2 States: The Story of My Marriage

by Chetan Bhagat

  ‘Yes, the Citi chummery. My first home too,’ he leaned forward and patted my back.

  I suppose I had a good boss. I should have felt happy but didn’t. I wondered if I should call HLL first or straight land up there.

  I came back to my desk in the afternoon. I met some customers, but most of them didn’t have time to stay long. Ms Sreenivas had given me a lucky break, but it wasn’t that easy to woo conservative Tamilians, after all.

  ‘Fixed deposit. I like fixed deposit,’ one customer told me when I asked him for his investment preferences.

  At three in the afternoon, I had a call.

  ‘It is for you, sir,’ Sri said as she transferred the line to my extension.

  ‘Hi, I’d like to open a priority account, with my hot-shot sexy banker.’

  ‘Ananya?’ I said, my voice bursting with happiness, ‘Where are you? When are we meeting? Should I come to HLL? I am sorry my flight. . . .’

  ‘Easy, easy. I am in Kancheepuram.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Three hours from Chennai. I’ll head back soon. Why don’t you come home for dinner?’

  ‘Home? Your home? With your mom and dad?’

  ‘Yes, why not? You have to know them anyway. Mom’s a little low these days, but that is OK.’

  ‘Why is she low? Because of us?’

  ‘No, she finds other reasons to be miserable. Luckily, this time it has nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Ananya, let’s go out, OK?’

  ‘I can’t today. My aunt is visiting from Canada. Come at eight.’ She gave me her address. I noted it down after making her spell it thrice. ‘See you in five hours,’ she said and hung up.

  I stared at the watch, hoping it would move faster. The reps left at six, and as Citi’s great culture goes, MBAs never left until eight.

  I killed time reading reports on the Indian economy. Smart people had written them, and they made GDP forecasts for the next ten years with confidence that hid the basic fact—how can you really tell, dude?

  At seven-thirty I stood up to leave. Bala came towards me. ‘Leaving?’ he asked, puzzled as if I had planned to take a half day.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Not much to do.’

  ‘One tip, never leave before your boss,’ he said and winked at me. He laughed, and I didn’t find it funny at all. I want to see what a Tamil joke book looks like.

  ‘What time do you leave?’ I said, tired.

  ‘Soon, actually let me call it a day. Kusum will be waiting. You want to come home for dinner?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ I said.

  He gave me the second disappointed look.

  ‘I have to go somewhere, distant relatives,’ I said.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, his voice still a little sad.

  I am sorry, dude, I am not handing you the remote of my life because you are my boss, I thought.

  17

  ‘Swaminathan’, the name plate of Ananya’s small standalone house proclaimed in arched letters. I pressed the doorbell even as a buzzing grinder drowned the ring.

  ‘Yes?’ Ananya’s father opened the door with a puzzled expression. I bet he recognised me but feigned ignorance to rattle me. He wore a half-sleeve white vest with a front pocket and a checked blue and white lungi.

  ‘Krish, sir, Ananya’s friend,’ I said. For no particular reason, fear makes me address people as sir. I had brought a gift pack of biscuits, as my Punjabi sensibilities had taught me to never go to someone’s house without at least as many calories as you would consume there.

  ‘Oh, come in,’ he said after I reintroduced myself.

  I stepped inside and handed him the gift pack.

  ‘Shoes!’ he said in a stern voice when I had expected ‘thanks’.

  ‘What?’ I said.

  He pointed at the shoe rack outside the house.

  I removed my shoes and checked my socks for smells and holes. I decided to take them off, too. I went inside.

  ‘Don’t step on the rangoli,’ he warned.

  I looked down. My right foot rested on a rice flour flower pattern. ‘Sorry, I am really sorry, sir,’ I said and bent down to repair the pattern.

  ‘It’s OK. It can’t be fixed now,’ he said and ushered me into the living room. The long rectangular room looked like what would be left if a Punjabi drawing room was robbed. The sofas were simple, with cushions thinner than Indian Railways sleepers had and from the opposite of the decadent red velvet sofas of Pammi aunty. The walls had a pale green distemper finish. There were pictures of various South Indian gods all around the room. The dining area had floor seating. At one corner, there was a daybed with a tambura (which looks like a sitar) kept on it. An old man sat there. I wondered if Ananya’s parents were cool enough to arrange live music for dinner.

  ‘Sit,’ Ananya’s father said, pointing at the sofa.

  We sat opposite each other as I faced Ananya’s dad for the first time in my life. I strained my brain hard for a suitable topic. ‘Nice place,’ I said.

  ‘What is nice? No water in this area,’ uncle said as he picked up a newspaper.

  I hung my head, as if to apologise for the water problem in Mylapore.

  Uncle opened the newspaper, which blocked his face from mine. I didn’t know if it was intentional. I kept quiet and turned to the man with the tambura. I smiled, but he didn’t react. The house had an eerie silence. A Punjabi house is never this silent even when people sleep at night.

  I bent forward to see if uncle was reading the paper or avoiding me. He had opened the editorial page of The Hindu. He read an opinion piece about AIADMK asking the government to do an inquiry on the defence minister who had sacked the naval chief. It was heavy-duty stuff. No one in my family, correction, no one in my extended clan ever read editorial pages of newspapers, let alone articles about AIADMK.

  Uncle caught me peeking over him and grunted, ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said. I didn’t know why I felt so guilty.

  Uncle continued to read for five minutes. I had an opportunity to speak again when he turned the page. ‘No one is at home, sir?’

  ‘Where will they go?’

  ‘I can’t see anyone.’

  ‘Cooking. Can’t you hear the grinder?’ he said.

  I didn’t know if Ananya’s father was naturally like this or extra grumpy today. Maybe he is pissed about me being here, I thought.

  ‘You want water?’ he said.

  ‘No sir,’ I said.

  ‘Why? Why you don’t want water?’

  I didn’t have an answer except that I felt scared and weird in this house. ‘OK, give me water,’ I said.

  ‘Radha,’ uncle screamed. ‘Tanni!’

  ‘Is that Ananya’s grandfather,’ I said, pointing to the old man.

  ‘No,’ he said.

  I realised Ananya’s father answered exactly what was asked. ‘Who is he?’ I asked slowly.

  ‘It’s Radha’s Carnatic music teacher who came to see her. But she is busy in the kitchen making dinner for you. Now what to do?’

  I nodded.

  Ananya’s mother came in the living room. She held a tray with a glass of water and a plate of savouries. The spiral-shaped, brown-coloured snacks resembled fossilised snakes.

  ‘Hello, aunty,’ I stood up.

  ‘Hello, Krish,’ she said.

  ‘I am sorry I came at the wrong time,’ I said, looking at the teacher.

  ‘It’s OK. Ananya invited you. And she has a habit of not consulting me,’ Ananya’s mother said.

  ‘Aunty, we can all go out,’ I said.

  ‘It’s OK. Food is almost ready,’ she said and turned to her husband. ‘Give me half an hour with Guruji.’ She went up to Guruji and touched his feet. The Guruji blessed her. Ananya’s mother picked up the tambura and they left the room.

  ‘So, Citibank placed you in Chennai?’ uncle said, initiating conversation with me for the first time.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I said. Ananya had told him the bank had transferred me.r />
  ‘Why do they send North Indians here?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir.’

  ‘Useless buggers,’ he mumbled and buried himself in his newspaper again.

  I cleared my throat and finally gathered the courage to ask. ‘Where’s Ananya?’

  Uncle looked up in shock as if I had asked him where he kept his porn collection. ‘She had gone for a bath. She will come after evening prayers.’

  I nodded. Ananya never did any evening prayers in Ahmedabad. I heard noises from the other room. They sounded like long wails, as if someone was being slowly strangled. I looked puzzled and uncle looked at me.

  ‘Carnatic music,’ uncle said. ‘You know?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Then what do you know?’ he asked and sank into The Hindu without waiting for me to respond.

  I had an urge to run out of the house. What the fuck am I doing here in this psycho home? I heard footsteps outside.

  ‘Sorry,’ Ananya said, coming in.

  I turned to look at her. I was seeing her after two months. She wore a cream-coloured cotton sari with a thin gold border. She seemed prettier than I last saw her. I wanted to grab her and plant the biggest kiss on her lips ever. Of course, things had to be different with Mr Hindu-addict Grumpyswami in front of me.

  ‘Hi Ananya, good to see you,’ I greeted her like a colleague at work. I kept my hands close to my body.

  ‘What? Give me a hug,’ she said and uncle finally lost interest in The Hindu.

  ‘Sit here, Ananya,’ he said and carefully folded the newspaper like he would read it again every day for the rest of his life.

  ‘Hi dad,’ Ananya said and kissed her father on the cheek. I felt jealous. ‘Oh, mom is singing,’ she said, upon hearing her mother shriek again.

  ‘Yes, finally,’ Ananya’s father said. ‘Can you tell the raga?’

  Ananya closed her eyes to listen. She looked beautiful but I had to look away as uncle eyed every move of mine.

  ‘It’s malhar, definitely malhar,’ she said.

  Uncle nodded his head in appreciation.

  ‘How many ragas are there?’ I asked, trying to fit in.

  ‘A thousand, yeah dad?’ Ananya said.

  ‘At least. You don’t listen to Carnatic music?’ uncle said to me.

  ‘Not much, but it is kind of nice,’ I said. Of course, saying I have no fucking clue what you are talking about didn’t seem quite right.

  ‘Mom won two championships at the Tamil Sangam in Kolkata when dad was posted there,’ Ananya said, her voice proud.

  ‘But she has stopped singing since we came to Chennai,’ uncle said and threw up his hands.

  ‘Why?’ I said.

  ‘Various reasons,’ Ananya said and gestured at me to change the topic.

  ‘Your aunt is here?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, Shobha athai is in the kitchen. She is dad’s elder sister.’

  I prayed Shobha aunty didn’t have a personality like her brother’s. Silence fell in the room. I picked up a snack to eat it. Every crunch could be heard clearly in the room. I had to keep the conversation going. I had read a book on making friends a while ago. It said take an interest in people’s work and keep bringing their name into the conversation.

  ‘So, you have worked all over India, Mr Swaminathan?’ I tried.

  ‘A few places, until I became stuck here,’ he said.

  ‘Stuck? I thought you like Chennai, your hometown,’ I said.

  Uncle gave me a dirty look. I wondered if I had said something inappropriate.

  ‘I’ll get Shobha. Let’s eat dinner soon,’ uncle said and left the room. I wanted to ask Ananya about her father, but I wanted to grab her first.

  ‘Don’t,’ Ananya said as she sensed my intentions.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t move. Keep a three-feet distance,’ she said.

  ‘Are you mad? There is no one here.’

  ‘Not here? My mother is singing in the next room for God’s sake.’

  ‘That’s singing?’

  ‘Shut up,’ she giggled. ’And I’d suggest you learn a bit of Carnatic music. No, stop, don’t get off the sofa.’ She gave me a flying kiss and I subsided back into the sofa.

  ‘Dad is having a bad month at the bank,’ Ananya whispered. ‘He got passed over for promotion. He deserved to head Bank of Baroda for his district but dirty politics happened. And he hates politics.’

  I didn’t mention the interest with which he read the AIADMK article. ‘Where is your brother?’

  ‘He slept already. He wakes up early to study.’

  We heard footsteps.

  ‘Be careful with Shobha aunty. Speak minimum,’ she said.

  ‘Why?’ I said as Ananya’s mother came to the living room again. She and her guru walked towards the main door. Aunty had a disappointed expression.

  ‘Illa practice?’ the guru mumbled as Ananya’s mother spoke to him in Tamil.

  The guru shook his head and left.

  ‘What?’ Ananya asked her.

  ‘Nothing. Where is your appa and athai? Let’s eat,’ Ananya’s mother said in a serious tone.

  Ananya’s father and aunt came to the living room. They carried more dishes than their arms were designed for. I stood up to help. ‘Hello aunty, can I take something!’

  ‘Wash your hands,’ uncle told me and pointed me to the kitchen.

  We sat on the floor for dinner. Ananya’s father passed me a banana leaf. I wondered if I had to eat it or wipe my hands with it.

  ‘Place it down, it is the plate,’ Ananya whispered.

  ‘Radha,’ Shobha aunty said in a stern voice as she pointed to her banana leaf. It had specks of dirt on one side.

  ‘Oh, sorry, sorry,’ Radha aunty said and replaced it. It wasn’t different from Shipra masi finding faults with my mother. Psycho relatives are constant across cultures.

  I followed Ananya as she loaded her plate with rice, sambhar, funny-looking vegetables and two kinds of brown powders.

  ‘What’s this?’ I asked.

  ‘Gunpowder, try it,’ she said.

  I tasted it. It felt like sawdust mixed with chillies.

  ‘Yummy, no?’

  I nodded at Ananya. Everyone first kept neat little lumps of dishes on their banana leaf. Soon they mixed it into a slurry heap.

  ‘Mix more,’ Ananya said as I tried to copy my in-laws-to-be.

  ‘You are Ananya’s classmate?’ Shobha aunty spoke for the first time.

  ‘Yes, at IIM,’ I said.

  ‘IIT student?’

  I nodded. Ananya had told me that my IIT tag was the only silver lining in my otherwise outcast status in their family.

  ‘Sushila’s cousin is also from IIT. Radha, I told you, no? Harish lives in San Francisco.’

  ‘Which batch?’ I asked.

  ‘IIT Madras, not your college,’ Shobha aunty said, pissed off at being interrupted.

  I kept quiet and looked at the various vegetables, trying to recognise them. I said hello to beans and cabbage.

  ‘Harish’s parents want to get him married. You have Ananya’s nakshatram?’ Shobha aunty said.

  ‘No, not yet,’ Ananya’s mother said.

  ‘What, Swami? Your wife is not interested in finding a good son-in-law?’

  I couldn’t believe they were discussing all this in my presence. ‘Can you pass the rice?’ I said, hoping to steer the conversation elsewhere.

  ‘Radha, you must listen to Shobha. She knows best,’ Ananya’s father said. Indian men slam their wives for their sisters with zero hesitation.

  Ananya’s mother nodded as Shobha aunty started a discourse in Tamil. Ananya’s dad and mother also responded in Tamil. It was irritating to watch a regional language movie in front of me.

  After five minutes I spoke again. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘What?’ Ananya’s father said.

  ‘Can you speak in English? I can’t follow the conversation,’ I said.

  Ananya looked at me, shocked
. Back off, her eyes said.

  ‘Then learn Tamil,’ Ananya’s father said.

  ‘Yes sir,’ I said meekly.

  ‘Anyway, this doesn’t concern you,’ he added.

  I nodded. I heard various technology companies’ and boys’ names. I felt like upturning my banana leaf on Shobha aunty’s face.

  I left soon after dinner. Ananya came outside to help me get an auto. Ananya held my arm as we came on the desolate street.

  ‘I am not talking to you,’ I said and extracted my hand from her.

  ‘What?’ she said.

  We passed by a bungalow with coconut trees in the garden.

  ‘They are planning your marriage. What the hell is nakshtram?’ I said.

  ‘It’s the astrological chart. They are fantasising. I am not getting married to anyone else but you.’

  She held my hand up and kissed it. I extracted it again. I hailed an auto. Ananya would have to negotiate with him in Tamil else I’d have to pay double. ‘How am I going to win them over? It is impossible to get through. Sitting with your father is like being called to the principal’s office.’

  Ananya laughed.

  ‘It’s not funny.’

  ‘It is a little. What about my mom?’

  ‘I used to be scared of her pictures in campus. Forget her in real life! Her looks alone kill me.’

  ‘Her pictures scared you?’

  ‘Yes, that is why I never wanted to make love in your room. I’d notice your mother’s picture and chills ran down my spine. I’d imagine her saying, What are you doing with my daughter?’

  Ananya laughed again. ‘If we weren’t in Mylapore, I’d have kissed you. You are so cute,’ she said.

  ‘Cut it out, Ananya, what is our plan? Will you speak to your mother?’

  ‘Mom’s stressed out. Her Carnatic teacher refused to teach her.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later.’

  ‘Can we meet tomorrow? Outside, please,’ I said.

  ‘Meet me on Marina beach at six,’ she said.

  ‘I can’t do six. My extra-caring boss Bala leaves at eight.’

  ‘I didn’t say evening.’

  ‘Six in the morning?’ I gulped.

  Ananya had already turned to the auto driver.

  ‘Nungambakkam, twenty rupees. extra illai, OK?’ she told him.