The Raigarh Connection

A Match That Began in a Classroom

Matches are said to be made in heaven, but many are initiated in places far less poetic—like high school classrooms and hostel corridors. Shaily, my daughter-in-law, came from Kunkuri but had studied in Raigarh, in north-eastern Chhattisgarh. During those school years she had briefly crossed paths with a boy named Sahaj Rathi. Same school, different section, the kind of acquaintance you forget until life decides to retrieve it from storage.

Years later, after Shaily became part of our family, she made a suggestion that sounded casual but carried the weight of a turning point.

“Sahaj could be a suitable match for Amrita,” she said.

That is how these things often begin—not with parental searching, not with matrimonial advertisements, but with one person who knows both worlds and quietly builds a bridge.

The Impressive CV, and Our Small-Town Doubt

On paper, Sahaj was impressive in the way modern Indian grooms are expected to be. He had done his MBBS from the Armed Forces Medical College, Pune, and his MD from New Delhi. His parents, Dr Rajiv and Dr Lata Rathi, were established doctors. They had practised in Raigarh before moving to Delhi in 2004. Dr Rajiv was a consultant cardiologist at Max Super Speciality Hospital, Saket. Dr Lata ran two ultrasound clinics in Patparganj.

It was all very Delhi.

And we, despite our long years in medicine, were still Sevagram people—academics living on a rural Gandhian campus where reputations are built slowly and life is lived at human speed. We hesitated. Not because we doubted Sahaj, but because we doubted ourselves.

Would the cultures match? Would the pace of Delhi swallow our quiet daughter? Would the confidence of a metropolitan family clash with our plain Wardha ways?

These are questions parents ask in private, never in the meeting, and certainly never aloud.

A Modern Approval

A year passed. Amrita and Sahaj met in Indore and, in the quiet way of modern young adults, approved of each other. There were no dramatic declarations, no urgent emotional telegrams. They met, spoke, understood, and decided. The simplicity of it was reassuring.

In the winter of 2013, the Kalantri delegation—Bhavana, Ashwini, Amrita, and I—flew to Delhi to meet the Rathis. We braced ourselves for the usual arranged-marriage ritual: polite smiles, sharp questions, silent assessments, and a faint sense that you are being examined.

Instead, we were met with warmth.

Dr Rathi, it seemed, had already decided to say yes. There were no interrogations, no probing questions about dowry, status, or property. Vidushi, Sahaj’s sister, and Dr Lata Rathi treated us like old friends who had merely arrived a little late. By the time we finished lunch at Hotel Hilton, the date was fixed and the broad outline of the programme was already taking shape.

Amrita was engaged.

Just like that—quietly, neatly, without fuss.

The Venue Hunt: Plan A Fails

We set the wedding date for 20 June 2014. Unlike Ashwini’s wedding, which we hosted on our home turf in Sevagram, we decided to hold this one in Nagpur. Delhi guests would be flying in, and Nagpur—with its airport and better connectivity—made practical sense.

We began the venue hunt with optimism, which is always a mistake.

We initially settled on Rani Kothi, an under-construction property on Wardha Road. It promised grandeur, and we were seduced by the idea of wide spaces and dramatic lighting. But as the date approached, the “under-construction” part remained stubbornly accurate. When Dr Rathi visited in March 2014, it was clear the venue would not be ready. We had to pivot, quickly and without complaining, because weddings punish hesitation.

After some frantic deliberation, we shifted to the Radisson Blu Hotel, barely a kilometre from the airport. It was a significant upgrade—good for comfort, bad for the budget, and excellent for last-minute sanity. But hotel weddings come with their own mathematics. We needed rooms, and we needed them in bulk.

Thanks to the invaluable help of Mr Parmanand Tapdiya and Naresh Patni—our local Bajaj Auto dealer and an even more reliable problem-solver—we managed to book seventy rooms at Radisson Blu and another thirty at the nearby Airport Centre Point. At that stage, it felt less like wedding planning and more like disaster management with smiles.

The Wedding, and the Surprise of Ease

The ceremonies began with the kind of colour that Indian weddings do effortlessly: a lively mehndi, an elegant sangeet, and the happy chaos of relatives who arrive with suitcases and opinions. The baratis came to Nagpur railway station and received a traditional welcome. There was music, laughter, and a general feeling that everyone had decided to enjoy themselves without overthinking the details.

What pleased me most was watching Ashwini and Shaily. They were genuinely thrilled for Amrita. There was no sibling drama, no possessiveness, no strange family politics. Just a brother and sister-in-law delighted to see her stepping into a new life.

On the wedding day, the Radisson Blu transformed into a festive, well-choreographed world. Amrita looked radiant—elegant without trying too hard. Sahaj matched her with quiet grace. The pandit chanted the familiar hymns. The couple circled the sacred fire, performing the rituals with a seriousness that touched even the most cynical among us.

But what stood out wasn’t the décor or the hotel’s polished efficiency. It was the warmth.

It did not feel like a “Delhi meets Sevagram” alliance. It felt like a reunion of families who had somehow known each other for years and were simply catching up.

Wardha, the Next Day

The festivities didn’t end in Nagpur. The next day, we hosted a grand reception in Wardha. Friends and relatives arrived from all corners of the country. Many MGIMS alumni—now settled in Delhi, Haryana, and Bhopal—made the trip, turning the reception into something more than a wedding event. It became a nostalgic gathering, full of old stories, familiar faces, and affectionate teasing.

As I watched Amrita and Sahaj standing on the stage, surrounded by the community that had raised her, I felt a quiet, deep peace. The little girl who once rode a moped in the dark to tuition classes had become a woman, ready to build a life in the capital.

She was leaving our home, yes.

But she was taking Sevagram with her.

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