“Don’t twist my words, Priya. I’m just saying that life moves fast. Puppa and I don’t want to see you growing old alone.”
Priya had tried to follow the road map her parents had laid out—education, marriage, career, kids—a life painted in steady, predictable strokes. She had wanted it for herself, too, but her plans had crumbled beneath her feet. And now they were nudging her toward that life again. As much as she knew they meant well, living under their roof meant getting their opinions on everything.
“I’m twenty-eight, Mumma, not eighty-eight. It’s a little soon to be mourning my youth,” Priya quipped, checking her reflection one last time before following her mother out.
“Where’s Puppa?” she asked as they entered the kitchen.
“He’s downstairs with Mr. Ethan, but he’s already showered and shaved. He’ll be ready by the time you return.”
Mumma handed Priya a beautifully prepared dinner tray for Ethan: flaky samosas filled with potato and peas, crispy pakoras fried to perfection, steaming bowls of daal and rice, and a stack of fresh rotlis glistening with ghee. A jug of chilled mango lassi completed the meal.
Covering the tray with a kitchen towel, Priya set off for the coach house. She knocked gently on the door before stepping inside. Her gaze swept across the room, and she let out a quiet breath. It was thankfully empty. Ethan was still with her father.
As Priya set the tray on the table, she noticed Ethan’s jacket balled up on the couch. He’d also left behind his leather sneakers.So, Ethan Knight isn’t unshakable after all. He might laugh in theface of ghost stories but he’s treading carefully around my father.She smiled as she picked up the jacket and hung it in the closet. As her fingers lingered on the buttery leather, her smile faded into a sigh. Ethan had no idea what he’d walked into, no clue he’d turned into a Hollywood-sized roadblock standing in the way of her plan to get her family out of the funeral business.
Priya shut the closet door with a decisive click. She wasn’t going to feel bad anymore. No more guilt, no more sympathy. She had to do whatever it took to get rid of Ethan Knight before he unraveled everything she was fighting for.
Four
By the time Priyaand her parents arrived at the banquet hall, the party was already in full swing. Outside, a mix of Gujarati and Bollywood tunes spilled from the speakers. A colorful sign welcomed guests to thesangeet, a pre-wedding ceremony that promised an evening of music, dancing, and celebration.
“Welcome, Rakesh.” Anandji greeted Puppa with a hug. “We’re so happy you could join us.”
“It’s an honor to be a part of your daughter’s sangeet,” Puppa replied, then offered Anandji’s wife a slight bow. “Thank you, Meeraji, for inviting us.”
“The pleasure is ours,” she said warmly before turning to Mumma and Priya. “It’s so lovely to see you both again.” She smiled at Priya. “It’s been a while, Priya. Are you settling in okay, beta?”
The older woman knew about her divorce, and Priya was thankful for the way she handled it, without fuss or awkwardness.
“I’m well,” Priya replied, glancing at the brightly lit hall behind Meeraji. “Looks like it’s going to be a fun evening.”
Meeraji’s smile turned brighter. “I hope you enjoy it. Come, Anand and I will show you to your table.”
She led them into the hall, past tables dressed in crisp linens. The walls were draped in bright saris, and fairy lights twinkled above like a sky full of stars. When they reached table 6, Meeraji and Anandji introduced them to the three women already seated, then excused themselves to greet more guests.
The Solankis took their seats, and after a few polite comments about the decor, one of the women smiled and gestured to the vertical strings of marigolds that hung like curtains behind the stage.
“They always remind me of back home,” she said. The others nodded, and the conversation shifted to where everyone was from in India.
“What about you?” they asked Mumma and Puppa.
Puppa hesitated for a split second. Priya sensed his discomfort as he steered through the conversation, aware of the subtle cues hinting at the women’s upper-caste backgrounds. While Solanki wasn’t a common Dalit surname, the little bits Puppa shared about her family’s origins and occupation were enough for the women to figure out their caste.
“For us, marigolds have always been tied to funerals,” he continued. “We still use them when we can—woven into garlands or just the loose petals. I guess you could say they are our flower.”
Priya glanced at the golden strands. Marigolds threaded through every rite in their culture—birth, prayer, celebration, mourning. Always present, from first to last, sacred and enduring.
The conversation moved on, light and pleasant, as if nothing had been revealed. But Priya saw how her father seemed to shrink inward, as if the unspoken had chipped away at something inside him. Her parents did their best to wear a mask of ease, but Priya knew that if they had the choice, they would keep their Dalitidentity tucked away, even around people who didn’t seem to care.
“Hello, hello!” A woman in a beautiful sari approached the table, gold necklaces glimmering at her neck. Her earrings sparkled as she paused, a younger man trailing behind her.
“Kem chho?How’s everyone doing?” she asked, her voice lively as she glanced around the table.
“Shruti,” one of the women greeted. “You look absolutely beautiful. Just as the mother of the groom should.”
“So lovely!” Mumma said, as everyone rose to congratulate Shrutiji on her son’s wedding to Anandji’s daughter.
“Thank you.” She beamed. “Have you met my other son, Ravi?” She motioned toward the man beside her. “MIT graduate. Top class. Already a senior software engineer in Silicon Valley.”
