The scent of smoldering sandalwood and charred ghee rose in thick, fragrant ribbons, weaving through the haveli courtyard like the breath of some ancient, watchful god. Every corner of the old mansion pulsed with the amber glow of ten thousand clay diyas, their flames shivering in the night stillness as if they, too, sensed the weight of what was about to unfold. Heavy ropes of marigold and jasmine hung from every arch and pillar, their perfume so dense it clung to the skin, sweet and narcotic. It was three-thirty in the morning, that liminal hour when the world held its breath, and the entire close family uncles, aunts, cousins, sat in a loose crescent before the mandap, their faces gilded by firelight, their silence thick with anticipation and unspoken things.