17 February, 1984

The Knot, and a New Car on the Road

I married Bhavana on 17 February 1984. I was twenty-seven. She was twenty-two. It was an arranged marriage, which in those days needed no defence and little explanation—only efficient planning and cooperative relatives. When I look back, one detail still amuses me: only a few weeks before our wedding, the Maruti 800 had appeared on Indian roads. Gurgaon saw it first, of course. The rest of us continued with scooters, Ambassadors, and the faith that life would not ask too much of us too soon.

A Breakdown in Dewas

In October 1983, I travelled from Bhopal to Indore with my brother-in-law—Jijaji—who had some factory work there. He drove, and we had barely covered the last stretch when the car broke down in Dewas, just thirty-five kilometres from Indore. It was the kind of breakdown that forces men to stand around with folded arms, staring at the bonnet as if moral support can fix machinery.

While waiting for a mechanic, we went to visit Jijaji’s elder brother, Mr Pralhaddas Singhi. It was meant to be a routine courtesy call. Instead, it became the detour that changed my life.

Enter the Laddhas

Mr Singhi knew Mr Suresh Laddha from Balwadi, who had recently shifted to Indore for business. Someone made a call, someone said, “Come over,” and Mr Laddha arrived. Within minutes he learnt that I was an unmarried doctor. That information energised him more than any business conversation could.

He rushed home to inform his sister-in-law, Mrs Kamal Laddha, who happened to be visiting from Balwadi. Mrs Laddha’s response was immediate. She changed into a more elegant sari—fumbling with the pleats, as women do when they are in a hurry but want to look composed—and climbed pillion on Mr Laddha’s scooter to meet us. She seemed pleased that I was from Wardha and had connections with the Singhi family, as if two separate worlds had suddenly found a common bridge.

Connections That Mattered

During our conversation, I sensed that Mrs Laddha had been anxious about Bhavana’s marriage, though she never said so openly. Mothers rarely confess worry; they simply carry it. She mentioned that she had stayed at the Mahila Ashram in Wardha in the 1950s with her aunt, Mrs Suman Bang. That name created an unexpected link, because Mrs Bang’s son—Dr Abhay Bang—was Mrs Laddha’s cousin. When I said I knew Abhay Bang, and also Dr Ulhas Jajoo and Suhas Jajoo, Mrs Laddha looked genuinely relieved.

After that meeting, Suresh Laddha began calling my father with the persistence of a man who does not like leaving good things to chance. A few weeks later, our families met. In the Marwari arranged-marriage tradition, Bhavana’s family visited ours to settle the proposal formally, with the calm seriousness of people discussing a lifelong contract.

The Delegation to Wardha

Shri Rajmalji Laddha came to Wardha with Professor Yadav Zamvar from Narsee Monjee in Mumbai and Dr Suraj Mandora from Adavad. They spoke to my father, introduced themselves, and answered his questions. My father was direct, practical, and not easily impressed. But he respected people who spoke plainly and seemed rooted. The visitors left behind exactly the impression they intended: this was a decent family, and the proposal was sincere.

My Parents Go to Balwadi

Two weeks later, my parents travelled to Jalgaon to meet Bhavana’s maternal uncle, Sharad Manudhane, who lived in a small two-room flat in Brooke Bond Colony. From there, they set off for Balwadi—about 190 kilometres away—in an Ambassador borrowed from a neighbour, Chandrakant Rane, a textile engineer who ran a surgical cotton business.

The road was muddy, the forest thick, and the rain relentless. The wipers moved in their steady rhythm, clearing the windshield and then surrendering again to the next sheet of water. Mr Manudhane drove through Shirpur and Sendhwa with the careful concentration that such roads demand. My parents arrived tired but curious, and they came back impressed.

They noticed Bhavana’s beauty, of course, but they were equally taken by her education and the quiet confidence with which she carried herself. They liked her family’s warmth and hospitality. My parents felt respected and looked after, the way guests should feel in a home that values tradition without showing off. When they left Balwadi, they carried a sense of certainty that Bhavana would fit into our family, and that we would be fortunate to have her.

The Half-Hour Interview

In November 1983, I visited Bhavana’s home in Raj Mohalla for a formal meeting. I went with my elder brother Om and my brother-in-law from Indore. The conversation lasted about half an hour. Like many such meetings, it was polite, cautious, and slightly awkward, as if both parties were aware that their words were being weighed for long-term consequences.

I don’t remember the exact sentences we exchanged, but I remember the atmosphere. It felt less like courtship and more like a gentle interview. I introduced myself, spoke of my work and plans, and asked about her education and interests. As we talked, I stole glances at her, trying to do what men in arranged marriages are expected to do in a short time: decide whether this stranger could become one’s partner for life.

Bhavana was shy, but she had poise. She spoke quietly, without trying to impress. We did not go out to a garden or a coffee house or a cinema. We stayed inside her home while family members observed discreetly from behind curtains. I left with a good impression. I sensed she liked me too, though in those days “liking” was expressed more by acceptance than by enthusiasm.

Choosing a Life, Not a Resume

After returning to Wardha, I took some time to decide. Bhavana’s beauty stayed with me, but it was not only her looks that mattered. She had studied at Holkar Science College and done a DMLT course in Mumbai. She had been born in Balwadi but educated in Indore, where her mother had rented a home so that the children could study properly. The family seemed respectable and well-mannered.

I wasn’t preoccupied with whether she came from a village, or whether she belonged to my profession. What mattered was simpler: could I imagine spending my life with her, without constantly wishing for an exit?

Suresh Laddha continued calling my father, eager for a yes. Eventually my father agreed, and the wedding date was fixed—17 February 1984. The engagement happened, and the marriage followed in six weeks. I was still working as a lecturer in Medicine, and suddenly my life acquired the urgency that only weddings can create.

Our Small Salaries, Our Big Lives

When I look back at the economics of those years, I wonder how we managed at all. In 1984, my monthly salary was Rs 1500. When Ashwini was born in 1986, it rose to Rs 2200. When Amrita arrived in 1989, it reached Rs 5900. By today’s standards these figures sound almost fictional.

We did not own a car. We had no cell phones, no computers, no air travel, and certainly no online shopping. We travelled second class by train and stayed in modest hotels when we had to. Malls did not exist. Amazon was not even a word. Yet we never felt deprived. The cost of living was lower, expectations were simpler, and pleasures were small but real: books from the library, walks, ordinary cinema halls, and the quiet satisfaction of running a household without constant anxiety.

My friends Dr Ramji Singh and Naresh Kumar often remind me that we lived simply but contentedly. They are right. We did not have much, but we had enough.

The Wedding Card, and My Handwriting

One task I genuinely enjoyed was designing the wedding card. I took it seriously, perhaps more seriously than necessary, focusing on content and design with the attention of a man who has discovered a harmless obsession. Mr Ramesh Fattepuria recommended a screen printer in Sitabuldi, Nagpur, known for good work. The cost was 90 paise per card. For 300 cards, I paid Rs 270—an amount that felt significant then.

The card was written in Hindi and included a request that guests bring no gifts to the reception. I also wrote the addresses on all 300 envelopes myself, using my best handwriting, as if neat penmanship could improve my chances of a happy marriage. People complimented the card and my writing. I accepted the praise with quiet pride.

Friends, Tailors, and the Suit Problem

Around that time, friendships formed quickly and lasted. I met Dr VK Gupta at GMC Nagpur through Suhas, who was doing his MCh residency. VK came from Allahabad and had a keen interest in fashion. When I mentioned my wedding clothes, he took charge with the seriousness of a man entrusted with a diplomatic mission.

We went through Sitabuldi, Gandhibaug, and Itwari, selecting, rejecting, reconsidering. We finally landed at Lords Taylor near Variety Square, a well-known wedding suit tailor. He took my measurements, suggested designs, and called me for a trial. Suhas surprised me during these outings. Despite his lifelong commitment to khadi, he had a sharp eye for what looked right. He had never worn a tie himself, yet he often cast the deciding vote on shirts and trousers. We laughed, we argued, and we quoted books. Somewhere between fabric and fittings, friendship deepened.

My Father, the Anti-Ritualist

My father was unconventional in the way only a stubborn man with strong opinions can be. He didn’t believe in obeying rituals blindly. When pundits suggested my sister’s marriage ceremonies should take place around midnight, he held them at 7 a.m. instead. During my second brother’s wedding, people advised against leaving for Wardha at midnight. My father asked a simple question: if trains can run at midnight, why can’t we?

He believed in punctuality, disliked superstition, and spoke plainly without worrying about who might be offended. If something had to be done, it had to be done on time. That was his style.

The Baraat: Twenty-One People and Six Ambassadors

I was granted leave without pay from 16 February to 1 March 1984. Later, from Shastri Circle in Udaipur, I sent a telegram to Professor Gupta requesting an extension until 9 March. In total, I took twenty-three days off.

On 16 February we travelled from Wardha to Bhusawal on the Nagpur–Dadar Sevagram Express. Our group had twenty-one people: my father, my brothers Anand, Manoj, and Surendra, my mother’s uncle Ambu Mamaji, Shri Laxmi Narayan Mundra, and family friends and well-wishers. I also brought two friends with me—Suhas Jajoo and Chandu Fattepuria. We reached Bhusawal at 5 a.m., six hours after leaving Wardha.

The Laddhas had arranged six Ambassador cars to take us from Bhusawal to Balwadi, a journey of about four hours. We stopped briefly at a guest house in Sule, about 115 kilometres from Bhusawal, where tea and breakfast appeared with the efficiency that only Indian hospitality can manage. Half an hour later we were back on the road.

Balwadi: Mehboob Manzil and Madhumati

We reached Balwadi at 10 a.m. The baraat stayed at Mehboob Manzil, a newly constructed residence owned by three brothers—Rasul, Sam Mohammad, and Nura—who ran a large cotton business in Sendhwa. They had built the two-storeyed building two years earlier but had not yet moved in. It was vacant, spacious, and perfectly suited for a visiting baraat.

Vivek, who ran a video parlour in Balwadi, arranged a screening of the black-and-white classic Madhumati for the younger crowd. Dilip Kumar and Vyjayanthimala did their work so effectively that the children watched the film more than once during the stay, whenever the television was free.

No Ghodi, No Street Dance

I refused the traditional decorated white ghodi. The custom of the groom riding a horse to “win” his bride did not appeal to me. We also chose not to have a wedding procession or street dances. My father and I wanted the ceremony to be simple and contained, without turning Balwadi’s streets into a performance.

Pandit Chimanilalji Shastri, whom my father trusted, conducted the rituals efficiently. The wedding ceremony was completed in thirty-five minutes. The auspicious time chosen was Godhuli Bela—around sunset, when cows return home. My father insisted on it, and he was not a man who softened his insistence easily.

Garlands, Vows, and a Divine Contract

As the ceremony began, Bhavana and I exchanged garlands and sat down for Kanyadaan. Bhavana’s father gave his daughter’s hand to me with the familiar mixture of pride and emotion that fathers try to hide. Then came the Saptapadi, the seven steps around the sacred fire, each step a vow.

I remember thinking, with the faint irreverence of a young man who had read too much, that it felt like clicking “I agree” on a divine contract without fully reading the terms and conditions. Still, the moment had weight. The fire, the chanting, the presence of elders, the sense of crossing a threshold—it all made the commitment feel real.

After the vows, elders blessed us. Dinner followed, lavish and sweet-heavy, with Marwari mithai arriving in waves. Bhavana’s family insisted we eat more than our stomachs could reasonably handle. It was their way of saying: we are happy, and we want you to be happy too.

Jalgaon, First Class, and the Guilt of Comfort

The next day, in the late afternoon, we were driven from Balwadi to Jalgaon for dinner at Hotel Ridge Garden. Afterwards we boarded the Sevagram Nagpur Express and travelled overnight, reaching Wardha at dawn.

The newlyweds had a first-class compartment to themselves. For a brief moment, it felt like a private reward. Then we realised the seniors were in second class, and the luxury began to feel like bad manners. At Bhusawal we exchanged berths. We moved into second class with our family and friends, and Bhavana looked relieved. Comfort is pleasant, but belonging is better.

A Modest Reception at Jaishree Bhavan

A few days later, my father hosted a reception at our family home, Jaishree Bhavan. Bhavana wore a green sari and gold jewellery. I wore a three-piece suit. Around two hundred guests attended. We kept the décor simple. Mr Gajanan Ambulkar, an artist from the Anatomy department at Sevagram, designed a stage with fresh green leaves. It looked calm and pleasing.

We hired one photographer, Surendra Gujar. He had a single roll of thirty-six shots. When we saw the pictures later, they were ordinary. We were mildly disappointed, but the camera technology of the 1980s did not care for our expectations.

There were no event managers, no band parties, no extravagant menus, no horse rides, no grand entrances. It was a simple wedding in the old style: people came, blessed us, ate, smiled, and went home. The memory has aged well.

Jaishree Bhavan: The First Home

After the wedding, we moved into my childhood home, Jaishree Bhavan. My parents were there, my brother and his family were there, and Bhavana and I had a room of our own. It was bright, thanks to large windows. The ceramic floor stayed cool. A cooler helped during the Wardha summers when May and June could climb past 47°C. The bathroom felt unusually spacious, which in Indian households is not a small blessing.

A month after our wedding, Ashok and Kanta Bhabhi and their three children moved from Yavatmal to Wardha. The house grew louder and busier, but it also felt fuller.

Bhavana adjusted to the rhythm expected of a new bride then: waking early, making tea and breakfast, keeping the kitchen steady. Before I left on my Priya scooter for Sevagram, she ensured I had eaten properly and had a glass of milk. My commute was eight kilometres and took fifteen minutes. I returned at 1 p.m. for lunch and rushed back to work.

When I had duties, I stayed at Kabir Niwas on campus, a modest two-room flat with a sloping tiled roof and basic facilities. My roommate was Dr Sanjay Shrivastava, a lecturer in Ophthalmology. After six months I got a slightly better Type 2 quarter. Bhavana did not move to Sevagram until December 1988. Until then, we lived in Jaishree Bhavan, surrounded by family.

Two Weeks: Udaipur and Mount Abu

In the last week of February, Bhavana and I finally left for our honeymoon—two weeks in Udaipur and Mount Abu. We travelled by train to Chittorgarh, spent a day among its history, and then went on to Udaipur, a city that does not need advertising. James Tod called it “the most romantic spot on the continent of India,” which sounds like the kind of sentence British administrators wrote when they were trying to justify their travel expenses.

We saw Fateh Sagar, Pichola, Swaroop Sagar, Rangsagar, and Doodh Talai. We wandered through forts, palaces, museums, gardens, and temples, doing what newlyweds do when they are young and slightly overwhelmed: walking a lot, looking at everything, and pretending not to be tired.

We ended with a few days in Mount Abu before returning home. We stayed in comfortable three-star hotels, but the return journey was in non-air-conditioned second class. It suited us. Our marriage, after all, had begun in the real India, not the brochure version.

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