Page 115 of Made in Mumbai

“God is fond of his ears and hearing capacity. He won’t fall on you.”

“You mean I am loud?!”

Some temple goers began to peer their way. Gautam only cocked one eyebrow.

“You know what? If you want to taunt me on day one then I don’t want to get married to you!” She began to move away from him but he wrapped his free arm around her — “Oye, ok, ok. I’m sorry.”

“Ab aaya na utth pahad ke niche,” Kumar bhai laughed. “You own him Maya, this is exactly how you have to keep him in check for the rest of your life.”

“You wait now, Kumar bhai, I will avenge both of us.”

“Bothof you? What did I ever do to you?” Gautam hiked Megha higher on his shoulder. She was beginning to get fussy and eat his kurta buttons. Thirty minutes more for her mum-mum time. If they weren’t married by then… the temple would be brought down. And not by a leaky roof.

“Seriously though, it’s not even raining!” Maya complained. “Why is this roof leaking?”

“Shri Gautam Kumar, Kumari Maya Kotak?” Their names were called. And Maya literally ran, probably the most eager bride to get married. The first thing she did when she reached the temple courtyard was check if anything above leaked. Nothing. Clear blue summer sky. Maya smiled, running a hand down her white and red bandhni saree, in keeping in tradition with her Gujarati roots. Gautam hadn’t minded the rituals or clothes as long as he was married to her so she had put him in a creamcottonkurta (because it was hot and she didn’t want another complaining baby on her hands) while Megha wore a cute red cotton frock with matching bows on her two ponies. Six months old now, she had the perfect smiles and frowns to give. Right now she was frowning, probably at Kumar bhai because after long battles he had surrendered to switch his blue paghdi for red, but wouldn’t swap his plain white kurta-pyjama.

“Aap aaiye,” the Punditji called Gautam and he handed Megha over to Kumar bhai.

As the Punditji took their details from Gautam, Maya gazed at Megha laughing in Kumar bhai’s arms, playing with his beard, hiding in his shoulder. Her own parents hadn’t once come to see her. Maya had resigned for Megha not to have anybody except her, and the friends and community she would make as she grew up. But here she had a grandfather, and a father, who was devoted to her like he had been to nothing else. Her throat clogged.

“M?” Gautam called out, and she rolled her eyes to drink up the tears. No mascara mishap today.

“Were you crying?” He asked as they stood in front of each other, varmalas in their hands. She shook her head.

The Punditji chanted mantras and gestured for her to garland him. She stepped up, expecting him to act highhanded and crane his neck back. Instead his face softened, and he bent his neck for her, smiling so wide when she released the garland at his nape. Then his hands rose to garland her, but didn’t stop there. They came and thumbed her eyes clean of tears. Maya laughed, turning and following the Punditji to the Havan Kund.

“It feels like Saathiya, no?” She waggled her brows at him.

“Like what?”

“That film I showed you last Sunday! The one with Rani Mukherjee and Vivek Oberoi?”

“Which one?” He frowned. She rolled her eyes. When she glanced back he was busy winking at Kumar bhai and Megha. Her mouth dropped open — “I’m not marrying yo…”

“Om swaha…” the Punditji passed a platter of grains to them and she immediately sobered up. Gautam smirked, following the rituals as the Punditji prescribed. They finished the marriage havan, took their pheres holding hands, and on a sultry Mumbai morning, with the sun above them and the sweet chaos of devotees flocking around them, they were married. Their daughter right there to witness the event along with Kumar bhai, who had been continuously taking photos one-handed.

“Ab aap inke pati hai, aur aap inki arthaangini,” the Punditji announced the conclusion of their marriage vidhi. “Bado ka ashirwad lekar apne naye jeevan ki shuruaat kare.”

They folded their hands and touched Punditji’s feet, then walked to Kumar bhai and touched his feet. The man didn’t have a free hand to bless them thanks to Megha, and Maya’s command to take unlimited photos of the ceremony.

“Khush raho! Dudho nahayo, fudo falon…”

Gautam took Megha from his arms and Maya went for the phone, thumbing through the last hour.

“Kumar bhaiii!” She whined. “All blur?” She turned the phone to Gautam, swiping through the pictures — so many of them blurred or out of focus or unframed. The men laughed.

“I told you hire a photographer,” Kumar bhai held his hands up.

“This miser kanjoos makkhichoos G said ‘no, it will only be us and our family,’” she imitated.

“Talk properly, I am your husband now.”

Her heart skipped a beat. She glanced at him and he glanced down, their blinks simultaneous. “Uhh…” she shook out of that private moment, trying to wipe the shy smile off of her face, “Look, this one, this one is good…”

His hand came around her shoulder — “Let’s take my wife home, huh Kumar bhai?”

Maya felt red rise to her face. It was so hot.

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