Wedding Festivities

 

“Upma is being served on badam (Indian almond) leaves… you all go and have it!” Mom said.

We immediately stopped playing and ran over. The cooks were making hot, fresh upma in a small cauldron placed on an earthen fireplace. Firewood was burning underneath, and since we went too close, we could really feel the heat on our skin.

Just then, one of the cooks snapped,

“Hey kids! Don’t come so close to the fireplace … you’ll burn your skin. Be careful!”

“My mom said they’re serving upma,” one of my friends said.

“It’s not ready yet. It will take about ten minutes—go, play for a while and come back,” he replied.

That whole scene is still so clear in my memory. Most of the cooks were men, with just one or two women. I remember my grandmother proudly saying that they were all cooking in a state of Madi (physical purity after a bath).

I already knew a bit about madi back then. I had been hearing about it since childhood. Basically, madi means wearing wet clothes, or clothes that have been washed and dried in a specific way. When someone is in madi, only others who are also observing it are supposed to touch them. If someone else touches them, the madi is considered broken—they’re said to become “impure” (what they called mayila).

We were just kids, though. And since we were wearing regular dry clothes, it was hard to tell who was observing madi. If we accidentally touched someone while playing, it would turn into a big scene at home. No one would really scold us, but the person we touched would go back to the well, pour a few pots of water over his/her head, change into wet clothes again, and rejoin the “madi group.”

These madi–mayila customs used to be followed very strictly in Brahmin households. One of my smarter friends once said it’s hard to say when and where these practices actually began. Over time, many of these customs have faded, and there have been quite a few amendments and relaxations in how madi is observed now.

Alright, let’s go to the “badam leaf–upma” scene…

“Come on, they’re serving upma on badam leaves—let’s go!” Mom called out. We stopped our games and ran. Near the wood-fired stove, the Brahmin cooks were struggling hard to get the food ready on time. They were drenched in sweat. It was only eight in the morning, but the sun was already scorching—it was summer, after all. On top of that, there wasn’t even a slight breeze.

The firewood under the stove was burning steadily, the flames rising straight up without wavering. On the stove, water in the small  cauldron was boiling vigorously. Taking wheat rava, one of the cooks was adding it carefully in a particular way, stirring it in circles with a long ladle. Making upma is an art. If anyone cooks it carelessly, its taste gets spoiled, and people begin to dislike it—so much so that, as my witty friend said, even an “Anti-Upma Association” might be formed! That surprised me a lot. At the same time, I felt sympathy for upma — “Oh, poor upma! It needs to be saved,” I thought, and right then decided that when I grew up, I would start an “Upma Lovers Association.”

While my friend was going on about upma, the head cook called out, “Upma is ready! Come on, kids!” They took the cauldron off the stove and placed it beside a pile of badam leaves. Next to it, they kept a pot of water and a few German silver tumblers. We kids rushed eagerly for the upma.

These days, when I see buffet-style meals where even elders rush forward holding their plates, I feel that what we did as kids back then wasn’t wrong at all. In one way, the buffet system is good—everything is displayed in an orderly manner, and people can serve themselves what they like and eat comfortably. But somehow, with discipline going off track, some guests nowadays seem to forget their decorum and status, and rush forward with plates. I don’t know exactly where the flaw lies, but I never really liked this system.

In my childhood, whenever there was an invitation for a feast to someone’s house, a brass or silver tumbler (depending on their status) would first arrive from the guest’s home. The person bringing it would politely say, “Sir has asked me to inform you that he is arriving for lunch” and hand it over. That tumbler would then be placed in the dining row, where banana leaves were already spread and lightly sprinkled with water, marking a place according to the guest’s status.

So, even before the guests arrived, their tumblers would stand there gracefully in the row. Shortly after, the guest would arrive. Of course, not all guests followed this practice—only those with a certain sense of prestige, I used to think.

Once all the leaves were neatly arranged in rows and the tumblers placed, the serving would begin. Then the guests would be invited to come for the meal. Until then, they would spend time chatting, and then slowly take their places in the rows.

In traditional Brahmin feasts, all the dishes would be served completely before anyone started eating. Only after the ceremonial sipping of water and offering a prayer — chanting the name of Hari or Hara — would the guests begin eating. And no one would get up for washing hands until everyone in the row had finished eating.

The serving itself was done with great respect and care. They would coax the guests to have a little more of each item, until the guests were fully satisfied. The hosts wouldn’t leave you until you had eaten to your heart’s content. Alright…

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The head cook dropped a scoop of upma onto the badam leaves. The moment I tasted it, I felt the salt was a bit too much. When I told this to a witty friend, he smiled and said, “What’s the big deal? Maybe even the cook’s sweat got mixed into the upma!”—and laughed heartily. He’s always like that—never gets upset about anything, just laughs it off. In a way, that’s a blessing. So many things happen that we don’t like; when we can’t stop them, laughing is a great tonic—I realized that later, especially while traveling in city buses in Guntur. I’ll share that part later.

Even though the upma was slightly salty, it still tasted good. After finishing what was on my leaf, I reached out to take a new leaf for another serving. Just then, one of the workers almost snapped at me, “Young man, take it on the same leaf you’ve eaten from. Don’t touch a new one!” As I looked at him angrily, he dropped another serving of upma onto the same leaf in my hand.

All the elders sat in rows, and the cooks began placing badam leaves in front of them and serving upma. In those days, breakfast too was served with discipline and tradition.

This is a recollection of wedding scenes I witnessed in the 1960s. In those days, whether it was a wedding or any family function, there were no paper plates, buffet meals, or function halls like we see today. Compared to now, everything was much simpler and closer to nature.

Sometimes weddings were held in a temple courtyard or even right on the street. A wedding in one house felt like a festival for the entire village. At the very least, everyone on that street would come together and actively help with the arrangements. Bullock carts would be parked at both ends of the street, a thatched pandal would be set up, petromax lights would glow, and the air would be filled with the music of nadaswaram as the rituals united the bride and groom in a lively celebration.

In many places, weddings lasted for five days. The rituals were never rushed through, the way they often are now. In fact, the bride’s house would remain vibrant and bustling for almost a month. Once all the excitement settled, there were also times when the head of the family would sit down to calculate the expenses and feel upset.

In a middle-class peasant family, it was not uncommon to sell two or three acres of land for each single wedding. My family, too, belonged to that background. I have personally seen lands being sold to meet wedding and other expenses. From the local provision store owner to the priest who conducted the ceremony, everyone was paid from that money.

That is why there’s a saying in Telugu, “Celebrate a wedding and try to build a house — you’ll truly understand the burden.” My father often used to say, “These are the two biggest expenses in life. They are unavoidable, and one must somehow bear them.”

Later in life, I too came to understand just how true those words were. If fortune favours you, you manage to preserve your dignity; otherwise, criticism and blame are hard to escape.

As far as I can remember, I’ve seen many weddings. 

A dialogue from the movie Gundamma Katha comes to mind - Gantanna tells Gundakka, “Sister, I conducted the wedding in a grand way at the temple. It cost three rupees and twelve annas!” To that, NTR jokingly replies, “Oh, do you call that a grand wedding, Gundakka? That was just a token ceremony! Give me a rupee, I will go for a ride in a rickshaw!”

It’s true—back in those days, weddings in middle class families were very simple. Not just the bride and groom, but everyone was simple. The entire event was celebrated in a modest manner. Do such simple weddings not exist today? Of course they do—they are still happening.

Recently, I visited Annavaram. There, on one hand, there were people getting married in a  lavish manner, while on the other, some managed to get married with just a hundred rupees. At a wedding venue, I witnessed one such simple ceremony. Apart from the bride, groom, and the priest, there were only four guests. Without any show or fuss, the wedding rituals were completed quietly.

In my childhood too, I saw many such weddings. Most were held at home. In the courtyard, they would tie mango leaf festoons, decorate with fresh green leaves and flowers, and set up a simple wedding mandap. Guests would sit comfortably on the ground or on low platforms, fanning themselves with hand fans, chatting, and enjoying the ceremony.

I started seeing weddings in function halls only towards the late 1970s. A noticeable shift in middle-class wedding practices began in the 1980s. Even when money was scarce, people would take loans to maintain social status and spend heavily on weddings, only to struggle later with the burden of the debt. Function halls began appearing even in small towns in the 1970s, and many businesses grew around them.

There’s a world of difference between the simple weddings of those days and the grand, extravagant ones we see today. In fact, the trend now seems to be going overboard. The hype around “pre-wedding shoots” is on another level altogether—and the expenses involved are something else entirely. It almost feels like weddings are turning more into a display than a celebration.

Marriage is an important occasion in any family. A wedding feels truly festive only when there is a bit of hustle and bustle, a pinch of playful sulking, and an abundance of joy. Nowadays, weddings in function halls have become very common, while weddings in temples have become quite rare.

There have also been changes in the way wedding invitations are extended. In big cities, the tradition of personally visiting homes to invite people is gradually disappearing. Earlier, invitation cards were sent only to relatives living far away, while those nearby were invited in person. Now, people feel that a WhatsApp message is sufficient. Someone even joked recently that if invitations are sent through WhatsApp, gifts too might as well be sent on WhatsApp—saving money altogether!

A year after I joined Andhra Prabha, I got married on April 24th, 1985. My marriage was with Sridevi, the eldest daughter of Mannava Giridhara Rao garu, a well-known personality in Guntur. I have often spoken about Mannava Giridhara Rao garu whenever the occasion arose; let me say a few words about him now as well.

Mannava Giridhara Rao garu:

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Mannava Giridhara Rao garu was not just my father-in-law; he was also a guide to me in many ways. Just as wonderfully as he taught Political Science at Hindu College, his writings too captivated thousands of readers. He was born in Mannava village of Guntur district.

Giridhara Rao garu used to visit the Vijayawada office of Andhra Prabha quite often. There he would meet Ajanta garu, Vasudeva Deekshitulu garu, and Kandarpa Ramachandra Rao garu. The Andhra Prabha head office was located in Domalguda. In those days, Potturi Venkateswara Rao garu was the editor, and he would occasionally visit the Vijayawada office. Whenever he came, many of his close associates would also drop in to meet him. My father-in-law was one among them.

At that time, all I knew about him was that he was a writer. I knew this mainly because his articles frequently appeared in Andhra Prabha. One day, as usual, Giridhara Rao garu came to the office, met Kandarpa garu, and then went into the News Editor’s room. After a while, I was called in. Usually, a trainee sub-editor would be summoned to the cabin only if there was some important work, so I felt a little nervous.

When I entered, I saw an elderly gentleman seated opposite Vasudeva Deekshitulu garu. Pointing towards him, Deekshitulu garu asked,

“Do you know who he is?”

“No, sir,” I replied politely.

“Have you at least heard the name Mannava Giridhara Rao?”

“I’ve seen the name in the paper, sir.”

“He is that very person.”

“Oh, is that so!”

Deekshitulu garu then told me a few things about him — that he was from Guntur, that he was a lecturer at Hindu College, that he had served as an MLC from 1968 to 1974, and that he was a distinguished writer. I could not understand why all this information was being given to me. I assumed perhaps they wanted me to write an article about him. While I was still wondering, they gestured as if to say, “You may leave now.”

As soon as I returned to my desk, Kandarpa garu called me over and spoke to me for a while. In that conversation too, much of the discussion revolved around Giridhara Rao garu’s family. Well, I simply listened.

A few days later, word came from Nandigama that we were going to Guntur to see a marriage alliance. Only then did I understand the hidden meaning behind all those conversations in the office.

Krishna Nagar in Guntur was then situated on the outskirts of the town, quite far from the bus stand. From there, one had to take a city bus, get down near Swamy Theatre, and walk into a lane on the right to reach Giridhara Rao garu’s house. There were mango and coconut trees in the front yard of the house. It was a home filled with fresh air and natural light, and the very sight of it gave one a feeling of warmth and affection.

After returning to Vijayawada from the bride-viewing visit, I began to wonder whether the girl might actually be taller than me. When I brought this up, they chided me a little, saying, “Then what exactly were you looking at all that time?” Still, they arranged another meeting. This time, they made the two of us stand side by side and concluded, “The boy is slightly taller.”

Well then, from that point onwards, all thoughts revolved around the wedding.

We hired a red RTC bus from Nandigama — in those days, APSRTC used to rent out buses for weddings — and the entire wedding party travelled to Guntur. Accommodation was arranged in a house right next to my in-laws’ home. It looked like a newly built house. Some facilities were available, while a few were not. Since none of us had the habit of getting upset over every little inconvenience, everyone adjusted comfortably.

The wedding took place at Sri Venkateswara Function Hall in Brindavan Gardens nearby. Apparently, the bride had particularly wanted a music band troupe, and so it was arranged.

Whenever there is a wedding, prominent personalities also attend as guests depending on the family’s social standing and connections. Our wedding too had a few notable guests among the invitees. I still remember some of them.

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Puchcha Poornanandam:

I did not know much about him earlier. I only knew that he had acted in a few films. He was also a writer, especially known for his distinctive style of humorous writing. He wrote a series of articles titled “Meesala Sogasulu” in Andhra Prabha. By profession, he was a lawyer and was also associated with theatre. Puchcha Poornanandam acted in films such as Ananda Bhairavi, Rendu Rellu Aaru, and Srivari Sobhanam. He also performed roles in a few radio plays broadcast by All India Radio.

The Head of the Kurthalam Peetham:

Two brothers came to our wedding and blessed us, (newly married couple) by reciting a set of poems. One among them was Dr. Prasada Raya Kulapathi. His original name was Potaraju Venkata Lakshmi Vara Prasada Rao. Within a short time, he became widely known as Bhargava Vidyadeva Kulapathi and Prasada Raya Kulapathi. He was a Telugu lecturer at Hindu College. He earned titles such as Avadhana Sekhara and Ashukavi Kesari. He was a devotee of the Divine Mother. In later years, he became renowned as Siddheswarananda Bharati, the pontiff of the Kurthalam Sri Siddheswari Peetham.

Friends of mine also came from Andhra Prabha, as well as from Visakhapatnam and Nandigama. Vishnu took many photographs with his camera. Along with Partha Saradhi, Vijay Babu, and Girish, colleagues from the Andhra Prabha office such as Karunakara Reddy, Madan Mohan, and Phanidhar Kumar attended the function. The very next day, our wedding appeared as a single-column news item in the Andhra Prabha newspaper.

Just a week after our wedding, my brother-in-law Maruti Prasad’s marriage was conducted in the same function hall. Amidst all the wedding bustle, Mrs. Sridevi actively took part in the arrangements while occasionally glancing at me. I must admit, I was doing the same. At that moment, I remembered this song sung by Ghantasala and Leela, and smiled to myself. Perhaps you too may smile once as you read it…

“If only you smile brightly once,

streams of beauty begin to flow.

If only you stand beside me,

the whole world seems to sparkle.”

 (Phakkuna neevu navvina chaalu, chakkadanaale volikene…)

Dosavakaya:

I have loved dosavakaya (cucumber pickle) right from the beginning. To tell the truth, I prefer dosavakaya over avakaya (mango pickle) and would happily have it served on my plate instead. My mother-in-law, Lakshmi Rajyam garu, understood this fondness of mine very well. Whenever she knew that I would be staying there for four days, she would make sure a jar of dosavakaya was specially set aside for me.

At their house, the lights in the veranda would glow till 12 or 1 AM in the midnight. The main reason for this was my father-in-law, who would often be awake at that hour writing some article or the other.

My office in Vijayawada was in Poornanandampeta, close to both the railway station and the bus stand. Whenever my wife was staying in Guntur, and if my shift ended by eight at night, I would finish my work and immediately board a bus to Guntur. Around nine o’clock, I would get down at the Guntur bus stand and from there board another city bus from the nearby city bus terminal. I would usually take buses going to Shyamala Nagar through Pattabhipuram Gate, or buses going toward Koritapadu and Lakshmipuram. Most often, I preferred the buses passing through Pattabhipuram Gate. I would get down near Swami Theatre and walk to my in-laws’ house.

In those days, city buses were run under private management. They were always in a great hurry to get passengers onto the bus. The moment one boarded, the conductor would tear off a ticket and place it in one’s hand. But the bus itself would not start immediately. Even if it did move, it would only go a little forward, stop, and then reverse again. Like an old gramophone record stuck and repeating itself, the bus would move forward and backward four or five times. By then, the patience of the passengers who had boarded first would wear thin and they would begin showering curses. Then, like the mercy of the rain god sending the first gentle showers of the season, the bus would finally begin moving slowly.

Stopping and starting along the way, it would eventually drop me near Swami Theatre around ten-thirty or eleven at night. Even if the Vijayawada–Guntur journey itself went smoothly, this city bus ride was enough to raise one’s blood pressure.

But somehow, once I reached my in-laws’ house dragging my tired legs, the warm affection with which everyone welcomed me would melt away all the irritation caused by the city bus journey.

Naturally, I usually visited my in-laws’ house only when I had a weekly off the next day. On such holidays, if time permitted, I would watch a movie at Swami Theatre; otherwise, I would visit a nearby temple. During meals, they always made sure that my favourite dishes, especially brinjal curry and dosavakaya, were prepared.

We shared a wonderfully affectionate bond with the house in Krishna Nagar. Later, due to certain reasons, that house was sold away. After that, we never again went that way. We lacked the courage to do so, fearing that revisiting the place would burden our hearts with memories and emotions.

Sattemma’s Benevolent Glance:

Before concluding these wedding reminiscences, I must certainly mention the temple at Ambarupeta near Nandigama.

After the wedding ceremonies and the formal send-off were completed, we once again boarded the red bus and set out with the wedding party towards Nandigama. But now, seated beside me, was my life partner. It was a sweet and unforgettable feeling.

When the bus reached Ambarupeta, it was stopped there. Since it was late at night, only a few people got down. The newly married couple was asked to have a darshan of Goddess Satyamma.

I felt as though the goddess herself was showering her warm and compassionate glance upon us.

By the grace of Satyamma, our married life continues happily even today. My father-in-law would often say, “Yours is a happy home.” And can the blessings of elders ever go in vain!