2 States: The Story of My Marriage

by Chetan Bhagat

  49

  The cousins fell silent as seconds ticked past. Duke wanted to say something, but he noticed his parents’ sour faces from far and kept quiet. He huddled with his own cousins as they exchanged whispers with each other. He stood up again and spoke to Ananya after four minutes.

  ‘Excuse me, madam,’ Duke said.

  ‘I’m Ananya. What?’

  ‘Can we go to the grown-ups? I want to talk to my mother.’

  ‘About what?’ Ananya said and blocked him.

  ‘Why are you so dominating? Let me go.’

  ‘Let’s all go,’ Ananya said.

  All the cousins stood up from their chairs. We walked up to the grown-ups. Duke went to his mother.

  ‘Mummy, I want to marry Minti.’

  Duke’s mother gave her son a shocked look.

  ‘But they have betrayed us, beta,’ Duke’s father said.

  Rajji mama dived towards their feet again. Ananya stopped him. ‘Daddy, I have kept quiet for so long, no? Everything you have decided. Now whatever it is, don’t spoil my marriage.’

  ‘Beta, but they promised us,’ Duke’s mother said.

  ‘Mummy, enough! And why this drama of keeping their jewellery? What do you think? I can’t buy my own car?’

  ‘Five minutes are over,’ Ananya said, ‘Should we pack up or. . . .’

  ‘What kind of a girl are you? You are not even giving me time to convince,’ Duke said to Ananya.

  One of Duke’s uncles stood up. ‘Let’s start-ji. We can’t spoil our children’s happy day. We are already late for the jaimala ceremony.’

  ‘Are they OK?’ Rajji mama said, looking at Duke’s parents.

  ‘Don’t worry, misunderstandings happen. We don’t have to spoil a lifelong relationship,’ Duke’s uncle said as he signalled for all the other relatives to stand up.

  ‘Everyone, please enjoy the snacks,’ Duke said. It was enough cue for his relatives to jump at the waiters. It is cruel to keep Punjabis away from their food at a wedding, especially when most of them had no stake in the car anyway.

  Our side of the family hugged Duke’s parents. They didn’t hug back, but at least they didn’t push us away. Rajji mama brought a box of mithai and fed Duke’s parents a piece each in their mouths. The sugar rush improved their expression. The DJ started the music. The wedding was back on.

  One girl stood back until everyone vacated their sofas and went to the stage. It was the South Indian girl who had come with me all the way from Chennai.

  ‘What did she say to him?,’ Shipra masi asked me. She took her bag back and redistributed the ornaments. I shrugged my shoulders.

  ‘Very wise girl,’ Kamla aunty gave Ananya a hug. ‘Thank you, beta. You kept our izzat.’

  ‘But tell me one thing, you earn twenty-five thousand?’ Rajni aunty asked the question everyone wanted to ask.

  My mother came and gave Ananya a smiling nod. Even though my mother didn’t say anything, I knew it meant a lot.

  ‘She’s not that bad,’ Shipra masi told my mother during jaimala.

  ‘You’ve scored girl, you know you have,’ I said to Ananya as we tossed flower petals on Duke and Minti.

  50

  ‘So, mom,’ I said, ‘as I was saying.’ We were in the kitchen.

  ‘You’ve said that four times. Do you actually have something to say!’ my mother said. She removed boiling tea from the stove.

  ‘Ananya leaves tomorrow,’ I said.

  ‘OK,’ she said. She passed me a cup of tea.

  ‘I called her home to meet us before she left.’

  ‘And,’ my mother said.

  ‘We’d like to know your decision,’ I said.

  ‘It’s your decision,’ she said.

  ‘OK, your opinion, which is important for me to make my decision.’

  ‘Uff, you and your MBA terms,’ my mother said.

  Ananya came home in the afternoon. My mother cut a melon as we sat at the dining table.

  ‘So mom, the unthinkable happened. Your relatives like Ananya. Now, do I have your permission to marry her?’

  ‘You don’t need my permission,’ my mother said, passing me melon slices.

  ‘Not permission, approval. Do we have your approval?’ I said.

  She gave a few slices of fruit to Ananya.

  ‘Is that a yes?’ I said.

  ‘Kamla aunty and Rajji mama are quite fond of her,’ my mother said.

  ‘Do you like me, aunty? Tell me if you are not convinced,’ Ananya said.

  ‘Of course, I do, beta,’ my mother said, her hand on Ananya’s head. ‘But there are other people too, your side of the family.’

  ‘My family likes Krish a lot!’

  ‘Yes, but what about the families liking each other? You two may be happy, but we adults have to get along with the adults from your side. You remember Sabarmati Ashram?’

  ‘Be patient, mom. Over time, the families will get close,’ I said.

  Ananya brought up the topic of my father one last time before she left. ‘Krish’s dad won’t agree?’ Ananya said.

  My mother gave a wry smile. ‘He won’t let us watch TV, forget Krish choosing his bride. It’s fine, my siblings are enough. Otherwise, it will never happen,’ my mother said.

  Ananya nodded. My mother went to her room and returned with two gold bangles.

  ‘No aunty,’ Ananya said, even as my mother shoved it down her wrists and kissed her head.

  Happiness floated like rose petals in the air and I imagined fist pumping my hands three times.

  ‘So what’s the next step? The wedding date?’

  Ananya and I were on our long-distance call from our respective offices.

  ‘You know your mother is right, there is a gap here,’ Ananya said.

  ‘What gap?’ I said.

  ‘My parents like you. Your mother likes me. What about them liking each other? Remember the Ahmedabad disaster?’ Ananya said.

  ‘Yeah but,’ I said. ‘Oh man, I thought we were done.’

  ‘No, the two families have to unite. Trust me, it will be worth it. We should make them meet,’ she said.

  ‘Where? I’ll come to Chennai with my mother?’ I said.

  ‘No, let’s go to a neutral venue without relatives.’

  ‘Good point. Let me organise something,’ I ended the call.

  I went back to work. I didn’t have a fixed division or boss in Citibank Delhi yet. I floated between departments, pretending to be useful. I had a temporary stint in the credit cards division. I had to come up with a credit card promotion plan, something I had no interest or expertise in. I opened the existing brochure of offers for our credit card customers. We had a special deal on a package to Goa.

  I picked up the phone and called Ananya again. ‘Goa,’ I said. ‘Let’s all go to Goa. Nothing like the sea, sun and sand to make the two families bond. Plus, it will be fun for us, too. What say, next month?’

  ‘It won’t be cheap,’ she said.

  ‘Isn’t love the best investment?’ I said and fumbled through my cards to call the travel agent.

  Act 5:

  Goa

  51

  ‘I am telling you now only. I don’t like her mother—arrogant woman,’ my mom said as we waited at the taxi stand. My mother and I landed at the Dabolim Airport in Goa two hours before Ananya and her parents did. I had tried to time the flights as close as possible.

  ‘It’s not arrogance. They are quiet people,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t be under their spell,’ my mother said.

  ‘I’m not. OK, here they come, remember to smile,’ I said.

  Ananya’s parents came face to face with my mother for the second time.

  ‘Hello Kavita-ji,’ Ananya’s father said. They exchanged greetings, not warm and cuddly like Delhi airports, but not completely ice-cold either.

  I had hired a Qualis. I helped the driver load Ananya’s bags into the car. My mother gave me a puzzled look.

  ‘What?’ I said.

/>   She shook her head.

  I sat in front. Ananya’s family took the middle seat.

  ‘Oh, I’ll sit at the back,’ my mother said.

  ‘OK,’ Ananya’s mother said.

  I realised the faux pas. ‘No, mom, I will take the backseat,’ I said. My mother declined as she had already taken her place.

  ‘Park Hyatt,’ I said. The driver turned the car towards South Goa. My mother took out a plastic packet from her bag.

  ‘Here, for you,’ my mother said and passed a sari to Ananya’s mother.

  Ananya’s mother turned around and took the packet. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘It’s tussar silk,’ my mother said, ‘I bought it from the Assam emporium.’

  ‘Silk is very popular in the South also, we have Kanjeevaram saris,’ Ananya’s mother said and she kept the sari in her bag.

  We didn’t speak much until we reached the resort.

  Hotel staff received us with a garland of flowers and a fruit-punch welcome drink. None of us had ever stayed in a five-star hotel.

  ‘Isn’t this expensive?’ my mother said.

  ‘They gave me a deal. I promised I’ll get Citibank to do their annual conference here,’ I said.

  ‘Welcome, Mr Krish, we have two garden view rooms booked for you,’ the receptionist said. ‘And I have some good news. On one of the rooms, we are offering an upgrade to a larger, sea-view room.’

  ‘Wow,’ Ananya said, ‘I’ve never stayed in a sea-view room.’

  Of course, Ananya and I weren’t staying together. I was to share a room with my mother while Ananya would be with her parents. And since they were three of them, I made the choice.

  ‘Ananya, your family can take the larger room. Mom and I will take the other one,’ I said.

  The bell-boys carried the luggage to our room. ‘Nice place, no?’ I said to my mother as we passed a flower garden.

  My mother did not respond.

  ‘Everything OK?’ I said.

  My mother gave a brief nod. She kept quiet until we had reached the room.

  ‘They are very rude people,’ my mother said.

  ‘Who? The hotel staff?’ I said as I opened the curtains to see the garden view.

  ‘Shut up, these people you want to make your in-laws. Are they in-laws? They are making their son-in-law pick up luggage?’

  ‘Huh? When?’ I asked.

  ‘At the airport. You don’t even realise you have become their servant?’

  ‘I. . . .’ I said, searching for a response, ‘I wanted to help.’

  ‘Nonsense, and why did they take the sea-view room? We are the boy’s side.’

  ‘They are more people. Besides, do you care? Isn’t the garden pretty?’

  ‘Whatever, have you noticed their biggest blunder?’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘They didn’t get anything. I gave their daughter two bangles. They should have some shame.’

  In Punjabi terms, Ananya’s parents had committed a cognisable offence. You don’t meet the boy’s side empty-handed. Ever.

  ‘And I gave her a silk sari for two thousand bucks. She didn’t even appreciate it.’

  ‘She did.’

  ‘No, she was bragging about her South saris,’ my mother said.

  This is one of the huge downsides about getting married. A guy has to get involved in discussions about saris and gold.

  ‘Mom, we have come here to get to know them. Don’t pre-judge, please. And now, get ready for dinner.’

  ‘You will take their side only. You are trapped.’ She muttered, ‘Stupid boy, doesn’t know his own value.’

  52

  Few things bring out the differences between Punjabis and Tamilians than buffet meals. Tamilians see it like any other meal. They will load up on white rice first, followed by daal and curds and anything that has little black dots of mustard, coconut or curry leaves.

  For Punjabis, food triggers an emotional response, like say music. And the array of dishes available in a buffet is akin to the Philharmonic orchestra. The idea is to load as many calories as possible onto one plate, as most party caterers charge based on the number of plates used. Also, like my mother explained since childhood, never take a dish that is easily prepared at home or whose ingredients are cheap. So, no yellow daal, boring gobi aloo or green salad. The focus is on chicken, dishes with dry fruits in them and exotic desserts.

  ‘You can take more than one plate here, mom,’ I said as she tossed three servings of butter chicken for me.

  ‘Really? No extra charge?’ she said.

  We returned to our table. ‘You are having rice?’ my mother said as she saw the others’ plates.

  They nodded as they ate with spoons. Their fingers itched to feel the squishy texture of rice mixed with curd and daal. Ananya had made them curb their primal instincts to prevent shocking my mother.

  ‘Chicken is too good. Did you try?’ my mother said and lifted up a piece to offer them.

  ‘We are vegetarian,’ Ananya’s mother said coldly even as the chicken leg hung mid-air.

  ‘Oh,’ my mother said.

  ‘It’s OK, aunty, I will try it,’ Ananya said.

  We ate in much silence with only our chewing making a sound.

  ‘Amma, something something,’ Ananya whispered in Tamil, egging her on to talk.

  ‘Your husband didn’t come?’ Ananya’s mother said.

  ‘No, he is not well. Doctor has told him not to travel by air,’ my mother said.

  ‘There is a train to Goa from Delhi,’ Ananya’s father supplied. Ananya gave her father a glance, making him return to his food.

  ‘We don’t travel by train,’ my mother said, lying of course. I have no idea why.

  She continued, ‘Actually, Punjabis are quite large-hearted people. We like to live well. When we meet people, we give them nice gifts.’

  ‘Mom, do you want dessert? There is mango ice-cream,’ I said.

  She ignored me. ‘Yeah, we never meet anyone empty-handed. Oh and meeting the boy’s side empty-handed, unthinkable,’ my mother said as I gently stamped her foot.

  ‘OK, I’ve booked a car for sightseeing tomorrow. Please be in the coffee shop by seven,’ I said.

  ‘Illa sightseeing,’ Ananya’s mother mumbled.

  ‘Sure, we’ll be there,’ Ananya said.

  Ananya and I met for a walk post-dinner at Park Hyatt’s private beach.

  ‘My parents are upset,’ Ananya said, ‘your mother should learn to talk.’

  The waves splashed the shore as many tourist couples walked hand-in-hand in front of us. I bet they weren’t discussing the mood swings of their future in-laws.

  ‘Your parents should know how to behave,’ I said.

  There we were, at one of the most romantic locations in India, having our first marital discord. In an Indian love marriage, by the time everyone gets on board, one wonders if there is any love left.

  ‘How can they behave better?’ she said.

  ‘I will tell you. But you must do exactly as I say,’ I said.

  ‘If it is reasonable,’ said my sensible girlfriend.

  ‘Step one, buy my mother an expensive gift.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, step two, when we go out in Goa tomorrow, always offer to pay.’

  ‘Everywhere?’

  ‘Yes, at restaurants, to taxis or anywhere else. And when you offer, she will say no. But insist, if needed, snatch her purse to prevent her from paying. In Punjabis, this is considered OK, even affectionate.’

  Ananya’s jaw went slack.

  ‘Step three, never let me do any work when everyone’s around. For example, at the breakfast table, tell your mother to bring toast for me.’

  She snorted.

  ‘That’s what my mom expects. Do it,’ I said.

  Her face looked defiant.

  ‘I beg you,’ I said.

  ‘Anything else?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, step four is to make love to me on the beach.’


  ‘Nice try, pretty Punjabi boy. But sorry, nothing’s happening until we cross the finish line now.’

  ‘Ananya, c’mon’ I coaxed.

  ‘We have to fix the family situation. I’m too tense to think of anything else,’ Ananya said.

  ‘OK, if tomorrow goes well, then can we do it on the beach? We will call it Operation Beach Passion.’

  ‘We’ll see. Beach Passion,’ she smiled and smacked my head. ‘Let’s go back, my dad is waiting for me.’

  The day tour of Goa went off without any fireworks, mainly due to the presence of a friendly Goan tour guide. We went to Bom Jesus Basilica, the oldest church in Goa.

  ‘Light a candle with someone you love,’ the guide said. I had to choose between Ananya and my mother. Given the sensitivity of the trip, I went with the latter.

  We also visited Dona Paula, the climax location for the movie Ek Duje Ke Liye.

  ‘Famous movie shot here. North Indian boy, South Indian girl. Difficult to get along, so they die,’ the guide said.

  ‘What else could have happened?’ my mother smirked. I let it pass.

  Ananya’s parents stayed back in Panjim for shopping.

  53

  We met Ananya’s parents at dinner. All buffet meals at Park Hyatt were paid for as part of the package. They came to the coffee shop with three big brown bags.

  ‘Kavita-ji, this is for you,’ Ananya’s father passed the bags to my mother.

  ‘No, no, what is the need?’ my mother simpered as she took the gifts.

  The first bag had three saris. The second bag had four shirts for me. The third bag contained sweets, savoury snacks and Goan cashews.

  I cruised the buffet counters with Ananya.

  ‘Enough or does she want more?’ Ananya said.

  ‘It’s cool. This is exactly what works,’ I reassured her.

  All of us sat at the table and ate in silence. I always found it scary to eat with Ananya’s family, who ate their meals as if in mourning. If I found the lack of conversation awkward, my mother hated it. She shifted in her seat several times. The only sound was cutlery clanging on the plates.

  My mother spoke after five minutes. ‘See, how times have changed. Our kids decide, and we have to meet each other.’