Indian Wedding Season -

The third, fourth, and fifth blurred together. Sangeet nights bled into mehendi afternoons. The same DJ. The same playlist. The same three songs that made every aunty rush to the dance floor. By the sixth wedding, Riya had developed a philosophical theory: the Indian wedding season wasn’t a celebration. It was a endurance sport.

For three months, the air in Lucknow didn’t just smell of winter—it smelled of shaadi . By late November, the smog had lifted just enough for the marquees to go up. Overnight, every vacant lot, every lawn, every hotel ballroom transformed into a temporary kingdom of marigolds and crystal chandeliers. indian wedding season

The first wedding was a classic Punjabi affair. 500 guests. A baraat that was two hours late. A dance floor where her 60-year-old uncle dislocated his shoulder doing the Ranjha step. Riya ate four gulab jamuns before the main course even arrived. She told herself it was fuel. The third, fourth, and fifth blurred together

And then Riya saw Meera.

It was her childhood best friend, Meera. The wedding was in a small town near Varanasi. Riya drove six hours through fog so thick it felt like driving through a bowl of milk. She arrived at 2 AM. The wedding was at 8 AM. The same playlist

She slept in her car for three hours. Woke up with a neck cramp and smudged kajal. She fixed her lipstick in the rearview mirror and walked into a field where a thousand lanterns had been lit. The groom was sitting on a horse that looked deeply unimpressed. The brass band was playing a tune from a 90s hit. Somewhere, a toddler was crying. Somewhere else, a chai vendor was shouting.