The village stirred before dawn, its heartbeat syncing with the preparations that had begun in the darkest hours. Oil lamps flickered in every window, their flames dancing to the rhythm of old wedding songs sung by women whose voices carried generations of blessings. The air thickened with the scent of marigold and jasmine, of fresh gulab jamun bubbling in sugar syrup, of crushed cardamom and saffron.

The halwai had set up his makeshift stall under the old banyan tree at the edge of the courtyard. His hands moved with practiced precision, shaping ladoos and barfis into perfect golden spheres, weaving garlands of rose petals and mogra that would adorn the wedding mandap. The decoration committee worked feverishly—women in bright bandhani sarees draping mango leaves and marigold chains, men hoisting strings of fairy lights that would transform the humble chabutra into a celestial stage by midnight.