The haldi function had begun in full swing. I sat on the small wooden stool, surrounded by neighbors and village ladies who had turned the ritual into a joyful chaos. Their hands were warm and quick—dipping into the brass thali of thick, golden haldi paste and smearing it across my face in slow, loving circles, then down my arms, my feet, my hands. The paste felt cool at first, then warm, seeping into my skin like liquid sunlight. Laughter rang out, old songs about glowing brides and impatient grooms filled the air, and every now and then someone dabbed a little extra on my nose or cheeks just to tease me.

Suddenly everything stopped.