Nirav's wedding venue was lit up like a small festival by the time Amogh arrived that evening — strings of marigold and fairy lights draped across the lawn, a stage at one end already thumping with the bass of whatever dance number the choreography team had chosen to open the evening, the specific controlled chaos of several hundred guests who all seemed to know exactly where they were supposed to be except for him.

He had attended enough of these functions over the years to know the shape of an evening like this one before it even properly began — the receiving line, the small talk, the particular exhausting rhythm of being recognized by people he barely remembered meeting and asked, without fail, some version of the same three questions. Tonight, predictably, was no exception.