But here’s the thing about an Indian wedding:
As Part 1 of our saga draws to a close, we find ourselves at 1 AM. The sangeet is winding down. The leftover food is being covered in cling wrap. The children are asleep on chairs made of folding plastic. And then it happens.
Just as the pheras were about to begin, a rogue gust of wind lifted the canopy over the sacred fire. Sparks hissed into a puddle. The priest—a stoic man from Varanasi who had seen everything—simply chanted louder.
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