Nada's room is glowing. Fairy lights, pastel curtains, chaos in every corner — the ultimate bridal battleground. She's sitting in front of the vanity like she's about to give a TED Talk on how to panic elegantly.
"Oh my God, Isha," she beams when I walk in. "Can you believe it's today?!"
I blink. She's blinking. A lot.
Her joy is contagious, but there's a mischievous spark in her eyes, the kind only someone who's managed to pull off a masterful deception could have. The engagement is supposed to look like a traditional arranged marriage — all family approval, no questions asked. But in reality It's a love marriage, one she and her fiancé have carefully kept under wraps, presenting it to the family as something it's not.
Nada, with her soft smile and sweet, innocent demeanor, is the last person you'd suspect of being behind this little ruse. She's like a fox in sheep's clothing, spinning a story that everyone believes. She's got everyone wrapped around her finger, effortlessly playing the role of the naive, innocent bride-to-be, while secretly orchestrating her own love story. It's genius, really. She's a little con artist, but in the most lovable way imaginable.
"Yup," I say, setting my bag down. "It's happening. And your eyeliner's crying for help."
"I tried to do the winged thing like on Pinterest—"
"Yeah, it's more... seagull mid-crash," I mutter, already picking up the liner to fix it.
Getting her ready is like doing makeup on a very excited, very blinky puppy. Every time I get one eye done, she starts blinking like she's sending Morse code.
"Nada. Can you not blink like you're stuck in a windstorm?"
"I'm just... so happy!" she says, blinking faster.
Deep breath. She's lucky she's cute.
We go through concealer, highlighter, lipstick, and emotional breakdowns (hers not mine — not yet). Just as I'm about to start curling her lashes, the door opens and two aunties and a cousin I don't even recognize walk in.
They're holding jewelry. That's my cue.
"Oh good, more help," I say sweetly, sliding back like a ninja. "Nada, you're in... very glittery hands now."
I step out, silently high-fiving myself for escaping a second coat of lip gloss duty.
And that's when I hear it.
"Isha!"
I freeze. Turn.And there he is.
Shan.
Pause.
Let's introduce him first
See that guy standing like he just stepped off a low-budget British romcom. Sun behind him, hair a bit fluffier than I remember, and wearing a kurta like it's an itchy sweater he's trying to get used to. Yep. The one in sunglasses indoors? That's Shan.
God help him — he's got socks with sandals.
Of course he does.
Now before you ask — no, he's not a celebrity. No, he didn't come from a music video shoot. And no, we are not giving him a standing ovation.
This… is Shan.
My cousin.
My childhood partner-in-crime.
Also the proud new member of the "Whitewashed Desi Society.
I know. Tragic.
Anyway — back to the entrance.
Shan walks in like the main lead of a webtoon, with imaginary roses falling around him. He grins, tossing a wink in my direction like we're in some reunion episode of Friends: Desi Edition.
And me?
Oh, I've been waiting for this.
I've been training for this.
Welcome back, cousin.
Time to roast you like an overcooked kabab.
Shan grinned the moment he spotted me.
"Isha! Look who's back from the land of baked beans and cold weather."
I raised an eyebrow, my lips curling into a mischievous smile.
"Oh look, it's Mr. 'I miss masala but can't handle mirch anymore.'"
Shan clutched his chest in mock offense.
"I can handle mirch, okay? One bite of your grandma's achaar doesn't count as a spice test."
"You choked," I shot back immediately. "You literally coughed for three minutes and asked for almond milk."
"It was a reaction!" Shan protested. "And I asked for water. Normal water."
I tilted my head, smirking.
"Mmhmm. I told you you're two chutneys away from being legally declared whitewashed."
"That's a bit harsh, isn't it?" he muttered.
My eyes went wide as i leaned forward with mock seriousness.
"ISN'T IT? Bro. You've been gone 365 days, not reborn in a teacup."
shan burst out laughing.
"I hate how prepared you are for this."
"I've been practicing in the mirror since your flight landed," I said.
We were still trading verbal punches when the sound of someone clomping up the stairs interrupted us — heavy, rhythmic steps, like his feet were auditioning for a tabla solo.
Enter: zain.
Resident accountant.
Polite to a fault.
The kind of guy who says "Yes, aunty" before even hearing the request.
Today's title?
Chief of All Shaadi Duties. (Unpaid, obviously.)
His cloths were slightly wrinkled, his hair doing this half-swept, half-defeated thing, and his expression said one thing loud and clear: Help me.
"I came at 7 a.m. to drop something off," zain sighed. "Just drop it off."
"And let me guess—you never left," I said knowingly.
"chacha (uncle) said, 'zain beta, you're here early, such a good boy.' I made the mistake of smiling," he confessed. "Now I've organized chairs, done four tea runs, and negotiated peace between mami and chachi fighting over tablecloth colors."
Shan shook his head with mock solemnity.
"Classic rookie mistake. You smiled? In this economy?"
"You should've faked a phone call and fled," I added. "That's survival 101."
"I tried," zain said flatly. "chachu handed me a phone and said, 'Beta, talk to the decorator.'"
Poor guy. Trapped by his own manners.
"So…" zain continued, "the aunties said they need help with the gift bags. And the kids are trying to break into the dessert table. Again."
"If I hear the words 'organza ribbon' one more time, I'm throwing myself off the balcony," shan groaned.
I rolled my eyes and gestured for both of them to follow.
"Suck it up, boys. Let's go be the unpaid interns we were born to be."
And just like that, we were drafted into service—another full-blown desi event where your only real job is: everything.