You know Kumarakom weddings. The lake breathes through them. At 5:02 PM precisely – when the slanting light turns the water into molten bronze – Swapna’s anklets sank slightly into the soft earth as she took her seventh step around the sacred fire. The white kasavu mundu had acquired a faint smear of turmeric near the hem where Gokul had wiped his nervous hands. Someone’s mobile phone rang with a popular Malayalam ringtone during the solemnest moment, and everyone laughed in that particular Kerala way – through the nose, quickly stifled. The Christian neighbor’s child handed rose petals to the Muslim auntie who threw them at the couple, while the Syrian Catholic photographer kept muttering “light ah kidu” as he adjusted his lens. Later, when the last boat ferried away the guests, the night smelled of spilt payasam, jasmine from the resort gardens (though Swapna wore roses), and the particular musk of Vembanad at low tide. Not a “destination wedding”, just a wedding that happened to have the most beautiful destination. The kind Kumarakom sees every day, but this one was Gokul and Swapna’s.