Tara Ellison Ray
Jay Parker hated weddings. He hated the drama, the speeches, the couples gazing into each other’s eyes like the world was a chocolate fountain. But most of all, he hated commitment. So naturally, when his best mate Ollie invited him to a week-long bachelor party in Goa—far, far away from London’s relentless drizzle and his ex-girlfriend’s constant texting—Jay booked the flight without a second thought.
He didn’t bother to read the fine print. Details bored him. That’s how he ended up sleep-deprived, slightly hungover, and entirely confused when a chauffeur holding a sign that read “Jai Prakash – Groom” waved excitedly at him outside Dabolim Airport.
Jay, dragging his bag and wearing a T-shirt that read “Groom? Nope,” approached the man. “You’re looking for a Jai Prakash?”
The driver grinned. “Yes sir! You are Jai Prakash, no?”
Jay blinked. “Er… No. I’m Jay Parker.”
The driver looked momentarily baffled. Then his eyes lit up. “Same-same, sir. Jay. Jai. Close enough. Come, car is waiting. Family is very excited.”
Before Jay could correct him, the man grabbed his suitcase with unexpected strength and tossed it into the boot of a white SUV decorated with golden ribbons. Jay hesitated. Goa was chaotic. The air smelled like coconuts and possibilities. He was too jetlagged to argue, and maybe this was part of Ollie’s weird plan. He shrugged and got in.
“Fancy,” he muttered, sinking into the leather seat.
One hour and two coconut waters later, Jay arrived at what could only be described as a wedding resort on steroids. There were fairy lights strung across trees, a giant banner that read “#Janya2025,” and an actual elephant grazing near the entrance.
He was whisked away to a suite with a view of the sea and a wardrobe full of sherwanis in various shades of maroon and gold. Still half-convinced this was some elaborate prank, Jay sent Ollie a message.
Mate. What’s with the VIP welcome? Did you sell me to a wedding cult?
No reply.
A knock on the door interrupted his confusion. Enter a petite woman in a blue saree, a clipboard in hand and panic in her eyes.
“Mr. Jai Prakash, I’m Mitali—the wedding planner. We need to finalize your turban color for tomorrow’s haldi. Your mother wants sunflower yellow, but your sister says it’ll clash with Ananya’s lehenga. Thoughts?”
Jay blinked. “Sorry—Ananya?”
“The bride, sir.”
Right. Bride.
He cleared his throat. “Listen, there’s been a huge mistake. I’m not the groom.”
Mitali didn’t look up from her clipboard. “Pre-wedding jitters are common, Mr. Prakash. Just don’t faint during the pheras, okay?”
Before he could protest further, she breezed out of the room, barking orders at a poor man about floral garlands and emergency stain removers.
Jay stood in the middle of the suite, baffled. Somewhere between Heathrow and Goa, he’d become an Indian groom.
He flopped onto the bed and muttered, “Well, this will be awkward.”
But things got weirder the next morning.
At the haldi ceremony—where, apparently, friends and family smear the groom with turmeric paste while dancing to Bollywood music—Jay was ambushed by half a dozen aunties who pulled him into a chair and began rubbing his face with bright yellow goo while singing “Mehndi Laga Ke Rakhna” at full volume.
“Why are your eyelashes so long?” asked one suspicious-looking aunty.
“Are you using foreign shampoo?” asked another.
He smiled nervously. “Genetics and trauma.”
They all laughed, and someone threw rose petals in the air. Jay began to wonder if he’d entered an alternate universe.
Then he saw her.
Ananya.
She was standing at the edge of the crowd, dressed in a simple yellow kurti, her long dark hair loosely tied back. Her eyes—sharp, curious, and not the least bit amused—met his.
She walked up to him slowly, arms folded. “So. You’re Jai Prakash?”
Jay cleared his throat. “Not exactly.”
“You don’t look like the kind of guy who’d agree to an arranged marriage. You look… allergic to adult responsibility.”
“I am. In fact, I think I’ve been kidnapped by a very polite wedding mafia.”
She raised an eyebrow. “So who the hell are you?”
“Jay Parker. British. Very lost. I think I was mistaken for your groom.”
There was a pause.
Then, to his surprise, she smiled. Not a warm, fuzzy smile, but the kind that suggested trouble.
“Well, Jay Parker,” she said, crossing her arms, “you’ve just made this wedding ten times more interesting.”
Jay wasn’t sure what stunned him more—the fact that Ananya didn’t immediately call security, or that she was now sitting across from him on a swing draped in marigolds, sipping from a coconut and smirking like this was the most entertaining thing she’d seen all week.
“So let me get this straight,” she said, legs crossed elegantly, “you flew here for a bachelor party…”
“Yep.”
“…got mistaken for my groom…”
“Yep.”
“…and decided to just go along with it?”
Jay raised his hands in surrender. “In my defense, I thought it was some over-the-top prank. My friends once sent me to a goat yoga retreat in Wales for my birthday. This seemed oddly believable.”
Ananya laughed, a soft, surprised sound. “Wow. Jai Prakash, the real one, is either dead in a ditch or the luckiest man on Earth.”
Jay tilted his head. “So… you’re not panicking?”
“Oh, I’m panicking,” she said, sipping her coconut again. “But mostly because this wedding was already turning into a three-ring circus. Now it’s officially a Netflix original.”
Jay leaned back on the swing. “So what’s your plan?”
“I don’t know yet,” she said. “My plan was: meet the guy, decide if I could stand him, and if not—run away just before the sangeet. My cousin Tanvi has a getaway scooter.”
Jay’s eyebrows rose. “You came prepared.”
“I’m a modern woman,” she replied. “And my parents planned this marriage like it was a business merger.”
“And what now? Do I get scooter privileges?”
She grinned. “That depends. Can you dance?”
Jay stared at her. “I once sprained my ankle trying to moonwalk.”
“Perfect,” she said. “Tonight’s the sangeet. You’re performing.”
Jay choked. “I’m what now?”
Ananya stood up, brushing turmeric off her sleeve. “Relax. It’ll be chaos. Nobody’s expecting perfection, just some bhangra and basic hand twirls. If you mess up, they’ll think you’re nervous. Or British.”
Jay groaned. “I feel like I’m in a Bollywood version of The Truman Show.”
She winked. “Smile through the panic. It’s tradition.”
The sangeet was held on the lawn under a velvet sky, the air heavy with jasmine and the sound of dhol beats. There were fairy lights, backup dancers, and a six-tier cake that probably had its own Instagram handle. Jay stood backstage in a crimson kurta with golden embroidery that made him look like a decorative curtain.
Next to him, a hyper-enthusiastic choreographer named Rahul was snapping his fingers and shouting, “Feel the rhythm, darling! You are sexy tiger!”
Jay wasn’t feeling like any kind of tiger.
Out in the crowd, aunties fanned themselves. Kids chased bubbles. And Ananya—gorgeous in a navy lehenga with silver thread—watched him with amused eyes.
The music started.
Jay shuffled forward, trying to mimic the backup dancers, who were clearly trained in Olympic-level cardio. He tried to swing his arms like Rahul had shown him. He spun. He pointed dramatically to the sky. He missed the beat. Twice. Then stepped on the anchor’s foot.
The crowd roared with laughter.
Jay paused, sweating bullets, and then… bowed.
The laughter turned to applause.
Later, out of breath and high on adrenaline, he found Ananya behind the stage, sipping mango juice.
“Well,” he wheezed. “Did I win the audience?”
“You did,” she said. “They think you’re adorable.”
Jay grinned. “Adorable. Great. That’s exactly the vibe I aim for.”
Ananya studied him. “So what happens now, Jay Parker?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “You tell me. You’re the bride.”
She tilted her head. “Maybe we keep pretending. Just a little longer. Buy some time. Let the chaos play out.”
“Until when?”
“Until the real Jai shows up. Or the elephant stages a coup. Whichever comes first.”
He offered his mango juice like a toast. “To elaborate lies and near-death choreography.”
She clinked her glass against his. “To accidental grooms and rebellious brides.”
That night, as fireworks exploded above the resort and laughter echoed from the courtyard, Jay lay in bed thinking—maybe, just maybe, he didn’t hate weddings as much as he thought.
At least, not this one.
The next morning, Jay woke up to a rooster crowing and a loud ding! on his phone. It was a message from Mitali, the wedding planner.
“9:00 AM – Mehndi photoshoot with Ananya. Please wear the pistachio kurta. DO NOT BE LATE. 🌿📸✨”
Jay stared at the message like it had personally offended him.
Pistachio?
He dragged himself out of bed, found the pastel green kurta hanging like a smug ghost in the closet, and muttered, “This is how I die. Smothered in embroidery.”
Downstairs, the garden had been transformed into a mehndi paradise—canopies of colorful fabric, rows of cushions, the scent of eucalyptus and mango lassi in the air. Women with floral jewelry sat chatting and laughing, getting their hands covered in intricate henna designs. Somewhere, a tabla player was trying way too hard.
Jay spotted Ananya seated like royalty on a swing adorned with jasmine, her palms already half-covered in mehndi, her expression caught somewhere between graceful and evil amusement.
“You’re late,” she said without looking up.
“I was emotionally wrestling with pastel,” Jay replied, sitting beside her. “Is this pistachio or mint? It’s like being dressed by an ice cream truck.”
She grinned. “You’re oddly good at pretending this is normal.”
“Because if I stop pretending, I’ll start screaming.”
A mehndi artist approached him. “Groom, sir! What design you want? We can write bride’s name in hidden place.”
Jay blinked. “Hidden place?”
Ananya raised a brow. “Tradition. Your mehndi has my name hidden in it. Later, I have to find it.”
“Sounds like flirty treasure hunting,” Jay said, offering his hand. “Alright. Draw me something cool. Maybe a dragon. With tiny sunglasses.”
The artist giggled and went to work. Meanwhile, Jay leaned toward Ananya. “So, any word from the real Jai?”
“Nope. But my cousin found his LinkedIn profile. He’s in telecom and obsessed with finance podcasts. He sounds like the kind of guy who owns sock organizers.”
Jay grimaced. “Tragic.”
Ananya looked at him. “You’re not the guy I was supposed to marry.”
“I’ve been told.”
“But,” she said slowly, “you’re fun.”
Jay blinked. “You mean I’m not a total disaster?”
“You’re a disaster,” she corrected. “But an entertaining one.”
He smiled. “You’re not bad yourself, runaway bride.”
Just then, her aunt barged in. “Ananya! Beta, we have surprise interview for TV! They are covering top 5 destination weddings! Come, smile like good Indian girl.”
Jay choked on his juice. “Interview?!”
Minutes later, Jay and Ananya were sitting under a floral arch, facing a camera crew from a lifestyle channel. A woman with a headset whispered, “Act romantic. Talk about how you met. Share emotional moment.”
Ananya grinned. “Let’s improvise.”
The camera started rolling.
“So, Jai,” the host said, beaming, “tell us how you knew Ananya was ‘the one’?”
Jay hesitated. “Well, I first saw her while being aggressively smeared with turmeric. I thought, ‘Either I’m hallucinating from curry fumes, or that’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.’”
Ananya snorted.
“And you, Ananya?” the host turned to her. “Your first impression of him?”
She smiled sweetly. “He looked like a confused chicken in designer clothes.”
Jay clutched his heart. “Love at first roast.”
The interview ended in applause. The host declared them “a modern fairytale,” and Jay felt something unexpected—a tiny twinge of guilt. Or was it… attachment?
Later that evening, they escaped the noise and sat on the beach, watching waves lap at the shore.
“This is all fake,” Ananya said softly. “But it’s starting to feel real.”
Jay nodded. “Yeah. Weird, isn’t it?”
“Do you think we’ll laugh about this someday?”
“Or write a book,” he said. “How I Got Married by Mistake and Still Screwed It Up.”
She laughed. “You think you’re going to screw it up?”
“I always do,” he said. “I’m terrible at endings.”
She looked at him for a long moment. “Well then, don’t end it.”
A beat.
Then she stood up, brushing sand off her lehenga. “Come on, accidental fiancé. We’ve got a wedding to survive.”
And for the first time in a very long time, Jay Parker found himself wanting to stay exactly where he was—even if everything was built on a lie.
Because sometimes, lies are just truths waiting to grow up.
The morning of the engagement ceremony arrived with a vengeance—sunlight, loud drums, and the unmistakable sound of someone yelling “Who stole the groom’s mojris?!”
Jay opened one eye, already regretting the previous night’s mango vodka experiment. He stumbled into the bathroom, brushing his teeth with a borrowed neem stick someone had insisted was “ayurvedically cleansing,” and stared at himself in the mirror.
“You are not a groom,” he muttered. “You are a tourist with performance anxiety.”
His reflection didn’t argue.
Meanwhile, across the corridor, Ananya was fighting a different kind of battle. Her mother had decided that today was the day she’d lecture her about “wifely duties,” including how to roll rotis perfectly round and never argue in front of relatives.
“Ma,” Ananya said, holding back a scream, “I’m not auditioning for a pressure cooker commercial. I’m just getting married.”
“Yes, but properly,” her mother said, smoothing Ananya’s hair. “You have to look at him with shy love eyes.”
“What are shy love eyes?”
“Like this—” Her mother made a face somewhere between a sneeze and a Bollywood heroine fainting.
Ananya stared. “That looks like you’re about to vomit petals.”
“Exactly! Romance!”
By the time Jay was dressed in yet another overly sequined kurta—this one the color of wet peaches—he was whisked away to a stage adorned with more flowers than a royal funeral. Ananya arrived shortly after, dressed in blush pink and looking like a goddess who occasionally rolled her eyes.
They sat side by side on the engagement couch, smiling for cameras while a priest chanted Sanskrit verses neither of them understood.
Jay leaned over. “Are we married yet? Or just symbolically confused?”
“Engaged,” Ananya whispered. “We’ve leveled up in fake matrimony.”
They were interrupted by Tanvi, Ananya’s cousin, who narrowed her eyes at Jay. “So, Jai, what did you say your job was again?”
Jay froze. “I, uh… freelance.”
“In what?”
“Creative… solutions.”
Tanvi blinked. “That sounds fake.”
Jay nodded. “It is. Like this engagement.”
Before Tanvi could respond, Ananya cut in. “Tanvi, don’t interrogate him. He’s sensitive. He cried during Finding Nemo.”
Tanvi looked horrified and walked away. Jay turned to Ananya. “Finding Nemo?”
She smirked. “Don’t worry. You’ll be a legend by tonight.”
The ring exchange happened with too much confetti and a man with a saxophone who refused to stop playing even when the priest asked him to. As Jay slipped the ring onto Ananya’s finger, their eyes met. And something flickered.
Not just amusement. Something softer. Warmer.
After the ceremony, they found themselves hiding behind a curtain, sharing leftover gulab jamuns and a rapidly melting kulfi.
Jay licked syrup off his finger. “Tell me something true.”
Ananya blinked. “What?”
“Everything about this has been pretend. Tell me something real.”
She thought for a moment. “I hate cilantro. Everyone pretends to love it, but it tastes like soap.”
Jay gasped. “Finally! Someone says it. I thought I was alone in this curry-flavored betrayal.”
She laughed, genuinely. “Your turn.”
He paused. “I once got dumped because I asked a girl if we could name our future dog after David Bowie.”
Ananya squinted. “That sounds adorable.”
“She thought I was unserious. Said I was emotionally evasive.”
“Are you?”
Jay looked at her. “I was. But this week… I don’t know anymore.”
Their hands were still touching from the ring exchange. Neither moved away.
Just then, a voice thundered across the speakers. “THE GROOM WILL NOW SING A SONG FOR HIS BELOVED.”
Jay’s face went pale. “Excuse me?”
Ananya doubled over laughing. “I forgot to warn you. It’s a family tradition.”
“I can’t sing!”
“You don’t have to sing well. Just dramatically.”
Before he could protest, he was pushed onto the stage by five dancing aunties and handed a mic. The DJ started playing “Tum Hi Ho,” a dramatic Hindi love song Jay had only heard once during a breakup montage on Netflix.
He stood there, frozen.
Then he shrugged, closed his eyes, and belted out a hilariously off-key version of the song, complete with awkward gestures and a fake teardrop at the end.
The crowd went wild.
Ananya wiped her eyes from laughing so hard.
When he walked off stage, she grabbed his arm. “You’re insane.”
“You’re welcome,” he said.
They were still laughing when they spotted a tall man in a grey linen shirt walking into the venue, looking confused.
Ananya’s smile froze.
Jay followed her gaze.
The man looked vaguely familiar.
“Is that—?” Jay asked.
Ananya nodded slowly. “That’s Jai Prakash.”
The real groom had arrived.
And the clock on their charade had just started ticking.
Jai Prakash was the sort of man who looked like he measured things for fun—time, temperature, ROI. He walked like he had an itinerary for the next five years, and his linen shirt was ironed to the exact degree of intimidation. Jay watched him from behind a garlanded pillar, clutching a glass of nimbu soda like it was a shield.
“Do we run?” he whispered to Ananya.
“No,” she muttered, eyes scanning the crowd. “We walk calmly. Like people who haven’t stolen an entire wedding.”
“He looks like he’ll sue me.”
“He looks like he’ll sue the DJ for playing something not in 4/4 time.”
Jay exhaled. “Well, this was fun while it lasted.”
But Ananya wasn’t moving. She was staring at Jai with an expression Jay hadn’t seen on her face before—neither annoyance nor amusement. Just… blank calculation.
“Something’s off,” she said slowly.
“What do you mean?”
“He’s not smiling. Not even confused. Just—cold.”
They didn’t have time to discuss further, because just then, Mitali, the ever-efficient wedding planner, spotted Jai and rushed toward him with the urgency of a woman protecting her Yelp rating.
“Mr. Prakash!” she squealed. “You’re… early? We didn’t expect you until this evening.”
“I was rebooked on an earlier flight,” Jai replied, voice calm, clipped. “Is the bride ready to speak?”
Jay froze.
Ananya stepped forward before he could say a word. “Hi. I’m the bride.”
Jai studied her. “Ah. Ananya.”
There was no warmth, no smile—just a transactional nod.
“I assume you’re wondering who this is,” she said, gesturing to Jay, who looked like he was trying to physically blend into the curtain.
“I know who he is,” Jai said. “Jay Parker. British. Copywriter. Lives in Shoreditch.”
Jay blinked. “I… how do you know that?”
Jai pulled out his phone. “You’ve been on three Instagram stories, two reels, and one local news interview since Thursday. I ran a background check.”
Jay’s jaw dropped. “You what?”
“Efficiency,” Jai said simply. “Also, liability.”
Ananya folded her arms. “You never bothered to call. Or write. Or even text. I had to assume you ghosted.”
“I was in a no-signal zone,” Jai said. “Vipassana retreat. Full digital silence. You knew that.”
“I didn’t know I was marrying a Google Drive folder with legs,” she snapped.
Jai turned to Jay. “Thank you for filling in. The family didn’t suspect?”
“Define suspect,” Jay muttered.
Jai took a slow breath. “Well, I suppose this simplifies matters.”
Jay and Ananya exchanged a look. “How… exactly?”
“I’ve been reconsidering,” Jai said. “This alliance. Our parents wanted a merger. I agreed because it was logical. But this… whole situation proves we are not compatible.”
Jay couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You’re calling off the wedding?”
Jai nodded. “Indeed. Consider this a mutual release.”
He tapped on his phone, probably canceling the honeymoon tickets and transferring miles to a backup plan.
Ananya blinked. “You’re serious.”
“I always am.”
Then he turned, nodded to Mitali, and walked out of the resort like a tax return with legs.
There was a full fifteen seconds of stunned silence.
Then Jay said, “Did I just fake-marry a woman who got dumped by the real groom during my cover story?”
Ananya blinked. “Did I just get out of an arranged marriage because the real groom preferred spreadsheets over me?”
They stared at each other.
Then both burst into laughter.
It started slow, then doubled over, gasping-for-air laughter that made a passing auntie frown in confusion.
Jay wiped his eyes. “Well. That solves one problem.”
Ananya sat down on the steps of the stage. “And creates fifty others. My family’s going to lose it.”
“What do we tell them?”
“That Jai had a spiritual awakening and joined a goat sanctuary in Nepal?”
Jay sat beside her. “Or… we do something really crazy.”
Ananya turned to him. “Like?”
He looked at her, heartbeat dancing in his chest. “We finish the wedding.”
Her eyes widened. “You want to actually marry me?”
Jay shrugged. “Well, we’ve got the clothes. The cake. The elephants. The hashtag. Everyone already thinks we’re in love.”
Ananya stared at him. “Jay Parker. Are you proposing… impulsively?”
“I’m proposing adventurously. No pressure. Just—you and me. Not fake anymore. But real. Because somewhere between the turmeric, the terrible dancing, and the henna dragon on my palm… I think I started falling for you.”
Ananya stared.
Then she leaned in and whispered, “If we get married, we are definitely naming the dog David Bowie.”
Jay grinned. “Deal.”
She reached out and took his hand.
And suddenly, their absurd story didn’t feel absurd anymore.
It felt like a beginning.
They broke the news at breakfast.
Well, “broke” is a generous word. More like: Jay accidentally choked on a poori when Ananya’s mother asked where Jai Prakash had gone, and then Ananya, queen of calm chaos, stood up, tapped her spoon against a glass, and said:
“I have an announcement. Jai Prakash left. And I’m marrying someone else.”
Screams. Cries. One aunt fainted into a plate of idli. An uncle dropped his phone mid-selfie. The family WhatsApp group started vibrating across seventeen continents.
Jay raised his hand weakly. “Hi. British. Surprise.”
Ananya’s father, Mr. Raghavan, slowly stood up like a volcano readying for eruption. “You are marrying… this foreigner?”
Jay smiled politely. “Hello, sir. Jay Parker. Full-time freelancer, part-time accidental groom.”
“You lied to us. For days!”
“I lied… adjacent to the truth.”
Her mother sobbed into her dupatta. “We already ordered the return gifts!”
Tanvi—the cousin with a suspiciously strong sense of justice—stood up. “Wait a second. You two actually like each other?”
Ananya took Jay’s hand. “Yes. Against all odds, choreography, and pistachio-colored outfits—we do.”
Jay gave a small nod. “It started as a mix-up. Then a cover-up. Then somehow… it became real.”
There was a long pause.
Then Grandma Kamala, sitting in the corner in her signature purple saree and a judgment-proof aura, cleared her throat.
“I like him.”
All heads swiveled.
“He has nice eyes,” Grandma added. “And he didn’t let go of her hand once.”
Ananya blinked. “You’re okay with this?”
“I’ve seen fifty marriages arranged with astrology and end in disaster. This one has laughter. That’s rarer.”
Jay turned to Ananya. “Can I get that stitched on a pillow?”
Her father looked torn between having a stroke and making a PowerPoint presentation titled Why This Wedding is a Bad Idea.
“But he is not Tamil,” he mumbled.
“He’s not even organized,” her mother sniffed.
“He can’t dance,” Tanvi added unhelpfully.
“I’m working on it,” Jay said. “I’ve got two left feet and the enthusiasm of a backup dancer in a shampoo commercial.”
Ananya stepped forward. “Appa. Amma. I’m not asking for your blessing just to escape a disaster. I’m asking because for the first time, I feel like someone actually sees me—not as a checklist or a family alliance, but as… me.”
Silence.
Then her mother whispered to no one in particular, “But what about the seating chart?”
Jay smiled gently. “We keep the chart. Just swap Jai Prakash with Jay Parker.”
“And the hashtag?” Tanvi snapped.
Jay turned to Ananya. “#Janya still works, right?”
She grinned. “It does.”
Her father groaned. Her mother started to protest again—but Grandma Kamala stood up, slapped the table, and declared, “Enough. Let them marry. We’ve paid for the flowers, the food, and the elephant. Why waste?”
Everyone blinked.
“I like this one,” Grandma added. “He looks like he could cook.”
Jay beamed. “I make mean scrambled eggs.”
The room buzzed again—this time with half-shocked approval, half-resigned curiosity.
Ananya pulled him out into the corridor before anyone could restart the drama.
They leaned against the wall, both exhaling like they’d just run a marathon in wedding attire.
“I can’t believe we did that,” Jay said.
“I can’t believe it worked,” Ananya replied.
“So,” he asked, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear, “what happens now?”
“Now?” she said, wrapping her fingers around his. “Now we plan a wedding. A real one. With all the dancing and chaos and aunties—but this time, with choice.”
Jay leaned in, their foreheads touching. “And after that?”
She smiled. “Then we keep waking up next to the person who accidentally stumbled into our lives and made it better.”
Jay kissed her softly. “Then let’s get married.”
But just then, the DJ’s voice rang out across the hall:
“Rehearsal for the groom’s Bollywood solo starts in five minutes! All groomsmen report to the dance floor!”
Jay froze. “What?”
Ananya laughed. “Welcome to your real wedding, Mr. Parker.”
Jay sighed, took her hand, and muttered, “If I survive the choreography, I’ll survive anything.”
And somewhere in the distance, Grandma Kamala clapped in rhythm.
Jay Parker had faced many things in life. A public breakup in the middle of a Tesco. Accidentally hitting “reply all” on a company-wide email where he described his boss as “an emotionally repressed turnip.” And once, being locked in a pub toilet for three hours on New Year’s Eve. But nothing—nothing—had prepared him for a full-blown Indian wedding dance rehearsal.
He stood in the center of a mirrored studio, dressed in gym shorts, his forehead glistening, surrounded by cousins who moved like backup dancers in a Bollywood blockbuster and judged like choreographers on reality TV.
“Again!” Rahul the Choreographer shouted, clapping furiously. “Jay darling, you are moving like scared squirrel! Be tiger! Sexy, romantic tiger!”
“I don’t want to be a tiger,” Jay gasped. “I want to be a tree. A tree that doesn’t move.”
“NO TREES!” Rahul yelled. “THIS IS LOVE!”
From the corner, Ananya watched with folded arms, trying not to laugh.
Jay stumbled through another attempt at a twirl. He tripped over his own foot, bumped into a cousin named Shlok, and somehow sent a decorative maraca flying across the room.
Ananya clapped. “Ten points for effort!”
Jay collapsed dramatically on a mat. “I’m going to die on this dance floor. You’ll have to cremate me with the dhol.”
She walked over and crouched beside him. “You’re getting better.”
“You’re lying.”
“True. But at least you’ve stopped looking like you’re trying to swat invisible bees.”
Jay grinned. “Well, if this is the final test before marriage, I better pass.”
That evening, the wedding festivities truly began. Guests poured into the resort like glittery confetti—relatives from Singapore, college friends from Delhi, a stray cousin who claimed to be a lifestyle influencer but mostly took selfies with the buffet.
Ananya was radiant in teal and gold, her hands fully hennaed, her eyes lined with confidence. Jay, in a royal blue sherwani that made him look like a confused prince, stood beside her, his cheeks aching from constant smiling.
The pre-wedding party kicked off with dancing, food, and what Jay could only describe as coordinated madness. There was a fire-eater. A cousin’s rap performance. An interpretive dance inspired by “family values” that ended with a slow-motion group hug.
And then—Jay’s performance.
The lights dimmed. The crowd hushed.
Jay took center stage, heart pounding, eyes searching for Ananya’s.
He danced.
Badly.
Spectacularly.
He missed steps, forgot half the moves, accidentally threw a scarf into the catering section—but he danced. With heart, with chaos, with every ounce of accidental romance inside him.
The crowd went wild. Ananya laughed so hard she nearly fell off her chair. Grandma Kamala threw a rose petal in the air and shouted, “That’s my boy!”
Jay bowed, panting. “Did I pass?”
Ananya walked up, pulled him into a hug, and whispered, “You passed the second you showed up.”
He didn’t let go.
Later that night, after the crowd thinned and the music softened, they stood by the pool, lit by fairy lights and moonlight. Jay looked at her, serious now.
“Are we crazy?”
“Completely.”
“But this feels… right?”
She nodded. “More than anything else ever has.”
Jay exhaled. “Ananya, I know this started with a mistake. A silly accident. But I’d marry you again. Every day. Even if I had to dance every time.”
She touched his cheek. “Then let’s do it. Let’s really do it.”
The pool lights shimmered. The air was thick with jasmine. And somewhere, in the distance, a laddoo shot through the air—flung by an overeager uncle—and smacked Jay on the back of the head.
He blinked. “I think I just got blessed.”
Ananya burst out laughing.
And just like that, the chaos of love kept marching on.
The morning of the wedding dawned soft and golden, mist curling around the palm trees like shy guests arriving early. Jay woke up to the sound of dhols in the distance and the smell of cardamom in the air. For a moment, he forgot who he was. Then he remembered—Jay Parker, accidental fiancé, unofficial dancer, and about-to-be-willing husband.
His reflection in the mirror looked alarmingly regal. The cream-and-gold sherwani, the matching turban, the embroidered stole—it was like wearing an elaborate, bejeweled curtain. He half-expected someone to charge him rent.
“Looking like a king, beta!” shouted an uncle as he passed.
Jay grinned. “I feel like a stuffed paratha.”
Downstairs, the resort had transformed into a kaleidoscope. There were mango leaves tied at every doorway, flower petals on the floor in intricate patterns, and relatives weaving around with walkie-talkies like part of a wedding SWAT team.
Ananya, hidden away in the bridal suite, was being surrounded by women who fussed over her lehenga, her jewelry, her dupatta that refused to sit still.
“You’re glowing,” her best friend Priya said.
“I’m sweating,” Ananya replied. “There’s a fine line.”
Her heart thumped, but it wasn’t nerves. Not really. It was that slow, spreading realization that she actually wanted this. That this entire twist of fate—mistaken identities, awkward dances, fake fiancés—had somehow delivered her something real.
Outside, the baraat had begun. Jay, seated awkwardly on a white horse, was bouncing up and down to the rhythm of bhangra, led by a mob of drummers, dancers, and one particularly excited grandma with a whistle.
He spotted Rahul the choreographer waving a silk fan like a sword. “Remember hips! Keep hips alive!”
Jay saluted. “Copy that!”
The horse sneezed.
Somewhere in the crowd, Shlok muttered, “Still can’t believe he’s the groom.”
Jay heard him but just smiled. “Neither can I.”
At the mandap, firewood was stacked. Marigolds hung in thick garlands. The priest adjusted his glasses and looked mildly alarmed that the groom had a British accent and kept bowing apologetically.
Then Ananya arrived.
Time stopped.
Dressed in deep red and gold, eyes lined with kohl, lips calm but curling at the corners, she walked forward like a queen who had decided, very politely, to steal everyone’s breath. Jay stared.
“You look…” he began, unable to finish.
“Expensive?” she teased.
“Dangerously so.”
The ceremony began. Sanskrit chants, the sacred fire, the seven steps—each vow soft but clear.
“In happiness and in sorrow…”
“In prosperity and in hardship…”
“With laughter… and chaos.”
Jay improvised the last one. The priest gave him a side-eye, but Ananya giggled.
Just as the final blessings were being given, a commotion broke out near the entrance. A tall man in a disheveled kurta burst in, waving his passport.
“I’m the real Jai Prakash! There’s been a huge mistake!”
The crowd gasped.
Jay blinked.
Ananya calmly turned to the priest. “Continue, please.”
“But—” the man protested.
Grandma Kamala stood and whacked the newcomer with her cane. “We like this one. Go find your own bride!”
The priest shrugged. The crowd cheered. And Jai Prakash was escorted away, dazed and baffled.
Jay turned to Ananya. “Did you… know that might happen?”
“I had a feeling,” she said, slipping her hand into his. “But I knew what I wanted. You.”
They stood as husband and wife.
The applause rose like a tide.
Jay looked around. It was still absurd. Still overwhelming. But as Ananya leaned into him and whispered, “Now let’s go get some laddoos,” he realized something.
This was home now. Not the place. The person.
And love? It wasn’t an accident after all.
Jay had pictured a quiet honeymoon—maybe sipping coconut water under a palm tree, reading half a book, finally getting the sand out of his shoes. What he hadn’t imagined was being ambushed by six aunts, three uncles, and one extremely motivated cousin with a camcorder as he tried to sneak out of the wedding suite.
“Where are the lovebirds going?” one of the aunties asked, practically purring.
“Quick breakfast?” Jay lied.
“Before sunrise?” another sniffed.
Ananya appeared behind him, flawless as ever, her suitcase in hand and zero patience in her eyes.
“We’re married, not under house arrest,” she said sweetly, then dragged Jay out by the wrist like a woman possessed.
They barely made it into the car before the cousin yelled, “Drive! Go, go, go!”
The driver, already briefed by Ananya, sped off as if auditioning for Fast & Furious: Matrimonial Drift.
Twenty minutes later, they were at a quiet beachside villa, tucked between two hills, facing the sea. No photographers. No elders. No curious chaperones. Just wind, water, and an awkward British husband trying to figure out how to flirt in dhoti pants.
“This place is insane,” Jay said, spinning slowly on the veranda, arms wide.
Ananya raised an eyebrow. “You say that like you’ve never seen a private infinity pool before.”
“I haven’t,” Jay admitted. “My flat in London barely fits a bathtub.”
They collapsed onto the sunbeds, the tension of ceremonies and stolen kisses finally unraveling.
“This feels… unreal,” he murmured.
“I know.” She looked up at the sky. “A week ago, I didn’t know you existed.”
“Same. Now you snore into my neck and argue with hotel staff about towel colors.”
“They gave us lavender, Jay. Lavender!”
“Tragic. You should sue.”
They laughed—deep, bellyful laughter that came from relief and disbelief and something else. Something real.
The day passed in lazy indulgence—lunch was delivered on banana leaves, there was a half-hearted swim that turned into a water fight, and a nap that turned into cuddling under one giant beach towel as the rain began to fall in slow, warm drops.
In the evening, they made their way to a beachside shack with fairy lights and surprisingly good pasta.
Jay sipped his wine, eyeing her over the rim. “So… what’s next?”
Ananya smiled. “Well, we fake-dated, fake-got-engaged, and fake-got-married. Maybe we should try being real now?”
Jay reached across the table, took her hand. “You sure you’re ready for the horror of my everyday life? It involves mismatched socks and cereal at inappropriate hours.”
“Sounds terrifying,” she said. “Count me in.”
They walked back to the villa under a sky littered with stars. The surf whispered, the air smelled of salt and sandalwood, and for once—no drama, no confusion.
But just as they reached the porch, a voice called out from the shadows.
“Excuse me! Jay Parker? I’m from Married Abroad & Missing Papers! We’ve got questions!”
They froze.
Jay groaned. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Ananya facepalmed. “Can we not go viral on our honeymoon?”
The reporter stepped forward. “Is it true you impersonated a groom to marry an heiress in India? Were there snakes at your wedding? Is the bride really a mafia princess?”
Jay whispered, “Honestly… those headlines sound better than the truth.”
Ananya squeezed his hand. “Come on, Mr. Parker. Let’s hide in the pool.”
And so, they did—diving into the glowing water, letting the questions, the cameras, and the madness melt away.
Because love—like their story—was best when it refused to follow the script.
Three months later…
The flat in London was still too small. The shower still leaked. Jay’s cereal collection had grown into a terrifying fortress in one kitchen cabinet. But something had changed.
Ananya.
In his bed. On his couch. In his life. Full-time.
She wandered barefoot into the kitchen, wrapped in one of his oversized hoodies, hair tied in a bun that defied physics.
“Jay, there’s a peacock on the balcony.”
He didn’t look up from his laptop. “That’s not possible. We’re in Camden, not Kerala.”
“Well,” she said, pointing to the window, “either I’m hallucinating, or a very fashion-forward pigeon is staring at me judgmentally.”
Jay stood, walked to the window, and sure enough—there it was. Not a peacock. But a man in a giant bird costume, waving flyers for a new vegan café.
“London,” Ananya said, sipping coffee. “Still weirder than your family.”
Jay smirked. “Not even close. My aunt once married a clown. Like, actual red-nose, balloon-animals-at-breakfast clown.”
She snorted. “You’re making that up.”
“I wish.”
She curled up beside him, her head on his shoulder. “You know… I thought post-wedding life would be boring.”
He kissed her temple. “I thought it wouldn’t exist. I was supposed to escape marriage, not dive headfirst into it.”
“And yet,” she teased, “here you are, voluntarily living with someone who organizes spices by region.”
“You’re a monster.”
They laughed, as they always did, because between the chaos and the misunderstandings and the runaway mandap and honeymoon ambushes, they had stumbled into something absurd and beautiful.
Love.
The real kind. Not the overly filtered, dramatic, Nicholas Sparks kind. But the waking-up-to-bad-breath-and-still-kissing-each-other kind. The stealing-duvet-and-apologizing-with-coffee kind. The kind that snuck up quietly, then refused to leave.
Jay shut his laptop. “So… want to make it official?”
She blinked. “What do you mean?”
He reached into the drawer and pulled out a small box.
“No disguises. No fake names. Just us. Do-over?”
Ananya opened the box to find the simplest, most unassuming ring she’d ever seen. A thin band, no diamonds, no fuss.
“Jay,” she whispered, “this is…”
“Underwhelming?” he joked.
“Perfect.”
She nodded.
He slipped it on her finger, and it fit like it always belonged there.
They kissed—slow, warm, rain-kissed, like the night they first met.
Just then, the doorbell rang.
Outside stood their favorite nosy neighbor, holding a bottle of wine. “Is this a good time? I heard peacock noises.”
Ananya grinned. “Only if you’re okay with joining the weirdest love story ever.”
Jay laughed. “Trust me, we barely kept up.”
They stepped aside, letting the chaos back in.
Because if there’s one thing Jay and Ananya had learned—it’s that happily ever after wasn’t perfect. It was hilarious, messy, wonderfully unpredictable, and a little bit accidental.
Just like them.
End
