The night before my marriage arrived like a soft murmur, weaving itself into the lamps and laughter that filled the women’s courtyard. The air was sweet with incense, thick with the fragrance of henna leaves ground fresh into a dark paste. My chamber had been opened to the women of the household, the floor spread with soft mattresses, cushions of silk, and plates full of sweets that never seemed to empty. Laughter rang louder than the temple bells, and my heart beat with both joy and an unspoken ache.

I sat in the center, draped in a light peacock-green lehenga, my dupatta tucked to the side so the mehndi artists could work without hindrance. My hands rested upon a soft cushion, palms open, as two women bent over me, their cones releasing delicate streams of henna onto my skin.