In real time

I shifted hotels, but returned to the Palace Complex to meet with Shriji and continue my work. No internet where I'm staying, but same good access here.

Everything is abuzz with wedding preparations. I'm working in the reception where the guests have begun arriving. They walk up a red carpet surrounded by separate blocks of red rose petals and white orchids, outlined in vivid orange marigolds. Kind of like floral cloisonism.
Each guest is presented with a white orchid garland, with a red flower pendant. Scented oil is burning and the musicians are playing welcoming music. The begarlanded Europeans in the party - they seem to be mostly English - are taking photos. The older Indian women in the group don't seem overly fond of their flower necklaces and most are carrying them instead. And as quickly as the group arrives, they're dispersed. Within a matter of minutes, hostesses in orange saris lead them to their rooms. Porters in maroon berets and grey Nehru-styled suits sling bags over their shoulders and wheel cases behind them. Then the music slows down, a few notes on the sahnai linger, and apart from a few hotel big wigs, holding papers, wearing ties, and giving last-minute orders, all is still.

The brass lamps and flower pots are gleaming. A new tray of freshly squeezed watermelon, orange, grapefruit and an unidentifiable green juice, all laced with fresh mint arrives. Two sweepers come in to brush away the fallen petals. Then all is renewed, ready for the next round of colourful arrivals.

I marvel at the beauty and the ceremony, but the cynic in me counts the cost and thinks of western divorce statistics.