Because somewhere between the third baraat and the sixth plate of gulab jamun , the wedding had stopped being a ceremony and started being a monsoon fever dream.
But the real answer wasn’t a location. It was a feeling.
We never did find the next part.
The tent—a massive, air-conditioned marquee—had sprung a leak. Not a dramatic Bollywood gush, but a slow, insistent drip right onto the groom’s mother’s silk Kanjivaram. Waiters in damp bowties navigated puddles of rain and spilled chai . The DJ, a guy named Bunty who swore he’d played at “Yuvraj Singh’s cousin’s engagement,” had just dropped a remix of “Bijlee Bijlee” at max volume.
“This is…” she shouted over the beat, rain speckling her glasses. “...the wettest, hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”
She laughed. I offered her my now-soggy handkerchief.
It was 2 a.m. in July, and the Delhi air had turned into a damp, living thing. My phone screen was the only light in the room. My fingers, still stained with mehendi, hovered over the keyboard.
“Wet hot Indian wedding part in…”