You're Invited(69)
In an age where we buy our groceries online and meet romantic partners online and do our banking online, why are online friendships considered any less valuable than real-life ones? So what if I’ve never met Beth in person? Why is the physical act of meeting considered such a big deal when you can literally grow up next to someone and not know them at all?
Why is Beth a less valid friend than Kaavi? Is it because we’ve never met?
Maybe that’s something to unpack about me. Maybe if Dr. Dunn was my real-life therapist, and not just a podcast life coach, he’d think it was worth exploring. Why do I feel more comfortable around Beth, whom I have never met, and Alexander, whom I have only met under very specific circumstances, and Dr. Dunn, who honestly feels like he’s just talking to me and me alone? Tell me, please, how that’s less real than the relationship I had with Spencer, who left me in shambles, or my friendship with Kaavi that hurt beyond words?
The truth is that it’s so much easier to develop relationships with people when there are healthy boundaries between us. When there’s enough space. It keeps us from giving more of ourselves than we bargained for. It keeps us safe.
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THE PORUWA CEREMONY was all about auspicious times, so I’d set my alarm to 3:45 p.m. even though there was no way I could get unlucky about this. I turned the chair on my balcony to face the crowd that had gathered on the beach and got myself a cup of tea. I didn’t have to wait long.
Usually, the groom enters first with his family, accompanied by traditional drummers in turbans. Spencer had no family with him in Colombo, so the Fonsekas had him ride in on an elephant instead.
Yes. An actual, honest-to-goodness elephant.
The government had banned this years ago, and animal rights groups would have a field day if they got wind of it, but the one constant in Colombo is that the rules don’t apply to you if you’re rich and powerful.
The wedding guests cheered and clapped as Spencer was led toward the stage, where he disembarked with some difficulty. It wouldn’t have been an easy task in regular clothes, but of course Spencer was wearing the traditional Kandyan Nilame outfit, to match Kaavi’s Kandyan Osariya. You would normally have to be from Kandy to wear this, but then, it’s not like there was anything normal about this wedding. Spencer had gone all out—wearing the awkward crown-shaped hat, the jacket with the unnaturally puffed sleeves, and the sarong that was cinched in a bundle at his waist. He was adorned in the same white and rose gold threadwork and sparkles that mimicked Kaavi’s, and he even carried a sword.
The drums started up again, and I could tell that Kaavi was walking in with her parents. In Sri Lankan culture, it’s typical for both parents to accompany their child to the Poruwa, and Kaavi was no different. I was glad I’d seen enough of her Instagram to know how she looked, because I didn’t have binoculars and the balcony view was not doing me any favors. I longed to see her up close—maybe I still could, later.
I could see Spencer smile as Kaavi was led up to him, and they were asked to climb onto the stage with their right foot first. They greeted each other with their palms held together, and when Kaavi smiled at him, it was like the clouds had parted and the sun shone through. Mr. Fonseka took Kaavi’s hand and placed it on top of Spencer’s—the symbolic handing over.
The familiar feeling of wanting to throw up took root in my throat, and I had to look away, blinking back tears. I couldn’t believe this. I never in a million years imagined that this would happen to me. How could he do this? How could she?
I tried to take a sip of my tea, but it had gone cold. I went inside and dumped it in the sink, my hands trembling so much the cup almost crashed down on the counter.
When I returned, they had finished dropping the seven sheaves of betel leaves onto the Poruwa, and Spencer was standing behind Kaavi, attempting to clasp a necklace on her. Kaavi giggled a little at Spencer’s fumbling, and a few guests clapped, cheering Spencer on. They were shushed quickly—it would have been a bad omen if he didn’t succeed. The thought cheered me up a little, but it took him a few tries and he finally got it. The necklace was gold—I could see it glinting even from where I was. Of course rose gold or even white gold wouldn’t do. It didn’t hold its value like real gold did, and besides, it could be mistaken for copper or silver or some other metal, and that simply wouldn’t do in Colombo, regardless of Kaavi’s usual aesthetic.
A man I didn’t know, I’m guessing an uncle of Kaavi’s, climbed onto the Poruwa and started to tie their little fingers together with a gold thread. In Sinhala, the term for marriage is bandinawa, which means, literally, “to tie.” We well and truly believe in tying the knot, in every sense of the word, even if the knot is more of a noose. The uncle poured blessed water over their fingers and climbed off the stage.
Six girls dressed in white lama saris—the traditional Sri Lankan outfit of a white skirt and frilly blouse specifically worn by young girls—came before the Poruwa and started to sing Jayamangala Gatha, a Buddhist chant meant to bless the marriage. But it was in vain. I don’t care what it took: there wouldn’t be any blessings here.
There was more to do. There were coconuts to be smashed and lamps to be lit and parents to be worshipped—but I couldn’t take it anymore.
Weddings were supposed to bring joy, but this one brought nothing but misery.