2 States: The Story of My Marriage

by Chetan Bhagat

  ‘Don’t overreact. I am doing it to fob off Shobha aunty. I still have the final say. I’ll say no.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Because this is not important. You saw the petrol pump girl, didn’t you?’

  ‘But I told you later. And it wasn’t a formal thing. My mother went to visit Pammi aunty.’

  ‘And neither is this formal. My parents said Harish is only coming for a casual visit.’

  ‘Oh, so people match horoscopes casually?’

  ‘It is the first step. And Shobha aunty did it. Krish, listen. . . .’

  ‘Ananya!’ a Tamil-accented scream filled the room.

  ‘I love you,’ she said, ‘and I have to go now.’ She brushed past me to the door.

  ‘Why are you wearing this stunning sari?’ I placed my hand on the bolt to stop her.

  ‘Because my mother chose it for me. Now, can I go or do you want appa to come here?’

  ‘Let’s elope,’ I said.

  ‘Let’s not give up,’ she said and stood up on her toes to kiss me. The taste of strawberry lip-gloss lingered on my lips.

  I came outside after five minutes. The hubbub over Harish had settled down a little. The men opened their newspapers. The women gave each other formal smiles like ballet dancers. The groom took out his latest Motorola Startac mobile phone, checking messages. Ananya’s mother served her standard fossilised snake snacks. No one spoke to each other. In a Punjabi home, if a similar silence occurred, you could assume that something terrible has happened—like someone has died or there is a property dispute or someone forgot to put butter in the black daal. But this is Ananya’s home protocol. You meet in an excited manner, you serve bland snacks and you open the newspaper or exchange dead looks.

  My re-entry made everyone notice me. Ananya’s mother seemed surprised. Ananya sat next to her and faced Harish’s parents. I occupied my corner chair.

  ‘Manju’s tutor,’ Ananya’s mother said. Everyone looked at me, the tutor who came to teach in a corporate suit.

  ‘He is Ananya akka’s classmate,’ Manju said, restoring some status to me.

  ‘You also went to IIMA? I have many colleagues who are your seniors,’ Harish said.

  ‘Really? That’s nice,’ I said. I wanted to shove the spiral snacks up his moustache-covered nose, but I kept a diplomatic smile.

  Ananya’s father spoke to Harish’s father in Tamil. ‘Something something Citibank Chennai posted something. Something something Punjabi fellow.’

  Everyone nodded and felt relieved after my credentials of being a Punjabi made me a safe outsider.

  ‘Talk, Ananya,’ Ananya’s mother whispered to her.

  ‘How long are you here for?’ Ananya asked as her bangles jingled. She really didn’t have to wear the bangles.

  ‘Two weeks. Then I have to go for our annual conference to Bali,’ he said.

  ‘Bali?’ one of Ananya’s aunts said.

  ‘Bali is an island in Indonesia, an archipelago. It is eight hours flying time from here via Singapore,’ Harish’s mother said.

  Everyone nodded as they absorbed the little nugget of knowledge before breakfast. Ananya’s family loved knowledge, irrespective of whether they ever used it.

  We moved to the dining table, or rather the dining floor. Ananya’s mother had already kept the banana leaves. I found them a little greener than usual, perhaps my jealousy reflected in them.

  Aunties loaded up Harish’s leaf.

  ‘This is too much,’ Harish said, pointing to the six idlis on his leaf. ‘Does anyone want one?’ He picked up an idli and placed it in Ananya’s leaf.

  ‘Wow!’ all the aunties screamed in unison.

  ‘See, how much care he is taking of her already. You are so lucky, Ananya,’ an aunt said as I almost tore a piece of banana leaf and ate it.

  I saw the bowl of sambhar in the middle. I wondered if I should pick it up and upturn it on Harish’s head. She can take her own idlis, idiot, why don’t you go drown in Bali, I thought.

  Harish thought it really funny to shift everything he was served to Ananya. He transferred parts of the upma, pongal, chutney and banana chips from his leaf to hers. Really Harish, did nobody teach you not to stretch a bad joke too far? And all you aunts, can you please stop sniggering so as to not encourage this moron?

  ‘We must decide the date keeping in mind the US holiday calendar,’ Shobha aunty said and I felt she was moving way, way too fast.

  ‘Easy, aunty, easy,’ Ananya said.

  Thanks, Ananya madam, that is so nice of you to finally impart some sense to these people. ‘You OK?’ Manju offered an idli to me. I had spent two months with him. He could sense the turmoil in me.

  ‘I’m good,’ I said.

  The breakfast continued. And then Ananya’s mother did something that paled all the idli-passing and date-setting comments. She began to cry.

  ‘Amma?’ Ananya said as she stood up and came to her mother.

  Amma shook her head. Manju looked at her but didn’t stop eating. The uncles pretended nothing had happened.

  ‘What, Radha?’ Suruchi aunty said as she put a hand on Amma’s shoulder.

  ‘Nothing, I am so happy. I am crying for that,’ she said in such an emotional voice even I got a lump in my throat. All the other aunts had moist eyes. Harish’s mother hugged Ananya’s mother. I looked at Ananya. She rolled her eyes.

  ‘How quickly our children grow up,’ one aunt said, ignoring the small fact that along with the children, she’d grown into an old woman, too.

  I’m going to get you all, I will, I swore to myself as I went to wash my hands.

  25

  ‘Why don’t you tell them! This gradual strategy is obviously not working,’ I said as I opened the menu.

  We had come to Amethyst, a charming teahouse set in an old colonial bungalow. It is one of the few redeeming aspects of the city. Set in a one-acre plot, the bungalow is on two levels. Outside the bungalow there are grand verandahs with cane furniture and potted plants with large leaves. Waiters bring eclectic drinks like jamun iced tea and mint and ginger coolers along with expensive dishes with feta cheese in them. It is a favourite haunt of stylish Chennai ladies and couples so madly in love, they feel a hundred bucks for jamun mixed with soda was OK.

  ‘I’ll have the Jamun iced and chicken sandwich, and some scones and cream, please.’ Ananya said.

  ‘And some water, please,’ I said to the waiter.

  ‘Still or sparkling, sir?’ the waiter said.

  ‘Whatever you had a bath with this morning,’ Krish said.

  ‘Sir?’ the waiter said, taken aback, ‘tap water, sir.’

  ‘Same, get me that,’ I said.

  ‘I have told them, of course. They don’t agree,’ Ananya said, as we reverted to our topic.

  ‘Is Mr Harish history?’

  ‘Finally, though it will take years to make Shobha athai OK again. She is like – tell me one thing wrong with Harish.’

  ‘He can’t get a woman on his own,’ I said.

  ‘Shut up, Krish,’ Ananya laughed. ‘You know how I finally closed it?’

  ‘Did you tell him about me?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Sort of?’ I said, my voice loud. ‘I am not Mr Sort Of. I am The Guy.’

  ‘Yeah, but I can’t tell him exactly. How would he feel? My boyfriend sat with me when he came to see me.’

  ‘Imagine how I felt. Anyway, what did you tell him?’

  ‘He asked me, rather hinted, about my virginity.’

  ‘He did not! I will kill that bastard,’ I said, my face red.

  Ananya laughed. ‘Jealousy is a rather enjoyable emotion to watch,’ she observed.

  ‘Funny.’

  ‘He just said . . . wait let me remember. Yes, he said, are you still pure or something,’ she giggled.

  ‘What a loser. What is he looking for – ghee?’ I asked.

  Ananya laughed uncontrollably. She held her stomach as she spoke. ‘Wait, you�
�ll die if I told you my response.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘I told him – Harish, if there is an entrance exam for virginity, you can be sure I won’t top it,’ Ananya said.

  ‘You did not! And then?’

  ‘And then the Cisco guy hung up the phone. No more Harish, finito. Radha aunty said now Harish also doesn’t like me. Yipee!’

  The waiter brought us our drinks. The contents looked like water after you’ve dipped several paintbrushes in it. The jamun tea tasted different, though different doesn’t translate into nice. Amethyst is about ambience, not nourishment.

  ‘Ananya, we need to bring this to closure. I’m not getting traction with your parents. Manju maybe, but others barely acknowledge me.’

  ‘You will. In fact, that’s why I called you here today. You have a chance to score with dad.’

  ‘I can’t. I told you he folded his hands at me.’

  ‘He is dying doing his presentation. No one in Bank of Baroda has ever made a business plan. He doesn’t know computers. It is crazy.’

  ‘I offered help. He said no.’

  ‘He won’t say no now. I could help him but I am travelling most of the time. And if you help him, it may work.’

  ‘May, the key word is may. Can be replaced just as easily with may not,’ I said.

  ‘Try,’ Ananya said and placed her hands on mine. It was probably the only restaurant in Chennai she would try such a stunt. Here, it looked sort of OK.

  ‘First your brother, then your father. If nothing else, I’ll be your family tutor,’ I said as I sipped the last few drops of my tea.

  ‘And my lover,’ Ananya winked.

  ‘Thanks. And what about your mother? How can I make her cry in happiness like the purity-seeking Harish?’

  Ananya threw up her hands. ‘Don’t ask me about mom,’ she said. ‘One, she gives me a guilt trip about Harish everyday. And two, Chennai has put her in her place about her Carnatic music abilities. She has stopped singing altogether. And that makes her even more miserable, which creates her own self-guilt trip, which is then transferred to me and the cycle continues. Even I can’t help her with this. Work on dad for now.’

  I nodded as Ananya paused to catch her breath.

  ‘Thanks for bearing this,’ she said and fed me a scone dipped in cream. I licked cream off her fingers. Little things like these kept me going.

  ‘Easy, this is a public place,’ she said.

  She pulled her hand back as the waiter arrived with the bill. I paid and left him a tip bigger than my daily lunch budget.

  ‘Hey, you want to go dancing?’ she asked.

  ‘Dancing? You have an eight o’clock curfew. How can we go dancing?’

  ‘Because in Chennai we go dancing in the afternoon. Let’s go, Sheraton has a nice DJ.’

  ‘At three in the afternoon?’

  ‘Yes, everybody goes. They banned nightclubs, so we have afternoon clubs.’

  We took an auto to the Sheraton. I am not kidding, a hundred youngsters in party clothes waited outside in the sunny courtyard. The disco opened in ten minutes. Everyone went inside and the lights were switched off. The bar started business. The DJ put on the latest Rajni Tamil track. The crowd went crazy as everyone apart from me registered the song.

  Ananya moved her body to the music. She danced extremely well, as did most others trained in Bharatnatyam while growing up.

  ‘Naan onnai kadalikaren,’ she said ‘I love you’ in Tamil. I took her in my arms.

  I looked around at the youngsters, doing what they loved despite everyone from their parents to the government banning them from doing so.

  Yes, if there can be afternoon discos, Punjabis can marry Tamilians. Rules, after all, are only made so you can work around them.

  ‘Uncle, Ananya told me you are having trouble with your business plan.’

  Uncle braked his car in shock. We never spoke in the Fiat. We had a ritual. I read my reports, he cursed the traffic and the city roads. In twenty minutes, we reached the traffic signal near Citibank where he dropped me. I thanked him, he nodded, all without eye contact. Today, one week after my Amethyst date, I had made my move. Ananya had gone to Thanjavur on work for five days, and her mother joined her on the trip to see the temples. Ananya had told me it would be the perfect time to offer help. Her father wouldn’t suspect I wanted to come home for Ananya. Plus, more important, he could actually take help from me and keep face as his wife and daughter won’t be there to witness.

  ‘Why is she telling you all this?’ His hands clenched on the steering wheel.

  ‘Actually, I had helped my boss make a business plan,’ I lied.

  ‘Really?’ His expression softened and he looked at me.

  ‘MNC banks make presentations all the time,’ I said.

  Uncle released the brake as the car moved again.

  ‘Do you want me to sit down with you?’ I offered as we reached closer to the Citibank signal.

  ‘You take tuitions for Manju already. Why are you helping us so much?’

  I thought hard for an answer. ‘I don’t have anyone in Chennai. No old friends, no family,’ I said.

  His eyebrows went up at the last word.

  ‘Of course, you are also not family,’ I said and his face relaxed again. ‘But it is nice to go to a home.’

  I had reached my signal. I opened the door slowly, to allow him time to respond.

  ‘If you have time, come in the evening. I will show you what I have done.’

  ‘Oh, OK, I will come tonight,’ I said as uncle drove off. The Fiat left behind a fresh waft of carbon monoxide.

  26

  ‘I think it is a great idea,’ Bala said. We sat in our priority banking group team meeting. Mumbai had proposed a ‘raise spirits’ dinner event for our private clients across India. Despite the economic slowdown, they had approved a budget for all major centres. Chennai needed it most, given the adventure banking we had subjected our clients to.

  ‘So, we need to brainstorm on which event will work best for Chennai customers,’ Bala said.

  ‘An art exhibition,’ one executive said.

  ‘Again, we are selling something,’ another executive said. ‘The focus should be on fun.’

  ‘A fashion show,’ said the earlier executive.

  ‘Too bold for our market,’ came the counter response.

  The discussion continued for ten minutes. All ideas from movie-night to inviting a Kollywood celebrity to calling a chef to prepare an exotic cuisine were discussed.

  However, for some reason, none of the ideas clicked. I felt quite useless having nothing to say. But I didn’t know what would work for Chennai customers apart from giving them their money back.

  ‘Krish, what do you think?’ Bala asked, breaking my daydream of walking hand-in-hand with Ananya in a peacock blue sari.

  ‘Huh?’ I said, and realised everyone had turned to me.

  ‘Would you like to contribute?’ Bala said. Even though he had cut me slack, on occasion the repressed boss in him came out.

  ‘Music, how about music? Say a musical night?’ I suggested.

  Excited murmurs ran across the room. Finally, we had an idea without any strong negative opposition. However, within music there were a dozen ideas.

  ‘Kutcheri, let’s do a kutcheri,’ said one.

  ‘What’s that?’ I said, turning to Saraswati.

  Saraswati was a conservative Tamilian agent who spoke only once a year and never waxed her arms. (I admit the latter point is irrelevant but it is hard not to notice these things.)

  ‘Kutcheri is a Carnatic music concert,’ Saraswati made her point and drifted back to being part of the wall.

  ‘Hey, I thought we wanted the evening to be fun,’ I said.

  ‘Carnatic music can be fun,’ said Ravi, another supervisor.

  Yes, as much fun as wailing babies in a crowded train, I wanted to say but didn’t. Political correctness is a necessity in Chennai, especially when everyone hates you for b
eing an outsider anyway.

  I turned to Bala. ‘We want to raise spirits. Isn’t Carnatic music too serious? Why not have an evening of popular music. Good popular music.’

  ‘A.R. Rahman, can we get A.R. Rahman?’ said one person.

  ‘Or Ilaiyaraaja,’ said another.

  Bala shook his head and waved his arms to say ‘no’. ‘We can’t do such big names. The budget is not that high. And these people attract the press. Last thing you want is some customer telling the press about their losses and us wasting money on such concerts. Mumbai will kill me.’

  After two hours of further deliberation that took us to lunch break, we made a few decisions about the event. The concert would be held in Fisherman’s Cove, an upmarket resort on the city outskirts. We’d have three to five singers of reasonable fame, provided we kept to the budget of two lakh.

  ‘All set then,’ Bala said as we ended the meeting at six in the evening. I realised I had to leave. After all, I had a big date with the big daddy tonight.

  27

  ‘So, this is almost done?’ I clicked through the slides. Uncle had given me a CD of his work. I had uploaded it on my laptop. The unformatted slides had paragraphs of text, no bullet points and font sizes ranging from eight to seventy-two.

  ‘Yes, I spent three weeks on it,’ he said.

  We sat at a work-table in the living room. Manju studied inside. No one else was at home. Ananya’s father and I hunched close together to see the laptop screen.

  ‘These have no figures, no charts, no specific points even. . . .’ I said, trying to be less critical but truthful as well.

  ‘Figures are here,’ uncle said as he opened his briefcase. ‘I still have to learn that feature in Powerpoint.’

  He took out three thick files with dirty brown covers and two hundred sheets each inside.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Our last year business data,’ he said.

  ‘You can’t put it all,’ I said. ‘When is this due?’

  ‘That rascal Verma wants it in a week,’ uncle said.

  The rate at which Ananya’s dad was going, he couldn’t deliver it in a year.

  ‘One week? This is only past performance data. Don’t you have to make a plan for next year?’