Not your own—but the one where you wore your mother’s saree that trailed too long, your cheeks flushed with rose powder, and someone handed you a flower basket, declaring you a “little bridesmaid.” The dhol. The jasmine. The sweet smell of nethili fry from the kitchen. It wasn’t just a wedding—it was a feeling.https://labelanaira.com/blogs/....anaira-blogs/minimal
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