The entrance avenue is cloaked in an almost sacred anticipation. Maids and manservants line either side like human pillars, bearing silver trays brimming with fresh flowers petals. Roses, marigolds. At the grand archway, two girls are cradling urns of incense perfume and Ganga Jal.

The main members of the royal family are standing at the threshold with gaze fixed toward the horizon where the guest is about to appear. 

Shringa (a type of Indian ancient musical instrument) holders grip their instruments like weapons, eyes narrowed, waiting for the moment to unleash their thunder. The air is swelling with the low murmur of excitement around them.

And I among this sea of revelry am the only one haunted. There is no cheer, no warmth. The joy wraps around my body like a too-tight skin, suffocating, itching. The reason? The man who always pours happiness into my life like golden nectar now goes in silence.

I steal glances again and again at Vikram. He is standing beside me like a storm encased in steel. Mighty. Unyielding. But not once does he look my way. Even though, I know, he feels my gaze.