After finishing half the apple, I picked up the phone.
‘You have no qualities I can be proud of. These degrees mean nothing. Just because you send your mother money, you think you can boss around. I think a person like you. . . .’ he was saying when I put the phone down again. I picked it up again after I finished the apple.
‘I said, are you listening?’ His voice was trembling.
‘I am,’ I said. ‘Now it is late. Your bill must also be quite high. May I go to sleep?’
‘You have no respect.’
‘You said that already. Now, can we sleep?
Good night,’ I said. ‘Good night,’ he said and hung up. No matter how mad they are, army people still believe in courtesies. I am sure Indian and Pakistani officers wish each other before they blow each other’s brains off.
I came back to bed. I didn’t want my father’s chapter in my life again. No father is better than a bad father. Plus right now I had to deal with another father, who had folded his hands to keep me away from a daughter I so badly wanted to be with. And I have Bala and loser flatmates and psycho landlord and horrible sambhar smells everywhere in this city. A dozen random thoughts spilled out in my brain right before going to bed. These thoughts swam around like clumsy fishes, and my poor little brain begged—guys, I need some rest. Do you mind? But the thoughts didn’t go away. Each fish had an attention deficit disorder. The Bala thought showed visions of me jabbing him with something sharp. The Ananya’s dad thought made me think about a dozen post-facto one liners I could have said when uncle folded his hands—But I love her, sir; But you should get to know me, uncle; You realise we can run away, you Hindu-reading loser.
Some people are lucky. They lie down, close their eyes and like those imported dolls your Dubai relatives give you, go off to sleep. I have to shut fifty channels in my brain, one click at a time. One hour later, I shut the final thought of how I’d admit I taught housewives to play with radioactive stocks.
23
‘Ready?’ Bala jollied me with coffee in the morning. Yes, Mr Balakrishnan, branch head of customer services, brought me coffee in a mug. Too bad he didn’t carry it in a tray.
‘Doesn’t take much preparation to present yourself as stupid,’ I said and took the coffee. I noticed the mug had become wet at the bottom. Bala picked up a tissue from my desk for me. I could get used to this, I thought.
We met in the conference room two hours later. Bala loaded up the presentation. True to character, he had removed my name from the title slide. Like all banking presentations in every department of every bank in India, it started with the 1991 liberalisation and how it presents tremendous opportunity for India.
‘As you can see, the IT space has seen tremendous volatility in the last three months,’ Bala said, pointing to a graph that only went down.
Our country head, Anil Mathur, had come on the first flight to Chennai. His day had started bad as he couldn’t get a business class seat last minute and had to rub shoulders with the common people. His grumpy expression continued to worsen during the presentation.
Anil was forty years old and seen as a young turk on his way up. Citi thrived on and loved the star system. People introduced him as ‘This is Anil, MD. He is a star performer’.
Again, there is nothing starry to do in a bank anyway. It is another thing Citi invented to reduce the dullness of our jobs. However, when Anil entered the room, some Chennai bankers’ eyes lit up, much like the auto driver who saw Rajni’s poster.
‘And that in short, has led to the circumstances we are in today,’ Bala said as he ended his hour-long speech. I couldn’t believe he tagged his talk as short.
Anil didn’t respond. He looked around the room. Chennai trainees avoid eye contact anyway, especially when it comes to authority. He looked at Bala and Bala looked at me. I nodded; I’d be the suicide mission today.
Anil’s cell-phone rang. He took it out of his pocket. His secretary had called from Mumbai.
‘What do you mean wait-listed for business class? I am not coming back like I did this morning sitting cramped with these Madrasis.’
Apart from me and Anil, everyone in the room was offended. However, since Anil is the boss, everybody smiled like it was a cute romantic joke.
Anil stood up with his phone. ‘And why do I have a Honda City to pick me up? Tell them I am eligible for BMW if they don’t have Mercedes . . . yes, of course, I am,’ he said and hung up the phone.
He let out a huge sigh and rubbed his face. It is a tough life when you have to fight for basic rights every day.
‘OK, focus, focus,’ he said to himself and everyone in the room straightened their backs.
‘Sir, as I was saying. . . .’ Bala started again. Anil had a flight back in four hours. I guess Bala hoped if he kept presenting, time would run out for Anil to ask tough questions.
‘Bala, you have said a lot,’ Anil said. ‘All I care about is why have you lost seven big customers in a month. In every other market we have grown.’
All of us studied the floor.
‘Two crore? How can retail customers lose two crore? They come to save their money in the bank, not lose it,’ Anil said. Such truisms had led him to become the star in the jargon-filled bank.
‘Sir, as you know, those losses have come from Internet stocks,’ Bala said, his voice pleading.
‘So, whose big idea was it to sell these ladies net stocks?’ Anil asked.
‘Sir,’ Bala said and looked at me. Everyone turned to me. I had become guilty by collective gaze.
‘You are?’ Anil asked.
‘Krish, sir,’ I said.
‘You are from Chennai?’ Anil said, puzzled at my accent that didn’t match the rest of the table.
‘No, I’m from Delhi.’
‘Punjabi?’
I nodded.
Anil didn’t answer. He just laughed. The sadistic laugh of seeing a fish out of water gasp for life. ‘What happened? HR screwed up?’ Anil said. His phone rang again. The secretary confirmed business class and a BMW pickup at the airport. Anil asked her to make sure it is a 5-series at least.
‘Remember the Tata Tea deal we did with BankAm? I came back with that idiot MD from BankAm and the car company sends me a Toyota and a 5-series for him. Can you imagine what I went through?’ Anil emphasised again. The secretary confirmed she wouldn’t make him slum it in a car that cost less than an apartment. Calmness spread in the room as Anil’s mood improved.
‘Where was I?’ Anil said and looked at me. He laughed again. ‘Which college are you from?’
‘IIMA,’ I said.
‘Salute, sir,’ Anil said and mock-saluted me.
I didn’t brag about my college, you asshole, I wanted to say. He got the name out of me.
‘I went to IIMC. I was on the waitlist for IIMA but they never called me. I guess I am not as smart as you,’ Anil said.
I had no clue how to answer that question. Another trainee in the room was from IIMC and he introduced himself. They hi-fived before Anil turned to me again.
‘But who cares, I became the country manager and many of your IIMA seniors didn’t,’ Anil said and winked at me.
Obviously you still care, you obnoxious, insecure prick, I said to myself even as I smiled. What would life be without mental dialogue.
‘So, you had the idea of selling Internet stocks to housewives?’ Anil asked after he touched down from his gloat-flight. ‘And Bala, you didn’t stop him.’
‘Sir, I always try to encourage young talent. Plus, IIMA, I thought he’d know,’ Bala said, picking on Anil’s resentment against my bluest of the blue-blooded institute.
‘IIMA, yeah right,’ Anil said. ‘You have cost the bank more business than you can ever make back in five years.’
I wondered if I should cancel my deal with Bala. Even the personalised coffee didn’t seem worth it.
‘What about monitoring? Bala, you didn’t monitor when the losses started?’
‘I was getting more busin
ess, sir,’ Bala said.
We had a lunch-break. I didn’t join the group. One, I had to prepare for IIT trigonometry for the class tomorrow with brother-in-law. Two, I didn’t need any more slamming. And three, the food was South Indian special, which I had begun to hate by now and I was sure Anil would too.
Post-lunch, Anil wrapped up the meeting. ‘I want good customer numbers. Either bring those customers back or win new ones, I don’t care. And please have better food next time.’
‘We will, sir, we are working super hard,’ Bala said.
The other trainees nodded. Apart from the IIMC guy, they hadn’t spoken a word during the entire meeting.
‘I can tell you, this Internet debacle will lead to layoffs across the bank. And if we see Chennai at the bottom, literally and figuratively, there will be layoffs,’ Anil said and horror showed on all faces at his last word.
‘And you, HR error,’ Anil said and tapped my shoulder. ‘You need to buck up big time.’
The BMW came to the branch to take Anil and our anxieties away. Bala came to my desk after we had come back to our seats. ‘Thanks, buddy. I owe you,’ he said.
‘Big time, buddy, big time,’ I said.
24
I figured it must be a special occasion when I heard excessive frying sounds from Ananya’s kitchen. I had completed two months of tuitions and Manju had become smarter than the kids in the Complan and Bournvita ads. I could bet one month of my after-tax, PF and HRA salary that Manju would crack IIT, medical or any draconian entrance exam known to man. Most of it was his own work, and my waking up at five had little to do with it.
‘What’s going on,’ I said and sneezed twice. The pungent smell of burnt chillies flared my nostrils.
‘Special cooking for special guests,’ Manju said, while continuing to solve his physics numerical.
‘Who?’
‘Harish, from the bay area,’ Manju said.
‘Harish who?’
Another fryer went on the stove. This time smells of mustard, curry leaves and onions reached us. If this was one of those prize-winning Indian novels, I’d spend two pages on how wonderful those smells were. However, the only reaction I had was a coughing fit and teary eyes.
‘You are rhumba sensitive,’ Manju said and looked up at me in disgust. He stood up and went to the door. ‘Switch on the exhaust fan, amma,’ he screamed and shut the door.
Ananya’s mother continued to tackle the contents of the fryer. ‘OK, you go for bath. They will come anytime,’ Ananya’s mother said and went to max volume, ‘Ananya! Are you ready?’
‘Who is Harish?’ I asked again as Manju refused to look up from his problem.
‘The nakshatram matched no, so they are here. OK, so g is 9.8 metres per second squared and the root of. . . .’ Manju drifted off to the world he knew best, leaving me alone to deal with my world, where a boy was coming to meet my girlfriend to make her his wife.
I yanked Manju’s notebook from him.
‘Aiyo, what?’ Manju looked at me shocked.
‘What’s the deal with Harish. Tell me now or I’ll tell your mother you watch porn,’ I said.
Manju looked stunned. ‘I don’t watch porn,’ he said in a scared voice.
‘Don’t lie to me,’ I said. Every boy watches porn.
‘Only once I s . . . saw a blue film, at my friend’s house, by mistake,’ he stuttered.
‘How can you watch it by mistake?’
‘It belonged to my friend’s dad. Please don’t tell amma.’
His face, even his spectacles looked terrified. I closed his books. ‘Tell me all about Harish. How did this happen?’
Manju told me about Harish, the poster boy of the perfect Tamilian groom. Radha aunty had pitched Harish for the last two years. He fit every criteria applied by Indian parents to make him a worthwhile match for Ananya. He was a Tamilian, a Brahmin and an Iyer (and those are three separate things, and non-compliance in any can get you disqualified). He had studied in IIT Chennai and had scored a GPA of 9.45 (yes, it was advertised to the Swamis).
He went on to do an MS with full scholarship and now worked in Cisco Systems, an upcoming Silicon Valley company. He never drank or ate meat or smoked (or had fun, by extension) and had a good knowledge of Carnatic music and Bharatnatyam. He had a full half-inch-thick moustache, his own house in the San Francisco suburbs, a white Honda Accord and stock options that, apart from the last three months, had doubled every twelve minutes. He even had a telescope he used to see galaxies on the weekend (I told you he had no fun). Manju was most excited at the prospect of seeing the telescope and thought it reason enough for his sister to marry that guy.
‘He said you can actually see the colours on the rings of Saturn,’ Manju said, excited.
‘You spoke to him?’
‘He called. Couple of times,’ Manju said.
‘Ananya spoke to him?’
‘No. He used to call when she wasn’t at home. Anyway, until the nakshatram matches, the boy and girl are not allowed to talk.’
‘Nakshatram what?’ I asked. The list of Tamilian hoops one needs to jump before getting married seemed infinite.
‘Horoscope. It is a must. If they don’t match, boy and girl’s side don’t talk. But they have matched for akka and him.’
I thought about my own family. The only nakshatram we think about is the division of petrol pumps when we have to see the girl.
‘You are a science whiz kid who wants to see Saturn rings. And you accept that people whose horoscopes don’t match shouldn’t talk?’ I said.
‘That’s how it is in our culture,’ Manju said, his hands itching to get to his workbook. I gave him back his notes.
‘And he is coming now?’ I said.
‘Yes, for breakfast. And please, don’t snatch my notebook again.’
‘I am sorry,’ I said and stood up. I wanted to have a showdown with Ananya about this. Surely, she’d have known a bit more about his visit. But for now, I wanted to get out.
‘Bye Manju,’ I said as I turned to leave.
‘Krish bhaiya, can I ask you one thing?’ he said.
‘What?’ I said.
‘Can something bad happen if you watch blue films?’
I stared at him.
‘I won’t, I promise. I just wanted to know,’ he said.
‘If you just watch them?’
‘Just watching . . . and,’ he said and hesitated, ‘and if you do something else afterwards.’
‘Why don’t you ask your appa?’
‘Aiyo, what are you saying?’
‘You could become blind,’ I said with a serious face.
‘Really?’ he said, ‘how is that possible?’
‘Be careful,’ I winked at him and left.
‘Welcome, welcome,’ the greetings had started at the entrance even before I could leave the house.
A crowd had gathered at the main door—Ananya’s dad and mom, Shobha athai, three other Kanjeevaram-clad aunties and two random uncles in safari suits became the welcome party. They received Harish like an astronaut who had returned from the first Indian lunar mission. The only time grown-ups get excited about young people is when young people are getting married and the old people control the proceedings. I had come to Ananya’s house several times, and I had received a welcome no better than the guy who came to collect the cable bill. But Harish had it all. Aunties looked at him like he was a cuddly two-year-old, only he was fifty times the size and had a moustache that could scare any cuddly two-year-old. He wore sunglasses, quite unnecessary at seven in the morning, apart from showing off his sense of misplaced style. He had come with his parents, a smug Tamilian family who walked into the room with their overachiever in shades. Fortunately, he removed them when he sat on the sofa.
Ananya’s father noticed me with a confused expression.
‘Uncle, I was leaving,’ I said. ‘Sorry. I came for Manju’s tuitions.’
‘Had breakfast?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I said.
‘Then sit,’ he said. The firmness in his voice made me obey instantly. I wanted to wriggle out of it, but a part of me wanted to see the drama unfold. Uncle’s attention shifted to the new guests. Maybe he had made me stay intentionally. To show me what Ananya deserved and what I could never be. I perched in a corner chair like a domestic servant who is sometimes allowed to watch TV.
The taxi driver came in to ask for his bill and Harish’s dad stepped outside to settle it. They couldn’t agree on the price and their argument began to heat up. Harish’s dad bargained for the last five rupees even as Harish’s mother casually mentioned another of their son’s achievement. ‘MIT calling him, requesting him to do Ph.D. at their college.’
All the ladies in the room had a mini orgasm. Marble flooring is to a Punjabi what a foreign degree is to a Tamilian.
‘But his Cisco boss said, nothing doing. You cannot leave me,’ Harish’s mother said. Harish kept a constant smile during the conversation.
Manju came into the room and called me.
‘What?’ I asked, dreading another physics problem.
I went into his room. Ananya sat on his bed, wearing a stunning peacock blue sari – the same colour she wore as the day I had proposed to her.
‘Go, your groom is waiting,’ I said.
‘Manju, leave the room,’ she said.
Manju had already sat down to study again. ‘Aiyo, where should I go?’
‘Go and meet the guests. Or help Amma in the kitchen,’ Ananya said in a no-nonsense way.
Manju went to the living room with his physics guide.
I turned away from Ananya.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘Who the fuck invented the word sorry? How can there be just one word to answer for anything one does. Tomorrow you could marry Mr Sunglasses outside, and then say sorry. What am I supposed to say?’
2 States: The Story of My Marriage Page 13