What couples say.

We walked in for the muhurtham and my mother started crying before the priest had even sat down. The mandap was exactly the drawing she showed us in March, down to the jasmine on the pillars.

It rained the morning of the Haldi and I panicked. By the time we came downstairs she had already moved the whole setup under the marquee. Nobody looking at the photographs can tell.

Our house is not big. She turned the front room into something my grandmother said looked like home in Vijayawada. Six hours, and you would never know it had been a living room.

I was thirty-four weeks and could not stand for long. The seat she built was the only comfortable chair in the room that day. That is the detail I still remember.

Forty guests in a small hall, and she still made it feel like an occasion. The ring tray photograph is the one we ended up printing.

Three days, three rooms, one colour story. Our photographer said it was the first weekend all year where the Friday and the Sunday pictures looked like the same wedding.

The hall is a beige box and we knew it going in. Fabric on the walls, ninety uplights, and by eight o'clock nobody could remember what it had looked like before.

The artists could actually see what they were doing. That sounds like a small thing. Ask anyone who has sat through a Mehendi lit by somebody's phone torch.

She read our venue's contract before we did and told us what we would not be allowed to hang from the ceiling. That saved us an argument with the hotel two weeks out.

We already had the venue and just needed it to stop looking like a hotel. She quoted the florals on their own, never pushed us to buy the rest, and delivered exactly that.