A Monsoon Wedding in Sevagram

From Kunkuri to Sevagram

Once Ashwini’s engagement was formalised, the mind moved automatically to the next milestone—the wedding. Kunkuri was warm and welcoming, but it was also a small town. It could not accommodate the numbers that inevitably gather around an Indian wedding, especially when the groom’s family belongs to a campus where everyone knows everyone. So we decided to solemnise the marriage in Sevagram and invite Shaily’s Jain family to come to us.

It seemed sensible. It was also, as I would soon discover, an invitation to chaos—politely worded, well-intentioned, and delivered in advance.

Choosing a Date, Choosing a Risk

Fixing a wedding date is not astrology. It is logistics disguised as tradition.

July 2011 looked feasible, but it came with complications. Amrita’s final MBBS examinations were scheduled for November–December 2011. Ashwini had finished his internship and was preparing for the Australian entrance examination in May 2011. If we postponed the wedding until Amrita finished her exams, the earliest dates would fall in February 2012—almost two years after the engagement. Worse, if Ashwini cleared the exam, he might have had to leave for Australia alone in January 2012, with his wedding still pending like an unfinished file.

July, of course, meant monsoon. In Sevagram, monsoon is not a season. It is a mood. It can be gentle for a week and then suddenly behave like a strict teacher who has decided you have enjoyed yourself enough.

After weighing every factor, we went ahead. With barely three months to prepare, we fixed the wedding for 9 July 2011 and announced it—efficiently, like all modern Indians do—through an email.

An Invitation, Without Wedding English

With the dates fixed and preparations quietly underway, I wrote to friends and family to share the news. I didn’t want it to sound like a printed card translated into English by someone who dislikes punctuation. I wanted it to sound like us.

24 April 2011

Dear all,

How quickly children grow up! Or is it the other way around—how quickly parents begin to age? Put either way, the numbers do not change. I have crossed fifty, and we have realised that Ashwini is now half as old as his mother.

Six years ago, Ashwini, still in his teens, met Shaily. Their friendship grew, took root, and slowly began to flower. A year ago, they decided to turn that friendship into a lifelong companionship—of course, with our consent.

On 9 July, we plan to solemnise their marriage in Sevagram. Bhavana and I are trying to keep the rites and rituals to a minimum, though we are discovering that balancing tradition with modernity is not always easy.

The wedding ceremony will take place around noon on July 9. The same evening, in Sevagram—the hunt for a suitable venue is still on—we will invite friends, acquaintances, and professional colleagues to bless the newlyweds.

Our friends and relatives will, of course, stay with us—before, during, and after the marriage. They must be part of every event. We wish them to share our joy, our excitement, and yes, our nervousness. Above all, we want to capture for posterity their presence on an occasion that means so much to us.

And so, here is an invitation—straight from the heart. Neither pompous nor formal. Come, and be part of a gathering that celebrates a defining moment in Ashwini’s life. Bless Ashwini and Shaily with your love and affection. Be with them as they take their sacred vows, and share their happiness as they dress up and stand together at the wedding reception.

Warm regards,
Bhavana and SP

Three Months, One Thousand Guests

The weeks that followed were a blur. We were expecting over a thousand guests at the reception, and rain hovered over every plan like a supervisor who enjoys pointing out flaws. The scale was daunting, but Bhavana and I were clear on one thing: we would manage it ourselves, with help from friends. No event managers. No glossy teams with walkie-talkies. Sevagram has its own system—people step in because they care.

Nearly fifty volunteers came forward, each taking charge of a task. Someone handled transport. Someone arranged accommodation. Someone supervised food. Someone kept track of chairs, shamianas, lights, microphones, and the small disasters that weddings manufacture without effort.

The Plot That Became a Swamp

For weeks, we toyed with the idea of hosting the reception on the open four-acre plot in front of our home. It felt ideal: spacious, familiar, and conveniently located. With Raju Fattepuria’s help, we hired a contractor to level the land, remove stones, and clear wild growth. It began to look promising.

Then the first July rains arrived and revealed the truth about black cotton soil. It does not become wet. It becomes slush. You don’t walk on it; you negotiate with it. Standing itself becomes an achievement.

Reluctantly, we abandoned the plot and shifted the venue to the large ground behind the Dean’s office. It was less romantic, but it was firm underfoot, which in the monsoon counts as a blessing.

Sevagram Turns into a Family Home

Shaily’s family gathered at Yaatri Niwas, opposite the Gandhi Ashram—nearly seventy-five of them, filling the place with chatter, laughter, and the kind of anticipation that makes even strangers feel like relatives.

Our guests were accommodated across Arogyadham, a few vacant flats in Vivekanand Colony, the institute guest house, and some even stayed with us at home. For those few days, Sevagram itself felt like a joint family. Doors were open, kitchens were busy, cars were borrowed without hesitation, and everyone seemed to know where they were needed.

A Simple Ceremony, a Sacred Hour

The wedding ceremony was simple, dignified, and deeply moving. Ashwini and Shaily took seven rounds around the sacred fire, followed by the Saptapadi—each step sealing a shared promise. True to our family tradition, the ceremony lasted about forty minutes. We chose Godhuli Bela, that gentle hour when cattle return home and the day softens into evening. The rituals followed the Gayatri method popularised by Kaka Kalelkar—unhurried, meaningful, and free of theatrical excess.

I watched the couple sit together, calm and radiant, and felt that familiar parental emotion: pride mixed with disbelief. One day your child is asking for extra pocket money. The next day he is taking vows around a sacred fire.

A Reception, and a Cooperative Sky

By eight in the evening, the reception began at the ground behind the Dean’s office. Nearly 1,200 people came. We had requested guests not to bring bouquets or gifts—partly to avoid waste, partly to simplify logistics, and partly because carrying flowers in the rain is a pointless form of devotion.

As if in quiet cooperation, the clouds parted. The evening unfolded without interruption. People arrived smiling, stayed longer than expected, ate happily, and blessed the couple with the affectionate seriousness that Indian weddings specialise in.

Four Things I Still Remember

Many memories blur with time, but four remain sharp.

The first is the wedding card. It was a labour of love. Akhilesh Singhal and I walked through the markets of Mahal in Nagpur before choosing a cream-coloured square card—simple, elegant, and exactly right. The wording took longer. For that, I turned to my friend V K Gupta. From Allahabad and Sevagram, we revised drafts over long phone calls until every word felt necessary and nothing sounded like decoration.

Prashant Raut of Image Printers in Wardha was patient beyond measure. We spent hours adjusting spacing, typography, and layout, checking and rechecking proofs. When the cards finally arrived, they looked exactly as we had hoped—quiet, warm, personal. They set the tone for the wedding.

The second memory is the stage. A group of friends—Atul Patel, Amit Gandhi, Anil Kusumbia, Prem Jethwa, Raju Fattepuria, and Raju Verma—took complete charge. They built a 30-by-20-foot wooden structure, covered it with gunny cloth, layered it with plaster of Paris, and combed it into soft swirling patterns. Artist Gaju Rudrakar added Warli motifs to the brass lamps.

Flowers—gerberas, lilies, violets, chrysanthemums—cascaded from above. Midway, torrential rain damaged the structure. The team worked through the night to repair it. By morning, it looked like a village hut—earthy, graceful, unforgettable. It had the warmth of something made by hand, not ordered from a catalogue.

The third memory is the food. With a gathering of this size, food has to be flawless, because Indian guests forgive late ceremonies but do not forgive bland dal. Shri P L Tapadiya knew exactly whom to call—Mr Tolaram, a seasoned caterer with whom he had worked many times. Over two days, Mr Tolaram and his team cooked tirelessly. Every dish was balanced, generous, and deeply satisfying. Compliments flowed freely, and for once, they were not exaggerated.

The fourth memory is my friends. They were the spine of the wedding. They received guests at railway stations, arranged accommodation, offered their cars, managed parking, served food, cleaned the grounds, handled emergencies, and wiped rain-soaked floors so nobody slipped. When spirits flagged, they cracked jokes. When rain poured, they found umbrellas. They gave without keeping count.

Shri P L Tapadiya orchestrated everything with quiet authority, ensuring each piece fell into place. And when it was all over—when the lights dimmed and the crowds dispersed—what remained was not exhaustion, but a deep shared satisfaction.

What Remained

Ashwini and Shaily stood smiling, radiant with the knowledge that their journey had begun, surrounded by love. For Bhavana and me, it was more than a wedding. It was a collective act of friendship, faith, and gratitude—one we will carry with us for the rest of our lives.

And if anyone asks me what I learnt from that monsoon wedding in Sevagram, I give the simplest answer: in the end, the weather is unpredictable, the soil is stubborn, and the guest list always grows. But when friends show up in full strength, everything else becomes manageable.

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