Chapter 4: The Final Toast

The banquet hall buzzed—uncle checking mithai boxes, dadi muttering about the AC, and the buffet loaded with paneer butter masala, biryani, jalebi. But everything tasted like cardboard to me. I sat, saree pallu in hand, trying to disappear.

Priya looked radiant, eyes sparkling as she circled the mandap. I remembered our college talks about dream weddings—now hers was real, while mine was falling apart.

The host announced a game: "Jaldi pakdo, winner gets a prize!" The DJ’s voice cracked, grown-ups scrambled for soft toys. Rohan caught the Hello Kitty plush—my favourite. Our home was full of them, each one a memory of a fight, a birthday, an apology.

I instinctively reached for it, remembering our inside joke—how he once said, “Anu, you look cutest when you’re happy.” But he handed it to another bridesmaid, his eyes soft with affection. My heart cracked. I pressed my palms together, focusing on my breath like Amma does, but the ache wouldn’t go.

I still clung to hope—maybe he was just angry, acting out. Indian couples fight and make up over chai and samosas. I typed his number, hands shaking, messaged: “Rohan, I know I was wrong. Can you forgive me?” The blue ticks came, then silence.

Rohan went to the restroom. I sat alone, the noise fading. Sneha slid into the seat beside me, bangles clinking. “My name’s Sneha. Tell me some funny stories about Bhaiya Rohan.” Her voice was syrupy, her eyes sharp. Before I could answer, she spilled her cola—her lap soaked, aunties tsking, already composing WhatsApp forwards about the drama. Someone’s uncle tried to defuse with a loud, forced laugh.

I stood to help, but Rohan rushed over, pushing me aside. I stumbled, red wine spilling on my saree. “Ananya, if you want to create a scene, pick a better time! Do you know where we are?” His voice was icy, loud, drawing every eye.

He wrapped his suit jacket around Sneha, fussing over her like she was made of glass. My stomach twisted. “What did I do?” I demanded, voice trembling. “Why are you blaming me for everything, Rohan?”

“Still arguing? You spilled cola on Sneha, and you think you’re in the right? Apologise to her!” he snapped.

I stared at him, shocked. After eight years, how could he think I’d do this? People watched, whispered, judged.

Sneha piped up, eyes wide: “Bhaiya Rohan, it was my fault. My hand slipped.” She dabbed her eyes, looking like the heroine of a daily soap.

I felt exposed, the villain in someone else’s serial. “Apologise. I’m telling you again.” Rohan’s voice was final.

He grabbed the whisky, filled my glass. “Drink. Show some sincerity.”

Tears pricked my eyes. “Rohan, you know I can’t drink.” He raised his eyebrow, mocking. He’d forgotten the night I drank for him at his business dinner, the night he sat by my bed, feeding me water, saying, “Anu, don’t drink anymore.”

But now, he’d forgotten. Seeing me hesitate, Sneha started to cry, clinging to Rohan, sobbing softly: “Bhaiya Rohan, don’t make things hard for your childhood friend.”

The crowd buzzed, some muttering, “Drama chal raha hai!” I took a deep breath, picked up the glass. “I won’t apologise. But today is Priya’s wedding, so I’ll drink. After this, we’re done.”

I downed the whisky in one go, the burn sharp, my eyes watering. Rohan looked away, regret flickering for a moment.

He led Sneha away, not even glancing back. The hall doors slammed shut. I stood alone, saree stained, heart shattered, but somehow—relieved. Maybe letting go was the right choice after all.