The mountain mist had deepened into a thick, silvery shroud, settling heavily over the open garden courtyard of the Manali estate. The towering pines surrounding the property stood like silent sentinels in the crisp night air, their tips lost in the dark winter sky. The crackling wood fires in the iron braziers, which had cast a warm, golden glow over the sacred ceremonies hours earlier, were now burning low, reduced to smoldering embers that pulsed with a faint, crimson light. The vibrant sounds of the *shehnai* and the festive chatter had long dissolved into an heavy, emotionally charged quietness. The long dining tables at the far edge of the lawn were empty, leaving behind the unmistakable, aching atmosphere that always marks the conclusion of a wedding.

It was time for the *Bidai*.