“You’ve left your husband in America and come alone?” Laxman was asking bluffly.
He had materialised next to Gita under the wedding shamiana once Gita had been separated from her parents and brother.
Gita had returned to the complex to attend the wedding of one of Sachin’s younger cousins. Someone or the other was always getting married in the enormous clan. SP Chopra’s nine kids had had kids of their own – though, thankfully, no more than two apiece – and those kids needed to be floated out into the world like diyas on a river.
Gita smiled in hello and said, “What to tell you, Laxman, it’s expensive to fly –”
“Oye, bache, tell the waiter to bring whiskey for your chachiji,” Laxman said to a passing nephew.
The tone of the Punjabi man at a wedding, Gita recognised it. Her whole childhood in Delhi appeared to have consisted of such weddings, including those held in this grand Chopra complex, draped in nets of festive light bulbs, where SP Chopra, then alive, had held court in his safari suits and turban, welcoming each person individually, slapping people on their backs and laughing so hard you felt he might never stop, that he might get...
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