Day 95. I was wearing blue that day too. A different shade of blue. A georgette I had bought specially for the occasion. I flitted around the hall, attending to everyone around, trying to check every small detail. Was there enough food? Does it taste good? Has everyone eaten? Have they eaten well? Has she eaten anything? Maybe a small bite of the fish kebab or a cup of coffee would be good for her? How do I snatch her away from the constant stream of guests and sneak in some food past the crowd? As the last guests trickled out and the last of the gifts had been packed into the car that would be taken home, I slipped into the seat next to her. Back home, my home, and now our home, I helped her take off the bridal paraphernalia and made sure she was comfortable before retiring to my room. Tired, but happy. I had a new companion. Her debut into our family was a debut for me too, albeit of a different kind. As the elder sister, as the older bahu. To this day, when family members and relatives speak fondly of her wedding reception, which I had so carefully planned and organised, I can’t but feel a sense of quiet contentment, not untinged by a sliver of pride. In the nine years that have followed, we have shared much more than just our wardrobes (though that is no small advantage in itself!). From helping her organise her almirah the day after she came home to remembering her accessories for her and reminding her to match them with the right outfit, I have done it all. Just as I have been embraced in the warmth of little surprises and thoughtful gifts time and again. Be it the tray of five gifts (a blue silk sari among them) on our fifth wedding anniversary and the first after their wedding to this sari for Puja this year. There was still more than a month to go before Puja, when she beckoned me to her room one Sunday evening. There lying on the bed was this sari, still unfinished. Some time ago, she had bought a similar sari (actually six yards of a dress material) with black and maroon border for herself and run up a line of stitch along the pallu. That apparently was just a rehearsal, she told me. She had bought similar saris for her cousins and me and decided to embroider the pallus. It had been meant to be a surprise but she couldn’t keep it any longer. And then the wait begun. As she finished one sari after another, the stitches got a little more confident, the designs a little more elaborate with each sari. The first two were packed off to distant America, the next two closer home. And then came my turn. Puja was knocking on the door, so we went shopping for a blouse piece to go with the sari and gave it to the tailor too. The blouse came home a day or two before Durga. I tried it on and smiled at the perfect fit. And before we knew it, Puja was here. Give me a little more time, I don’t want to rush it, she said. And I agreed. Days passed and then weeks, I got impatient and she suggested that I wear the sari once and give it back to her to complete. But I was adamant. I would wear only the completed sari. Soon, it became a bit of a family joke. Every time, we saw her sit with the sari, threads strewn around, one of us would rib her. And then a little more than two months after Puja came the Dday. She pulled the final thread and handed it over to me with a quiet smile of satisfaction. But the long wait had been worth it. It looked gorgeous. And I knew I had the perfect occasion coming up for me to wear it. Her anniversary. Happy anniversary Sarmistha.