In a Toyota Innova en route to her wedding,
I sit beside her, paint her nails,
count the bracelets clanging
around her dainty,
scarred wrist.
"How many?"

"As many as."
They chime the well-being of her betrothed:
the more she fits, the more fit
he'll be.
Chennai blaring and horn, yells and telling,
her soft voice witty,
knowing.

In three years that same voce will reassure me
— forget azzurro —
that this shade of rosa, loveliest of pinks,
is perfect
for the unghie
of a bride.

The minivan parks outside a temple in Mogappair,
where appearances must be made.
"Oh, just do it, I'll wait here."
Nonchalant
she lights wishes by proxy,
her sister Nandhu singeing coconut
with a BIC.

Bangles clink and swivel, thumbs dash and pat.
The bride texts and smiles.
Sushant
has arrived.