The central courtyard of the Thakur Haveli where Sia's wedding was happening was transformed into a sea of sunset oranges and lemon yellows. Hundreds of marigolds hung from the carved stone pillars, their earthy scent mixing with the sharp, sweet fragrance of fresh henna. Rajasthani folk singers sat in a corner, the rhythmic beat of the dholak making the heavy afternoon air vibrate with life.

Arya was sitting on a low wooden swing, her arms propped up on silk cushions. The artist was currently working on her left forearm, tracing intricate patterns of vines and tiny, hidden stars. The henna went all the way up to her elbows, the dark green paste cooling her skin but doing nothing to soothe the heat she felt from the man standing by the fountain across from her.