The only time I’d seen a Hindu wedding ceremony was on TV in a Bollywood movie. I remember the well-coordinated dance numbers of the flash mobs that the newlyweds and the guests performed every ten minutes or so. And the songs. The plot is fuzzy in my mind, but what stayed are the bright colors, exotic rituals, and beautiful costumes. And mouthwatering food.

Uma said I should expect all of that—barring the flash mobs—at my own Hindu wedding.

My bride’s family compressed the celebrations into two days, kindly considering my status as a foreigner and tight game schedule.

On the first day, my “party” travels from Marguerite’s to Uma’s place in a festive and loud procession. A marching band leads the way, and passersby line the sidewalks to watch and cheer. While many of the guests walk—including Mom, Dad, and Noah—I am driven in a convertible decorated with flowers like some modern-day maharaja.

Luckily, Sam rides with me.

When we arrive at Uma’s, my jaw drops at the sight of my bride in her red silk sari embroidered with gold and beads. Around her slim wrists, she wears multiple glass bangles. Her hands and feet are covered in red henna patterns that snake up her wrists and ankles like magical tattoos.

She’s sexy as hell.

Then again, I find her sexy even in her oversize flannel pjs with green teddy bears on them. But dressed like this, all made up and tattooed… She blows my mind.

Uma’s relatives throw flower petals at me. After that, a man marks my forehead with a dot and motions me to a special seat in the middle of the courtyard.

Food is served.

When everyone has eaten and drunk, Uma sits next to me. She has a sheer veil over her face, pinned to a puffy top bun that she wears like a crown.

“Your majesty,” I whisper. “You’re stunning.”

“You aren’t too shabby yourself,” she whispers back, surveying my tailored three-piece suit.

We are told to take our shoes off, and Uma’s relatives bring out a large copper bowl filled with water. I must admit I was nervous about this ceremony and weirded out by the prospect of my future in-laws washing my feet.

“Can we maybe skip that part?” I’d asked my intended.

The answer was no.

So I brace myself and suffer through it. When the bowl is taken away, Uma and I are led into the house for another ceremony. I give her a new sari. Her parents give me a new set of clothes to change into.

Ten minutes later, I emerge from the bedroom decked out in a long, brightly colored tunic cinched with a red belt, and comfortable pants.

“Positively dashing,” Uma says. “How are you holding up?”

I arch an eyebrow. “I survived public foot washing by my soon-to-be mother-in-law. You got yourself one tough cookie for a husband.”

This is bravado, of course.

The number of ceremonies still ahead of us today and tomorrow is daunting. Luckily, there are priests and elders on Uma’s side to keep track of what should be done, how, and when.

Dad’s eyes are filled with wonder.

Mom cries at nearly every ceremony.

Sam gets excited when we get to the part where Uma’s sister “steals” my shoes, and I have to bargain a price to get them back. Then he almost falls asleep when the priest recites endless prayers to various Hindu gods.

Next, I tie a gold diamond necklace around Uma’s neck and add gold bracelets to the glass bangles on her wrists. She gives me a thin gold chain and a new watch. After that, we exchange rings.

But we aren’t officially married until I take a pinch of red powder and spread it on the part of Uma’s hair.

My second uncomfortable moment comes when Uma bends down and touches her forehead to my feet. I presume this gesture is supposed to indicate her submission to her husband—something all religions seem to require of women.

Personally, I don’t want her submission.

What I want is her love and respect.

Uma winks at me as she straightens up and I relax.

The elders pray to the gods, after which Uma and I hold hands and take seven steps around a crackling blaze that symbolizes the god of fire.

“With these seven steps,” I say to Uma, repeating after the priest, “you’ve become my friend.”

That’s more like it.

“May I deserve your friendship,” Uma says, her voice cracking with emotion.

I stare into her eyes and utter the final words, “May our friendship make us one.”

The priest and the elders nod their heads in approval.

Suddenly, Uma lifts my hand to her heart. “From this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part.”

I repeat those words.

We’ll have a courthouse ceremony in Paris, so this is Uma’s way of bringing my heritage into the only religious wedding we’re going to have. I love her for this, even if I doubt the Hindu priest appreciates her initiative.

I glance at him.

To my surprise, he’s smiling, unfazed.

I smile back.

“It is your duty to protect your wife and make her happy,” he says.

I nod solemnly, overjoyed at how well this Hindu injunction aligns with my own plans.

Cherishing Uma and protecting her from harm is exactly what I want to do for as long as I live.