I tell him about my parents’ approval of Shayani being a pretty Bengali girl, and the various elaborate lunches and dinners and receptions over which our two families bonded and became one, using our romance as an excuse. About the collapse of all our plans and the cancellation of our impending betrothal—a tortuous, mutual decision to respect the beauty of our courtship and not have it be rotted away by the boredom we felt after our relationship became a performance for our families. About the rift between my family and me that followed—my rejection of their hysterical reaction to this
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