door onto the roof. The night air was cold, and the city spread out beneath them in a glittering mosaic of lanterns, rooftops and the distant golden glow of the Golden Temple.

Simran drew in a breath. "I forgot this was here."

"My uncle told me about it on the first day. He said the best view in Amritsar is the one nobody remembers to look at." Gurpreet shrugged off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. "He was right."

She sat on the low wall and pulled the jacket tighter. Then she noticed the shawl folded on the bench beside her, bright yellow and red, embroidered with a dense pattern of flowers and vines. It was a phulkari, the kind her grandmother had made for her wedding.

"Where did you get this?"

"Your aunt gave it to me this afternoon," he said. "She said I looked cold. She said I needed to give it back to you before you froze, and that if I kept it, she would never forgive me."

Simran laughed and pulled the shawl over her shoulders, over the jacket, until she was wrapped in both. The embroidery was warm from the bench and smelled faintly of cedar and rose.

"She's terrifying," Gurpreet said.

"She's my mother's sister. Of course she is."

He sat down beside her, close enough that their shoulders touched, and for a while they simply looked out at the lights.

"Three nights," Simran said quietly. "That's what I said, at the start."

"I remember."

"I don't think it's enough."

He turned his head. In the lamplight, his face was serious, almost vulnerable.

"Neither do I," he said. "I was supposed to fly back on Sunday. I've changed the ticket twice already."

She laughed, a little breathlessly. "Your company will be furious."

"They'll survive. I've been working eighty hours a week for three years. I think I'm allowed to fall in love with a girl with henna on her hands and an opinion about every single dish at the feast."

Simran's heart stopped, then started again, much faster.

"You're in love with me?" she asked.

"I've been trying not to be since the gate," Gurpreet said. "It hasn't worked."

She looked at him for a long moment, the wind stirring the loose strands of her hair, the shawl warm around her shoulders. Then she reached out and took his hand, turning it over so that their palms pressed together, the way she had seen the lovers do in the old films her grandmother loved.

"Then stop trying," she said softly.

He kissed her then, slowly, carefully, as if he had been waiting all his life for permission. His hand came up to cradle her jaw, his thumb brushing her cheek, and she leaned into the warmth of him with a small, helpless sound.

The kiss deepened. The shawl slipped, and he caught it, laughing against her mouth, and settled it back around her shoulders, his fingers lingering at her collarbone. She tangled her hands in the front of his bandhgala and pulled him closer, and for a moment the roof, the city and the distant drums all fell away.

When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathing hard, and the sky above them had turned from black to deep indigo.

"Dhol players will start again soon," Simran murmured.

"Let them," said Gurpreet. "We'll dance on the roof."

"We'll step on each other's feet."

"Then we'll be even," he said, and she laughed, and he kissed her again.

Below them, the wedding went on. Above them, the stars were coming out over Amritsar, one by one, and the girl in the yellow shawl and the man from Canada stayed on the roof until the first call of the morning light, talking about the years ahead, and the three nights that had turned into a lifetime.

---

Next: Read more romance: Midnight in Marrakech and Kayal Nights, or browse all categories from the home page.