The scent of marigolds and burning ghee was so thick I felt I could choke on it. My red and gold lehenga, a masterpiece of my mother’s savings and dreams, felt heavier than a suit of armour. Beneath the heavy veil, or ghunghat, that obscured my vision, my heart hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs, a wild bird trapped in a cage of silk and tradition. I was getting married. To a man whose face I had never seen.

His name was Vikram Rajput. That much I knew.