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Two States

And the Space Life Creates Between Them

Weddings, According to India

In India, weddings are a big thing. People plan them for years. Conversations begin early, guest lists grow quietly, and expectations build around scale, spectacle, and celebration. For us, it wasn’t quite like that.

We had been together for a while—comfortable, steady, clear. By the time we decided to get married, the wedding itself felt more like a formality. Something to tick off rather than a life-altering event. We were perfectly happy with a small affair. Something simple. Almost a non-event, at least in our minds.

In hindsight, that assumption alone should have warned us.

Two States, Two Times

I’m from Kanpur, in North India. H is from Bangalore, in the Southern India. This was back in 2008.

At the time, these differences still felt pronounced. North Indian weddings were known for being loud, expansive, and unapologetically grand—big guest lists, endless food, music spilling onto the streets, celebrations stretching across days.

Down South, weddings leaned in a different direction. Simpler in appearance, heavier in meaning—deeply ritualistic, precise, intentional. Less noise, more structure. Less display, more symbolism.

Neither was better. They were simply different temperaments shaped by culture. Over the years, cultures have merged. Inter-state marriages are now common, and weddings across India have begun to look increasingly similar. But back then, these differences still mattered.

Neutral Ground

Since my father-in-law was posted in Calcutta at the time, we chose it as neutral ground.

North + South + East came together, and the West completed the equation with relatives flying in from the US—because yes, every South Indian family has relatives in the US. You know this if you know.

The Family We Were Trying to Keep Small

My side was excited in the way Seths always are. Big family. Many cousins. Many weddings—though interestingly, it had been a while since the last one at home. People had been waiting. Quietly planning, if I’m honest. A proper North Indian wedding.

A full-blown wedding in Kanpur would easily have crossed 500 people—which, ironically, was exactly what we thought we were avoiding.

Somewhere along the way, I realised just how large the family really was. During a visit to a cousin’s house, a toddler walked into the room, looked at me confidently, and called me Dada.

Apparently, I had been a grandfather for five years without being informed. It was my first reminder that life doesn’t always ask before expanding our roles—or our family trees.

Logistics, or the Lack of Them

About fifty-odd family members travelled together, split across two Rajdhanis because we couldn’t get tickets in one. True to family tradition, we almost missed the trains because the platforms were mixed up. People ran. Bags were lifted. Dignity was briefly suspended. And somehow, we made it.

On H’s side, things generally run on checklists and confirmations. On ours, things usually work out… eventually.

An Aside I Understood Much Later

The morning we arrived at the apartment complex, one of my cousins walked up beside me. “Is this where H’s parents live?” he asked. I said yes.

He looked around—the building, the compound, the quiet order of the place. There was a look on his face that was part admiration, part amusement, as if he’d just noticed something slightly out of place in a familiar story. “I doubt,” he said, “after the marriage they’ll be able to continue living in this apartment.”

At the time, I didn’t understand what he meant. I assumed it was just one of those throwaway remarks cousins make—half joke, half mystery. I understood it much later.

Rituals and Letting Go of Control

When the two pandits met, it became clear from the start that H’s side had this covered. In South Indian weddings, the pooja isn’t a formality—it’s the centrepiece. Every chant, every step, every sequence carries weight.

Our pandit—lovingly nicknamed Dhoni because of his long hair—understood this instantly. Rather than competing, he chose to observe, adapt, and step in only where needed. The rituals unfolded not because everything was planned, but because everyone made room for each other.

Appearances and Quiet Obsessions

At one point, many from my side kept coming up to H and telling her how graceful her nani was. We later realised this admiration had less to do with grace and more to do with the fact that she was the fairest person at the wedding—fairer even than our proudly Aryan-descended clan.

The fascination with fair skin, once a distinctly North Indian obsession, has quietly travelled south as well. Life, again, has a sense of humour.

Dosas, Dancing, and Doing Things Anyway

The food was a mix of North and South Indian dishes. To everyone’s surprise, my family queued endlessly at the dosa counter. It was their first real exposure to authentic Karnataka dosas—not the Tamil-style versions most North Indians were used to.

Her side wanted to experience a barat. They had even prepared a few dance moves. The sound system failed. My family danced anyway. We don’t need music. We can dance to the sound of a generator.

Before I got on the ghodi, my three-year-old nephew started crying. He was upset because I had found someone to marry—and who would he marry? I told him he could marry my fiancée. He thought about it carefully and said she was too big for him.

The Moment That Wasn’t Planned

H was quietly processing the rituals—especially the ones that felt male-centric. She wasn’t rejecting the wedding, but she wasn’t blindly accepting it either. When the moment came to ask for consent, she didn’t say “I agree.”

She simply looked down. My heart skipped a beat. And then Dhoni, sensing the moment, loudly declared: “Kanya haan bol rahi hain.” The girl is saying yes. And just like that, we crossed a line we hadn’t fully understood until we were on the other side of it.

A Line We Didn’t Know We’d Cross

As the wedding celebrations progressed, the party grew louder. And louder. My cousins slowly slipped into their element — an element I am sometimes wary of. One of them, especially, was completely carried away by the occasion. So much so that he had brought his pistol with him.

To be fair, in parts of North India, firing guns during wedding celebrations is considered festive. Almost fashionable. My South Indian in-laws, however, were definitely not prepared for this particular cultural flourish.

At some point during the dancing, my cousin pulled out the gun and fired a few rounds into the air. To make matters worse, this was election season in Kolkata — a time when you are very much not supposed to do that. Within minutes, there were police officers outside the building. Someone called my father-in-law and told him the police were on their way up to the venue.

We rushed my cousin out of sight, and my father-in-law stepped in to handle the situation with the authorities — calmly, politely, graciously — as if this were all just another unexpected ritual he had been prepared for.

Once that episode passed, my cousins returned to what they do best. The singing grew louder. The jokes got bolder. The laughter spilled well past midnight. The neighbours were not amused. Complaints followed. And once again, my father-in-law had to step in — this time to reassure the society that all would soon return to normal.

It was only then that I finally understood what my cousin had meant that morning: “Mr. Mohan might not be able to live here after the marriage.”

Today, we look back and laugh at it. But in the moment, it was a serious affair — one of those moments where two worlds collide loudly, awkwardly, and without warning. And somehow, survive.

What Stayed With Us

The night was loud, chaotic, joyful. Singing, shayari, dancing, and a little help from beverages. I tried sleeping elsewhere but could hear voices till morning. On the return journey, we nearly missed the train again—this time because four aunties decided to take a stroll just as we were supposed to leave.

Somehow, we brought everyone back intact, which remains one of the most impressive logistical achievements of the entire event.

The Lesson We Didn’t Plan For

Today, when we meet family, no one talks about the rituals. Or the venue. Or even the food. What everyone remembers—and laughs about—is how different the wedding was. The surprises. The mismatches. The moments that slipped outside our control.

We often walk into life with fixed ideas: This is how it should be. This is good. This is unnecessary. And then life gently places us in situations we never imagined—and expands us beyond those ideas.

In the end, we’re all part of this shared, imperfect, beautiful human condition— a union far larger than any wedding.

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