After Gowri–Ganesha, life settled into a rhythm that felt both ordinary and full.
Office during weekdays.
Adda during weekends.
Family lunches.
Festival visits.
Unplanned gatherings stretching late into the night.
The duplex remained exactly what Swara had predicted.
Noisy.
Alive.
Nearly a year passed that way.
Quietly.
Comfortably.
Meanwhile, one separate battle continued inside Swara’s family.
Vara’s marriage.
Her parents tried repeatedly.
She rejected repeatedly.
Some proposals failed because of horoscope.
Some because families didn’t match.
Most because Vara simply said no.
Then, after many attempts, she finally said yes.
By the time Vara’s wedding got fixed, both families had stopped treating Sudharma and Swara like newly married people.
They had quietly become operational adults.
Which in Indian families meant:
every responsibility automatically moved toward them.
Vendor not answering?
Call Sudharma.
Invitation design confusion?
Ask Swara.
Guest accommodation?
Coordinate with both of them.
At some point even Vara herself stopped speaking directly to her parents for half the wedding decisions.
Everything went through:
“Akka what to do?”
“Jeej ask this fellow once.”
Preparation began months earlier.
Shopping weekends disappeared first.
Silk sarees.
Jewellery.
Return gifts.
Blouse alterations.
Random relatives suddenly emotionally attached to curtain colors.
Entire Saturdays vanished inside Chikkapet and Malleshwaram and overcrowded stores.
By evening everyone became irritable from lights, traffic and decision fatigue.
One afternoon after six hours of shopping, Sudharma sat completely defeated outside a silk showroom holding seven covers and one juice bottle while four women debated shades of maroon nearby.
“I cannot identify difference anymore,” he announced finally.
Swara looked at him calmly.
“You were never part of this discussion.”
“Then why am I carrying emotional luggage?”
Vara laughed so loudly nearby customers turned briefly.
As dates approached, Swara’s parents began depending on them almost unconsciously.
Her father now called Sudharma directly for things he once handled himself.
“Can you speak to decorator once?”
“This hall fellow confusing.”
“You only check sound system.”
Meanwhile Swara’s mother had entirely shifted emotional stress onto Swara.
“What breakfast menu enough?”
“Your Maami vegetarian count changed again.”
“Naina still not stitched blouse.”
One evening Sudharma returned home to find Swara asleep sideways on sofa with wedding invitation samples spread across floor around her.
Laptop still open.
Phone charging near cushion.
Pen marks on her hand.
He stood watching quietly for few seconds before lifting papers away carefully.
The week before wedding transformed the duplex house itself into transit camp.
Relatives started arriving in batches.
Mattresses spread across hall.
Suitcases near staircase.
Children occupying terrace permanently.
The house returned to old chaotic rhythm naturally.
Someone always searched for charger.
Someone always making tea.
Someone always asking:
“Where Sudharma?”
“Where Swara?”
Even Maccha got dragged into logistics unwillingly after visiting “just for one hour.”
By midnight he was counting welcome bags beside Ashu while complaining continuously.
“This is not friendship. This is free labour.”
“Continue counting,” Swara replied without sympathy.
Naina arrived two days later.
Swara’s younger cousin.
Nineteen.
College energy.
Still emotionally treated like child by entire family despite believing herself completely adult.
Within one hour she had:
reorganized decoration flowers wrongly,
lost one earring,
and convinced three children to practice dance inside already crowded hall.
Swara’s mother shouted her name every thirty minutes from different rooms.
“Nainaaa!”
“Coming!”
Never coming.
Som entered the ecosystem accidentally.
He was one of Sudharma’s office friends who came initially to help with reception coordination because he “knew event management fellows.”
Mostly he knew confidence.
Slightly immature.
Overfriendly.
Too socially comfortable.
The problem began when Sudharma noticed Som suddenly volunteering for every task involving Naina.
“Need pickup? I’ll go.”
“Naina where is the charger?”
“Naina did you eat?”
The girl herself remained harmlessly unaware.
Still behaving like overexcited college cousin while entire family instinctively monitored surroundings protectively.
One evening Swara pulled Sudharma aside near staircase.
“Your friend.”
“Hmmm?”
“Control.”
Sudharma looked toward hall where Som was apparently teaching Naina how to use DSLR settings while she nodded seriously despite understanding nothing.
“Ayyo.”
That night both cornered Som near parking area while loading return gifts into car.
“Som,” Sudharma began carefully.
“What?”
“She’s kid only.”
Som looked offended immediately.
“She’s adult.”
“She still watches Chhota Bheem with cousins,” Swara replied flatly.
“I’m only talking.”
“You continue only talking,” Sudharma said calmly. “Otherwise entire family will do your visarjan before reception.”
Som stared at both dramatically.
“You people treating me like criminal.”
“Preventive policing,” Swara replied while walking away.
Later during wedding lunch, Naina apparently asked innocently:
“Why Som suddenly scared of me?”
Swara nearly choked on rasam laughing.
Three days before the wedding, sleep disappeared entirely from everyone’s life.
Late-night vendor calls.
Flower timing confusion.
Missing relatives.
Room allocations changing every hour.
One night at nearly two-thirty in the morning, Sudharma and Swara sat alone on the duplex terrace floor surrounded by unopened return gift boxes.
Swara leaned back against wall and muttered:
“Next child marriage in family we should go out of station.”
“Hmmm.”
“No seriously.”
Sudharma looked at her.
“You saying now only. Wedding day again you’ll cry emotionally.”
“Definitely.”
Then after brief silence she asked:
“You tired?”
“Yes.”
“Happy?”
Sudharma thought about it honestly.
Also yes.
Wedding week finally arrived like controlled disaster.
The hall remained crowded continuously.
Priests.
Caterers.
Beauticians.
Relatives.
Children sleeping on chairs.
Men pretending to manage logistics while mostly discussing politics.
Swara moved through all of it with astonishing efficiency.
Coordinating rooms.
Managing jewellery.
Calming Vara.
Answering relatives.
Fixing blouse emergencies.
Sudharma meanwhile became unofficial transport department.
Airport pickups.
Railway station drops.
Vendor coordination.
Cash withdrawals.
Last-minute medicines.
At one point during muhurtham morning, Vara’s father sat beside Sudharma for exactly forty seconds between rituals and said quietly:
“If you both were not there…”
He didn’t finish the sentence.
Didn’t need to.
The reception night stretched endlessly.
Photos.
Lights.
Noise.
Children asleep on laps.
Relatives eating second ice cream secretly.
Near midnight, after most guests finally reduced, Sudharma stood near hall entrance drinking terrible machine coffee while watching inside.
Vara laughing on stage.
Swara fixing one final problem near gift counter.
His mother speaking comfortably with her relatives.
Ashu sleeping across three chairs.
Maccha still eating.
Noise everywhere.
Warmth everywhere.
Life everywhere.
Sudharma smiled into the paper cup.
The duplex had become exactly what Swara had predicted.
Noisy.
Shanbhogue Publications 
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