Ten years ago, I wrote this story in Bengali for the Bengali section of Indrosphere. It was a personal memory, written for readers who shared my language and cultural background. Today, I am rewriting it in English—not merely as a translation, but as a story I wish to share with a much wider circle of readers.

Some experiences belong not only to the person who lived them. Over time, they become small windows into a particular place, a particular society, and a particular moment in history.

My wedding in 1991 is one such memory.

It had almost everything one would not normally associate with a wedding: communal riots, curfews, uncertainty, a nationwide strike, delayed trains, and even a honeymoon night spent in a railway station retiring room.

And yet, when I look back, what I remember most is not the disruption.

I remember resilience. I remember kindness. I remember how ordinary people quietly stepped forward to help one another when circumstances became extraordinary.

To understand the story, I have to go back to 1985.

The Beginning

I was still in the final year of my university studies when I began appearing for various job examinations/interviews. Fortune smiled upon me, and in my very first attempt I was selected as a Probationary Officer, or Management Trainee, in a public sector bank.

I joined the bank in August 1985. After completing my year of probationary training, I was posted in 1986 to the bank’s main branch in Aligarh, Uttar Pradesh.

I was young, enthusiastic, and eager to experience a life beyond the familiar world I had known. Little did I know that Aligarh would become much more than the beginning of my professional career. It would also become the backdrop for some of the most unforgettable chapters of my life.

Today, Aligarh is known for many things, including its famous lock industry and Aligarh Muslim University. But in the late 1980s, the city had another, less welcome identity.

It was a city that frequently experienced communal tension, riots, and curfews. There seemed to be an unwritten expectation that, sooner or later, the city would pass through another period of unrest.

Life Under Curfew

The state administration had installed loudspeakers on alternate lamp posts across the city. I had never seen anything quite like it elsewhere.

Perhaps the arrangement was intended to reduce the need for police vehicles to move through tense neighbourhoods making announcements. Whatever the reason, those loudspeakers became part of the landscape of Aligarh.

Once a curfew was imposed, restrictions were severe. Initially, there would be a complete shutdown. If the situation remained peaceful for several days, the authorities would gradually relax the restrictions—perhaps allowing people out for two hours, then four hours, and eventually longer periods.

There were even times when people were not permitted to stand outside their own front doors.

I remember hearing about an incident in which firing took place at the vehicle of a very senior police official during a paramilitary flag march. After that, the authorities became even more strict and cautious.

Living with such uncertainty inevitably changed people’s habits. In most cities, families buy their monthly groceries according to what they expect to consume that month.

In Aligarh, people planned for the possibility that they might be confined to their homes for another month. Rice, flour, lentils, cooking oil, salt, medicines, and other essentials were stocked in quantities well beyond normal requirements.

Nobody knew when the next curfew might begin. 

Yet there was another side to life in Aligarh—one that I remember with particular warmth.

A Quiet Social Understanding

Whenever people booked a hotel or a hall for a wedding, birthday, or other celebration, they usually paid an advance. But there was an unwritten practice in the city: if an event had to be cancelled because of riots or curfew, the hotel or venue would refund the advance.

It was not a government regulation. It was simply a social understanding. People recognised that the cancellation was beyond anyone’s control. In a city accustomed to uncertainty, perhaps this kind of consideration had quietly become part of the culture.

That small act of kindness has stayed with me. 

Years later, when my own wedding approached, I would discover just how meaningful that understanding could be.

A New Chapter

I had lost my father while I was still in university. After I joined the bank, my mother came to live with me in Aligarh. 

The Bengali community in the city was very small, consisting of only a handful of families. But my mother and I built a comfortable little world of our own.

By 1991, my career was stable. Naturally, relatives began bringing marriage proposals. Eventually, my marriage was fixed with a girl from Varanasi.

The wedding was planned for the auspicious Bengali month of Agrahayan, corresponding roughly to November–December. The marriage ceremony would take place in Varanasi, while the reception would be held in Aligarh.

Everything seemed settled. But after Durga Puja, the atmosphere in Aligarh began to change. Conversations at tea stalls, in offices, and in the markets carried the same warning: “The next riot will happen after Diwali.”

Whether it was an informed prediction or simply the accumulated wisdom of a city accustomed to unrest, nobody could say.

But I decided not to take any chances. Since my reception was planned in Aligarh, I went to the hotel where we had made the booking. I wanted to confirm one thing: If the reception had to be cancelled because of a riot or curfew, would our advance payment be refunded?.

The hotel management assured me that there would be no problem. That assurance mattered.

Agrahayan is peak Hindu wedding season, and without an advance booking, finding another suitable venue at short notice would have been almost impossible.

I returned home reassured. But life, as it so often does, had plans of its own.

History Enters the Wedding

The riot happened—but not in Aligarh, this time. It happened in Varanasi. And my wedding was just a week away.

By then, everything had been arranged. The invitations had gone out. The shopping was complete. Food, decorations, accommodation, ceremonies—every small detail had been planned and accounted for..

We were living in that familiar state of anticipation that comes before a wedding, when the days seem to move faster than usual, and the entire family is carried along by a quiet excitement.

And then, suddenly, there was a curfew.

The elaborate arrangements my father-in-law had made in Varanasi could no longer be taken for granted. The streets were silent, movement was restricted, and even the accommodation arranged for the baratis could no longer be relied upon.

What had seemed so certain only a few days earlier had become uncertain overnight. Naturally, my future father-in-law was deeply worried.

He spoke to my mother over the phone and suggested a practical alternative. Perhaps, he said, instead of holding the wedding in the city, we could shift it to his brother’s house in Sarnath, around 25 km from the Varanasi city.

My mother simply told him: “Please do not worry about anything except ensuring that the wedding happens peacefully.”

A wedding that had been prepared with such care, with every detail thought through, suddenly had to make room for circumstances nobody had anticipated.

History had quietly entered our wedding plans. And Sarnath, with its ancient silence and sacred associations, became a part of our story.

And so, with the blessings of Baba Vishwanath and in the sacred land of Sarnath—where Lord Buddha delivered his first sermon—our wedding took place.

Perhaps no wedding planner could have designed a more unusual setting.

Everyone Played Their Part

Of course, the change of venue created tremendous difficulties for my father-in-law. He was a government officer, and fortunately, his colleagues supported him immensely. The official vehicle and curfew passes enabled him to manage several essential tasks during those difficult days.

While the wedding was taking place in Sarnath, I was still worried about the reception in Aligarh.

But once again, people came forward. My colleagues and friends in Aligarh took complete responsibility. They organised everything on my behalf and ensured that the reception of guests, the reception ceremony, et al, were successfully held, even though I was far away from Aligarh, with only my mother at home.

Looking back, I realise how remarkable that was. There were no mobile phones, no WhatsApp groups, no instant photographs or video calls, and no way for me to supervise things from a distance.

Yet the reception happened. People simply took responsibility and got things amazingly done.

I thought the difficulties were finally over. I was wrong.

The next chapter was still waiting for us.

The Journey Back

As part of the traditional Bengali post-wedding ritual of Ashtamangala, my wife and I were to travel back to Varanasi and spend three days there.

By then, the daytime curfew had been lifted, although a night curfew remained.

We reached Aligarh railway station in the morning to catch our train. What we saw there was extraordinary.

Almost every train was delayed indefinitely. Trains coming from Delhi were badly affected with lots of uncertainty. Trains from Howrah were running twenty to twenty-five hours late, or there was simply no reliable information about when they would arrive.

But the display board showed one surprising exception: Purva Express — arriving on the time, as per the Timetable!

My curiosity got the better of me. I asked the station master about it. He smiled and said: “Sir, that is not today’s train. It is yesterday’s train arriving twenty-four hours late. Yesterday was Bharat Bandh, and this is the result.”

I smiled to myself. Whether Bharat Bandh had succeeded across the country or not, it certainly has had an effect on West Bengal.

But jokes aside, we had to reach Varanasi. So we took whatever train was available. I told my wife to catch the first train heading in that direction, and we would figure out the rest along the way. She readily agreed, all the more eager to return to the house that, only a few days earlier, had been hers.

We travelled first to Kanpur on a crowded train from Delhi. We had tickets for another train, but in the chaos of the moment, we simply boarded this one. The possibility of a ticket examiner turning up seemed remote enough, and we decided to take our chances.

After finding a small space in the crowd where my wife could sit, I looked up and, to my surprise, found our Regional Manager managed some space to sit on an upper berth. He, too, was travelling to Lucknow for a meeting at the Zonal Office. Seeing our predicament, he graciously offered to share the limited space on the berth with me.

It was a small gesture, perhaps, but one I have never forgotten. In the midst of all that confusion and uncertainty, his kindness brought a moment of warmth and reassurance.

From Kanpur, we changed trains and continued towards Mughal Sarai. We finally arrived at around eleven at night.

My father-in-law was supposed to receive us at the station. But how could he know which train we were arriving on?

This was before the age of mobile phones. There was no way to call him. We searched the entire station but could not find him. It was almost midnight.

The night curfew had begun at dusk, and there was no possibility of entering the city.

Eventually, with the help of a porter, I arranged a separate retiring room at the station for the two of us. And that is where we spent the night.

Our Honeymoon Suite

People usually imagine honeymoons in beautiful resorts, mountains, beaches, or luxurious hotels. Mine began in a railway station retiring room.

Even today, I smile when I think about it. I doubt many people in the world can claim that their honeymoon began at a railway station.

The following morning, we hired an auto and finally reached home. And then we discovered something that touched me deeply. My father-in-law had spent the entire night waiting for us at the station.

He had no idea which train we had arrived on. We had no idea where he was. Eventually, someone had to go back to the station and bring him home.

One night of our Ashtamangala was spent at a railway station. But after that, there were no more major difficulties. We returned safely to Aligarh.

Looking Back

More than three decades have passed since that wedding. When I look back today, I realise that my wedding was never merely a social ceremony.

It was a journey through a particular era of India. An India of curfews and communal tension. An India before mobile phones, when a missed train could mean losing contact with someone for an entire night. 

An India where information travelled slowly, but people often acted quickly when someone needed help. An India where official restrictions could bring a city to a standstill, yet ordinary human relationships somehow kept moving.

My wedding was interrupted by circumstances. But it was completed by the kindness of people.

My father-in-law found a way to bring the wedding to Sarnath. His colleagues helped him navigate the restrictions. My friends and colleagues in Aligarh took responsibility for the reception. My Regional Manager, by sheer kindness, offered me a place to sit on a crowded train. A porter helped us find shelter for the night.

And somehow, in the middle of all that confusion, uncertainty and disruption, two newlyweds managed to find their way from one railway station to another—and, eventually, home.

Perhaps that is why, after all these years, I do not remember my wedding as a story of disruption. I remember it as a story of resilience. A story of kindness.

And, above all, I remember it as a reminder that when history interrupts ordinary life, it is often ordinary people who help us carry on.

That is the wedding I remember. The wedding that history interrupted—but could not stop.