Part 3 of 5 · 4 minThe Housewarming Honeymoon

The housewarming party was already in full swing when Amit arrived, the air thick with the scent of roasting samosas and the low hum of Mumbai gossip. Smt. Meena Sharma had transformed her apartment into a festive oasis, draped in marigold garlands that seemed to glow under the warm overhead lights. She greeted him at the door with a beaming smile, clapping her hands together as if welcoming a long-lost prince rather than a neighbor who'd just agreed to pretend to have an uncle.

"Welcome, my dear nephew!" she declared, ushering him inside before he could even take off his shoes. "Mr. Deshmukh is already waiting in the living room. He insists on teaching you proper Indian etiquette before you meet the rest of the family."

Amit stepped into the hallway, his mind still reeling from the sheer absurdity of it all. He hadn't expected any such thing—just a casual housewarming where he'd sit quietly and eat whatever was served. But Meena's energy was infectious, pulling him deeper into her elaborate web of imaginary kinship with each passing second.

In the living room, Mr. Deshmukh sat cross-legged on a cushioned ottoman, holding a neatly folded kurta in his hands. He looked up as Amit approached, his eyes crinkling with delight.

"Ah! You're finally here," Mr. Deshmukh said, gesturing for him to sit. "Before we begin the main course of introductions, let's practice some proper Indian etiquette."

"Aetiquette?" Amit asked, raising an eyebrow. "Like what? Bowing to elders? Or perhaps saying 'Namaste' with greater enthusiasm?"

Mr. Deshmukh chuckled, folding the kurta in a precise, angular motion. "Clothing care is paramount, my boy. A well-folded garment reflects a disciplined soul. Observe." He demonstrated again, this time slower, his hands moving like a surgeon's. "See? The corners must align perfectly. No creases near the chest—that would ruin the drape when worn by someone important!"

Amit watched, half-amused, half-impressed. He reached for his own shirt and mimicked the folds, though they looked more like origami disasters.

"Your angle's off," Mr. Deshmukh corrected gently. "You're too relaxed. Think of yourself as part of an ancient lineage now. Discipline!"

By the time Meena returned from the kitchen with plates of samosas, Amit had mastered the art of folding clothes in a way that would confuse even a tailor. He sat beside Mr. Deshmukh, both nodding solemnly at their shared expertise.

Just as things settled into a comfortable rhythm, Ravi appeared at the doorway, clutching two steaming cups of chai. His eyes darted between Amit and Meena, clearly sizing up the situation.

"Another round?" he asked, offering one cup to Amit. "Or are we still discussing which cousin of yours lives in Pune?"

"Just joking," Amit replied, accepting the tea with a grin. He sipped, letting the warmth spread through him. "Though maybe next time I'll say I live in Goa. Sounds more exotic."

Ravi raised an eyebrow, taking a slow sip before leaning closer. "You remember how your uncle's name is? And what he does for a living? Or are we still pretending you don't know?"

Amit blinked, then smiled innocently. "Uncle Ramdas? He runs a small textile business in Surat. Though lately, I've been meaning to ask him about expanding into eco-friendly fabrics. Very trendy now."

Ravi nodded slowly, impressed by the confidence. "Impressive. But don't forget—the housewarming wasn't just about food and family photos. There was talk of a grand wedding next month."

Amit froze mid-sip, his heart skipping a beat. "Wedding? Which one?"

Meena's voice came from behind them, bright and cheerful. "Oh! The groom's cousin Amit is coming from Delhi! We're expecting you!"

The room erupted into laughter as Meena explained the details of the upcoming ceremony, complete with sangeet rehearsals and traditional haldi rituals. Amit found himself pulled deeper into the whirlwind, his alibis growing more creative by the minute.

As the evening wore on, Ravi kept glancing at him suspiciously, comparing notes with Meena whenever they thought Amit wasn't listening. But Amit remained unfazed, sipping his chai and laughing along with everyone else, enjoying the strange thrill of living a double life—one foot in reality, the other lost in Meena's whimsical world.

Just as the last bite of samosa was devoured and the plates stacked neatly beside Mr. Deshmukh's perfectly folded kurta, Meena's phone rang again. She glanced at it, smiled, and announced without hesitation:

"Another surprise! The groom's cousin Amit has been invited to perform in the sangeet dance!"

Amit stared at her, blinking. "Me? Perform?"

"Yes," she said, her eyes shining with anticipation. "And you'll need a proper outfit for it. Let's start designing your look tomorrow."