An architect who measures twice, cuts once, and has never once won an argument about where to eat.
A paediatrician who knows every lullaby ever written and hums them absent-mindedly through ward rounds.
Kacheguda station, a delayed train, and one shared umbrella. Neither of us was going anywhere near the other's destination.
Postcards between Hyderabad and Manipal. We still have every single one, in a shoebox, in the wrong order.
Asked badly, on a terrace, in the rain. Answered instantly, before the sentence was even finished.
Long tables under the trees. Come hungry, leave slowly.
Henna, a small band, and far too many marigolds.
Barefoot on the grass, just before the light goes gold.
Lanterns, one long table, and no seating plan whatsoever.
Garden formal, in whatever you can walk on grass in.
Sage, blush, cream, sand — anything that belongs in a garden.
Forty minutes from the city. Shuttles leave the hotel at 3:30 PM sharp.
It is all lawn and gravel. Block heels or flats will serve you far better.
Warm afternoons, cool evenings. Bring something light for your shoulders.
Your presence is plenty. If you insist, we're planting an orchard.
There is no seating plan and no dress rehearsal — but there is a headcount, and the caterer would very much like to know it.