The sharp, trembling note of the shehnai hung suspended in the hot air like a question mark—then suddenly cut off. The note had hung there as if holding the whole courtyard’s breath. It sliced the humid morning and left the air raw — the kind of silence that makes small sounds feel enormous. For a second the world seemed to wait on that single, silver tone: a collective inhale, a momentary hush. When it stopped, the absence itself howled.

A new sound tore through the mandap’s festive chaos: the guttural roar of a motorcycle engine, low and angry.