"What's this, dear? Has he been sitting near the mat all this time? He must be thinking we're somewhere far away," remarked one.

"How will you spend another twenty-four hours, boy?" asked another.

When someone came to offer ghee for the meal, yet another would say, "He's finished eating, don't force him again and again just because you think he looks frail."

When the sweets were served, someone else would protest, "Oh dear, please don't trouble him! He can't tolerate anything sweet at all, believe me!"

Thus, in all sorts of ways, with banter and laughter, they somehow made it seem as if the meal was finished. Once everyone had taken their betel leaves and gone their separate ways, even the relatives from Narsapuram—my aunt's people—left immediately. After that, all our extended family, with all the necessary commotion, household chores, last-minute packing, gathering the children, and everyone talking over each other, began preparing for the journey. There was as much bustle and noise as one could wish for, with trunks being packed for the trip. I had no idea what was happening, who was doing what, or what anyone was saying.

Since I thought the journey would begin only after dawn, I couldn't sit still in the midst of all this chaos at home. So, taking along a couple of young cousins, I wandered off towards our fields, chatting away. By the time we returned home, it was quite dark. My mother and the others were worried, wondering where I had disappeared to. The entire street was filled with bullock carts—two for every household. Some carts were already loaded with luggage. Some newlywed couples, each having been allotted their own cart, had even spread out their bedding inside, ready for the journey. Some of the elders, unable to grasp the excitement or perhaps having simply forgotten, were muttering, "How will this work, dear? At this rate, we'll need a hundred carts for ourselves!"

Still, it wasn’t enough.

Without any sense of shame or hesitation, they even spread out mattresses. Are these supposed to be benches, or are they birthing rooms? Costumes! Are these costumes or what?” Shouting thus, they began to raise such a commotion that the whole street echoed with their cries.

Amidst this chaos, I and the young fellows who had come with me managed to reach home. Even at the end of the street, those shouts were still audible to us. I had completely forgotten the present situation.

“What are these benches, man? What’s all this racket that can be heard from here to Narsapuram? What’s this birthing-room hullabaloo?” I asked.

“Why do you ask like that? In another half hour or so, or an hour at most, we have to set out for Bhimavaram, don’t we?” said one of the youngsters. Only then did my senses return.

“Are we leaving right now?” I asked anxiously, and dashed into the house. The moment my mother saw me, she came running—

“What is this, my boy? Where did you go? Why are you so late? Everyone else has finished eating. The benches are ready for you to get on. Quickly wash your feet and at least put a couple of morsels in your mouth, dear,” she said, not even finishing her sentence before I rushed into the backyard, washed my hands and feet in a hurry, and by the time I returned, a meal was already served for me in a plate.

But I was so full of excitement and agitation that I couldn’t bring myself to eat. Not a single item, not even the delicious sweets, felt pleasant to me. Just as my mother had said, I somehow managed to force a couple of mouthfuls down and got up and went outside.

Just then, someone started shouting, “Have the palanquin bearers arrived?” My heart nearly stopped. What new commotion is this now? After all these years, they must be thinking I’ll sit in a palanquin and be paraded all the way to Bhimavaram, I suppose, I muttered half to myself, and ran to my mother.

“Amma!” I called out, my voice rising with agitation.

“What is it, son?” she said, dropping whatever she was doing and running over in alarm.

"Mother, what’s all this talk about palanquins and gig-carts? Who are these people, anyway?" I asked, a little irritated.

"What’s this, you silly boy? How can there be a wedding without a palanquin? All the wedding guests will come in carts, but the groom must go in a palanquin, my dear. After all these years, how can you still be so innocent? If anyone hears you, they’ll laugh their heads off," said my mother, and she rushed off.

Without my knowledge, she had already had a new dhoti and a new shirt stitched for me, a velvet coat, a grand zari-bordered shawl, a velvet cap with a shimmering border—all of these she brought out, arranged on a silver plate. She told me to take off the clothes I was wearing and put these on, all the while suppressing her laughter.

My legs began to tremble. I was afraid I might collapse right there. To be safe, I flopped onto the bench nearby. My mother looked a bit worried.

"What’s wrong, dear? Are you feeling unwell?" she asked.

"I’m perfectly fine, Mother. Absolutely fine. It’s just that, as soon as I saw these theatrical costumes, my eyes went wide, my heart started pounding, and I collapsed like this. Did you borrow this coat and cap from some merchant’s house or a royal family? Or are they ours? Heaven forbid, are these the priceless garments worn by my grandfather or your grandfather on their wedding day? If so, after this auspicious event, it’s your responsibility to preserve them carefully for my son and grandson," I said.

My mother burst out laughing. I had never seen her laugh like that before. In a moment, she composed herself and said, "These are for you, dear. I had them stitched without even