Chiffon Saree at a Toronto Wedding Hotel

She felt it before she heard it — the bhangra bass moving through the marble floor tiles and up through the soles of her heels, a low insistent thrum that had been living in her feet all evening. Down there: two hundred people, her aunt's voice cutting through the dhol, Priya in her bridal red accepting congratulations she had already accepted forty times. Up here: the locked door, the bright hotel bathroom, and Neha standing at the sink with both palms flat on the cold marble edge, looking at herself.

She had excused herself between the dinner service and the speeches. No one would miss her for fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty. The thought of twenty felt like something she had given herself permission to want, and the wanting itself was the first thing that had felt honest all evening.

The saree was the problem and also the point. Dusty rose chiffon, her mother's choice, draped and pinned at the shoulder by an aunty who had done this a hundred times and done it perfectly — which meant Neha couldn't remove a single pin without unraveling the whole architecture of how she was supposed to look tonight. She was sewn into her own performance. The fabric was so thin that the air-conditioned bathroom registered as a specific coolness across her stomach, across the bare skin of her midriff where the blouse ended and the saree began its long fall to the floor.

She had brought the wand in her clutch. She had known, getting dressed, that she would bring it. That knowledge had sat in her chest all evening like a second heartbeat — through the garba, through the toasts, through her uncle asking if she was seeing anyone. The wand was small, white, and at the bottom of a beaded bag that had also held her lipstick and her phone and the specific dignity of a woman who had everything under control.

She set it on the marble edge of the sink. Looked at it. Looked at herself looking at it.

Her reflection was composed. Hair still pinned. Kajal intact. The rose chiffon sitting exactly as it should, the pleats at the shoulder perfect, the fall across her hips moving faintly with her breath. She looked like a woman at a wedding. She looked like someone's good niece.

Her right hand stayed on the marble. Her left hand moved to the fabric at her hip — not lifting, not shifting, just pressing her palm flat against the chiffon and feeling the warmth underneath it, her own warmth, how much of it there was already without having done anything yet. The fabric was almost nothing. A suggestion. The pressure of her own palm through it registered somewhere low and specific, and she let out a breath that came out longer than she had planned, longer and quieter, her lips parting around it.

Below her feet, the bass shifted into something faster. The celebration continuing without her.

She picked up the wand. Her left hand stayed at her hip, palm still pressed to the chiffon, holding the heat she had already made. The wand was cool from the clutch, and she turned it once in her right hand, feeling its weight, not yet turning it on.

The moment before.

She was still looking at herself in the mirror. Her expression had not changed. That was the thing — she was still composed, still recognizably the woman from downstairs, and she was about to press this to herself through a layer of fabric so thin it was almost ceremonial, and no one would know, and the bass would keep moving through the tiles, and she would go back down looking exactly like this.

Her thumb found the button.

The bhangra moved through the floor and into her feet and she was still watching her own face in the mirror when she pressed the wand to herself through the chiffon and felt the first note of it arrive.