Wet Hot Indian Wedding Part 1 [upd] [FAST]

Every groom thinks a velvet sherwani looks regal until he’s standing under a canopy of halogen lights. By noon, he’s essentially wearing a portable sauna.

At a wet hot Indian wedding, fashion is a battle between vanity and biology.

Neelam stared. "He's wearing mojris made of peacock leather , Riya." wet hot indian wedding part 1

Riya stood on the terrace, her gold bangles clinking as she pressed her palm against the stone railing. Below, the wedding lawn was turning into a shallow brown lake. The florist—a man named Suresh who had promised "Vegas-meets-Varanasi" decor—was ankle-deep in water, trying to rescue floating marigold garlands like a man saving drowning children. The DJ's speakers crackled once, then died. Someone's aunt slipped on the wet marble near the havan fire pit, and her kajal -lined scream sliced through the rain's roar.

The sky over Jaipur was the color of a bruised plum, heavy with the kind of humidity that makes silk cling to skin like a second lover. Outside the heritage haveli, the baraat was supposed to have begun its triumphant, sweaty march an hour ago. Instead, the groomsmen—decked in sherwanis that had cost more than a semester of college—huddled under a temporary plastic awning, their groom's turquoise turban already wilting at the edges. Every groom thinks a velvet sherwani looks regal

As the sun sets on the first day of festivities, the "wet hot" reality settles in. Clothes are dampened, makeup has been touched up six times, and the scent of jasmine is competing with high-strength deodorant.

Riya laughed. It was the first real laugh she'd had in three days. Neelam stared

And then she saw him. Not Vikram. Someone else. Standing at the far corner of the courtyard, shirtless in the rain, holding a broken umbrella that was doing nothing. His chest was dark and slick, his jaw sharp enough to cut through the tension. He was watching her.