Chap­ter III opens with an atmos­phere of bare­ly con­tained chaos, where the lack of lead­er­ship leads to unbri­dled dis­or­der. Guests, unsure of how to car­ry them­selves or what should hap­pen next, instinc­tive­ly turn to food, drink, and noise. In this vil­lage, cel­e­bra­tion rarely unfolds with grace—it erupts with clash­ing voic­es, heavy steps, and over­flow­ing cups. The wed­ding of Anisim and Lipa reflects more than fes­tiv­i­ty; it becomes a stage for cus­tom-bound oblig­a­tion. Anisim’s pres­ence is hol­low, his eyes dis­tant, his respons­es dulled by either dis­in­ter­est or inner unrest. Despite the crowd­ed tables and gen­er­ous serv­ings, the emo­tion­al con­nec­tion between the cou­ple feels absent, replaced by a rit­u­al observed out of duty rather than affec­tion.

The cer­e­mo­ny blends sacred rites with raw, unfil­tered human behav­ior. Church bells ring, can­dles burn, but Anisim stands stiffly, his hands trem­bling slight­ly at the altar. As chants echo off cold stone walls, he reflects inwardly—not about his future with Lipa, but about mis­takes that won’t leave him. The moment is not col­ored by hope but by intro­spec­tion. He won­ders whether redemp­tion is pos­si­ble or if he’s sim­ply pre­tend­ing to move for­ward while teth­ered to a past that refus­es to release him. Around him, the faces of vil­lagers blur into one mass of famil­iar­i­ty, yet none tru­ly see his dis­con­nec­tion. His sense of iso­la­tion inten­si­fies as the rit­u­als pro­ceed, each word of bless­ing land­ing heavy rather than uplift­ing.

Lipa, in con­trast, strug­gles with more tan­gi­ble dis­com­forts. The gown clings uncom­fort­ably, her shoes pinch with each step, and the weight of stares crush­es her con­fi­dence. Her soft eyes dart from side to side, search­ing for a kind expres­sion, a safe cor­ner, but the wed­ding leaves her exposed. Though beau­ti­ful in youth and inno­cence, she feels mis­placed in the cen­ter of so much scruti­ny. She had dreamt of ten­der­ness, per­haps a glance of reas­sur­ance from Anisim, but none comes. Instead, she moves through the event as if watch­ing her­self from afar, detached from the joy expect­ed of her. Her inner quiet­ness becomes more pro­nounced against the roar of laugh­ter and clink­ing glass­es.

The cel­e­bra­tion that fol­lows offers no reprieve for either of them. Plates are piled high, and vod­ka flows with lit­tle restraint. Guests from all cor­ners of the vil­lage arrive, each bring­ing their own fla­vor of rowdiness—songs out of tune, jokes repeat­ed too loud­ly, argu­ments brew­ing in cor­ners. The feast becomes more than a meal; it’s a per­for­mance of tra­di­tion, where excess replaces gen­uine sen­ti­ment. Behind the laugh­ter, sub­tle ten­sions crackle—jealousy, rival­ry, and class dis­tinc­tions are felt in every glance and ges­ture. Some raise their cups with hon­est joy, but oth­ers toast with hol­low cheers, hid­ing gos­sip behind smiles. In such an envi­ron­ment, sin­cer­i­ty strug­gles to sur­vive.

Amid the noise, Var­vara, the matri­arch, observes silent­ly, her thoughts unread­able. She has seen many such wed­dings and knows that cel­e­bra­tion can mask sor­row. Her eyes fol­low Anisim close­ly, not with affec­tion, but with con­cern. She sens­es some­thing unre­solved in him, some­thing coiled and wait­ing. Lipa’s gen­tle­ness does not match the storm Anisim car­ries, and Var­vara fears the col­li­sion may break more than hearts. The food may be plen­ti­ful, the music loud, but the soul of the wed­ding feels unsteady, like a dance done on crack­ing ice. She wish­es for peace in their home but knows that silence after a storm is not the same as calm.

As the evening wanes, the guests grow loud­er, then sud­den­ly tired, their laugh­ter turn­ing to slurred farewells. Lipa finds her­self seat­ed alone for a moment, her fin­gers play­ing with the hem of her sleeve. She tries to imag­ine what life will now be—whether Anisim will soft­en, whether kind­ness will grow. Yet the heav­i­ness in her chest lingers. Her mar­riage has begun not with joy, but with con­fu­sion. For all the prepa­ra­tion and mon­ey spent, what was tru­ly cel­e­brat­ed? The com­mu­ni­ty marked the day with spec­ta­cle, but love remained elu­sive.

The chap­ter paints the wed­ding as a reflec­tion of broad­er soci­etal themes—how tra­di­tion can sti­fle indi­vid­ual emo­tion, how cel­e­bra­tions often hide fear, and how rit­u­als can mask dis­con­nect. Both Anisim and Lipa begin their life togeth­er not as part­ners in har­mo­ny, but as two indi­vid­u­als walk­ing par­al­lel paths under the bur­den of expec­ta­tion. In high­light­ing their inner worlds against the back­drop of noise and tra­di­tion, the sto­ry sub­tly ques­tions whether mar­riage, when stripped of affec­tion, can ever be more than a for­mal­i­ty. Through its lay­ers of ten­sion and reflec­tion, the chap­ter invites read­ers to see beneath the sur­face, where silent con­flicts sim­mer long before the last guest leaves.