2 States: The Story of My Marriage

by Chetan Bhagat

  ‘Please don’t play with my life.’

  ‘I’m not doing anything! Be strong, move on,’ she said. ‘It’s not easy for me. So please, let me be.’

  She went back to her office, leaving me still sitting there burning with fatigue and fury. I hadn’t shaved for ten days. Other girls in the cafeteria stayed away from me; I resembled a Kollywood villain who could rape anyone anywhere anytime. My flight didn’t leave until the evening. I had half a day and no money to spend. Like a total loser, I decided to go to Citibank and visit Bala.

  ‘Krish!’ Bala said, shocked at my presence and appearance.

  ‘Hi, how is the champion of the South?’

  ‘I’m fine, but you look fucked,’ he said.

  ‘I am,’ I said and slumped in front of him.

  Bala ordered coffee for both of us. He pulled his chair forward, eager to hear the gossip from the other office.

  ‘Is Citi Delhi screwing you? Don’t tell me you want to come back.’

  ‘Fuck off Bala, you think Citibank can get the better of me?’ I said.

  ‘Someone clearly has. Boy, your eyes. Do you have conjunctivitis?’

  I shook my head. He touched my arm.

  ‘Dude, you have high fever. Do you want to see a doc?’

  ‘I want a drink. Can you get me a drink?’ I said.

  ‘Now? It is not even lunchtime.’

  My stomach roiled and I retched. Thankfully, nothing came out and Bala’s office could maintain its pre-me conditions.

  ‘You are sick. My cousin is a doctor, I’ll call him. He works in City Hospital on the next street.’

  ‘What do girls think? We can’t live without them?’ I muttered. I couldn’t believe I was venting out to Bala. But I needed someone, anyone.

  Bala dropped me at the clinic run by his cousin, Dr Ramachandran or Dr Ram. Dr Ram had returned from the US two years ago after being a general surgeon, working on cancer research and collecting several top degrees. He told me to go to the examination bed as he collected his instruments.

  ‘I’ll see you later then,’ Bala said.

  ‘You South Indians have too much brain but too little heart,’ I said to Bala as he left.

  ‘I heard that,’ Dr Ram said as he came to me. He put a cold stethoscope on my chest.

  ‘So, this is a situation involving a girl?’ Dr Ram asked.

  ‘What girl?’

  ‘When did you eat last?’ he said.

  ‘I don’t remember,’ I said.

  ‘What’s that smell?’ the doc said. He sniffed his way to my laptop bag. Stale paranthas stank up the room. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Last night’s dinner,’ I said. ‘Oh, my laptop, I hope it is OK.

  ’ I opened my laptop and switched the power on. It worked fine.

  ‘Can I see it?’ Dr Ram said, pointing to my computer.

  ‘Yes sure, are you looking to buy one?’ I said.

  He didn’t respond. He spent five minutes at my computer and gave it back to me.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You should rest and eat food for sure. But you also need to see a psychiatrist.’

  ‘What? Why?’ I said. Sure, I am a bit of a psycho, but I didn’t want to make it official.

  ‘What’s the name of this girl?’ Dr Ram said.

  ‘What girl? I don’t like girls.’

  ‘Bala said she is Tamilian. Ananya Swaminathan who stays in Mylapore, right?’ he said.

  ‘I don’t like Tamilians,’ I screamed. ‘And don’t mention her name or neighbourhood.’

  ‘Good, because the psychiatrist I am referring you to is a Tamilian girl. Dr Iyer is upstairs. Please go now.’

  ‘Doctor, I have to catch a flight. I am fine.’

  I pushed myself off the bed. My legs felt as if the blood had drained from them. I couldn’t balance. I fell on the floor.

  Dr Ram helped me back up.

  ‘What problem do I have?’ I said, worried for the first time about my illness.

  He handed me the specialist referral letter as he spoke again.

  ‘There’s no precise medical term. But some would refer to it as the early signs of a nervous breakdown.’

  56

  ‘So, that’s it, I’ve told you everything,’ I said.

  Dr Neeta Iyer broke into laughter as I finished my story.

  ‘This is insane. You find comedy in my tragedy?’ I was miffed.

  She didn’t stop laughing.

  ‘I’m paying you to treat me,’ I said and checked the time. ‘And I have to leave for the airport in twenty minutes.’

  It dawned on me that I had spoken to her for four hours. I had no money for this extravagance.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘you reminded me of my first boyfriend. He was North Indian.’

  ‘You didn’t marry him?’

  ‘He didn’t want to commit,’ she shook her head.

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ I said.

  ‘It’s OK. I’m over it.’

  ‘Of course you are, you are a therapist. You should be able to cure yourself, if nothing else.’

  She walked to the window. ‘Ah Krish, it doesn’t work like that. A broken heart is the hardest to repair.’

  I sighed. ‘Do you accept Citibank credit cards?’ I opened my wallet.

  ‘It’s fine, send me a cheque later,’ she said. ‘You should have eloped.’

  ‘We thought we will win our parents over. Where’s the joy of getting married if your parents won’t smile on your wedding day?’ I said.

  She came to me and patted my shoulder.

  ‘You have to leave. So, what do I do now? Do you want pills?’ she said.

  ‘You mean anti-depressants? Aren’t they bad for you?’

  ‘Yeah, but depends on how bad you feel right now. I don’t want you googling for suicide recipes.’

  ‘I won’t,’ I said, ‘I’ll probably wither away anyway. Is there another option apart from pills?’

  ‘There’s therapy, sessions like this. It takes a few months though. I can try and find a therapist for you in Delhi.’

  ‘No, if my Punjabi family finds out, I’m done. They’ll say I am mental or something.’

  ‘You’re not. But you know, there is one thing you can try yourself.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When you told me your story, why did you mention that episode with Guruji?’

  ‘At the Aurobindo Ashram?’

  ‘Yes, it didn’t really have a connection with Ananya or her parents. But you remember everything he said.’

  ‘Yes, about forgiveness.’

  ‘Yes, maybe it has some significance,’ she said.

  I kept quiet. The clock in her room told me it was time for my return journey. I took her leave.

  ‘Airport, vegamaa,’ I said as I hailed an auto.

  57

  I knew I had to eat, my brain knew this, but my body wouldn’t hear of it. The day after returning from Chennai, I only had soup at office; at home I pretended I’d already had dinner. My mother asked me when I wanted to shave. She wanted to schedule a meeting with the new girl. I told her I had decided to keep a beard for the rest of my life. She made a face and left the room.

  My father came home at ten. He looked extra tired. His normally tucked in shirt was out, and his hair wasn’t neatly combed as usual. He sat in front of me.

  ‘I’ve eaten dinner,’ he told my mother.

  ‘I don’t know why I even cook,’ my mother grumbled as she left the room.

  ‘You came back late last night,’ my father said to me. I had reached home only at midnight from the airport.

  ‘I had to work late,’ I said.

  ‘Everything OK?’ he said.

  I nodded.

  ‘I had a really bad day,’ my father said. ‘My pension papers are stuck in government offices. Bloody lazy buggers.’

  I nodded without paying attention. My thoughts were all over the place, but none in his department. I felt immense longing and loathing for Ananya at the same time. I
felt resentment towards my mother. My own problems, at least in my mind, were far bigger than some retirement files stuck in a government office.

  ‘Now they have asked me to submit three different letters. I have to get them typed tomorrow,’ my father said.

  When my father had to suffer, he forgot his own vocation – of making others suffer. He hadn’t shouted once since he had come home.

  ‘Do you know a place where I can get letters typed? You have a computer, no?’ my father said.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ I said.

  My father continued to look at me expectantly.

  ‘OK, I’ll type them now and get a printout from office tomorrow,’ I said. I anyway wanted more work to distract myself. I opened my laptop.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, words we did not know lived inside of him.

  I wrote his three applications in the next thirty minutes.

  ‘How’s your friend?’ he said to me.

  ‘Which friend?’ I said.

  ‘The girl who came from Chennai to attend the wedding,’ he said.

  The mention of Ananya was enough to stir up my emotions. I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach. Maybe I should take those anti-depression pills, I thought.

  ‘I don’t know. Must be fine,’ I said after a minute’s pause.

  ‘You are not in touch with her?’

  ‘Everyone has busy lives, dad,’ I dismissed. ‘Your letters are done. I’ll get a printout tomorrow.’ I shut down my computer.

  ‘It is good that we talk sometimes,’ my father said.

  ‘Good night, dad,’ I said and left for my room.

  I lay in bed and that is when the depression hit me full force. Dr Iyer was right, no pill could be as bad for me as I felt right now. I lay motionless. I felt like I’d never be able to get out of bed again. I thought of every person in my life. One by one, I convinced myself how each of them hated me. If I were gone tomorrow, they’d all be happier. And considering how crappy I felt, there was no reason for me to stick around anyway. I had no one I could talk to about my situation, except at five hundred bucks an hour. I hated money, I hated Citibank, I hated my job and I hated all human beings on earth.

  Calm down, Krish, this is going to pass, I told myself. This was the sensible me talking. No baby, this time you are so fucked. This is how you will feel for the rest of your life, the freaked-out me said. That’s nonsense. Whatever crap happens in life, one gets used to it. You aren’t the first guy facing a break-up, sensible-me said. Yes, but nobody loves the way I do. So, nobody feels as hurt as I do, freaked-out me said. Yeah, right, sensible-me said and yawned, can we sleep? You know you need to.

  Are you crazy? How can you sleep when we can stay up all night and worry about this? the freaked-out me said.

  The world’s most sensible person and the biggest idiot both stay within us. The worst part is, you can’t even tell who is who.

  58

  ‘Where’s dad?’ I asked my mother, ‘he hasn’t told me how many copies he wants.’

  Though I sat for breakfast before going to office, I drank only a glass of milk. Solids were still indigestible. I wanted to rush to work and occupy my mind before it sank into its black-hole hell again.

  ‘Morning walk,’ my mother said.

  ‘Why doesn’t he keep a mobile?’ I said as I wore my shoes to leave for office.

  ‘Get four copies of each, worst case,’ my mother said.

  It wasn’t a big deal. However, it didn’t take a lot to piss me off these days.

  ‘Like I have nothing better to do in office,’ I said.

  ‘All you grumpy people in the house, please leave,’ my mother said and folded her hands. ‘I don’t know when you will forget her.’

  ‘I don’t know when you’ll end your drama,’ I said.

  ‘This girl. . . .’ my mother started.

  ‘Bye,’ I said hurriedly and sprinted out of the house.

  I came home late at night. I had stuck to juice and milk all day.

  ‘Again no dinner? Where are you eating these days, and look at you, so weak. And please shave,’ my mother said.

  ‘Is dad back?’ I said, ‘Here are his papers.’

  I took out the printouts and kept them on the table. My mother shook her head and told me that he hadn’t come all day.

  ‘Please, give these to him,’ I said.

  I went to my room and lay down in bed. Scared of black-hole land, I kept the lights on. I read the newspaper, paying extra attention to each article to keep my mind busy. An item girl with her picture in a bikini said she wanted to be taken seriously. I found her request quite reasonable.

  My father returned at midnight.

  ‘You think this is a hotel?’ I said as I opened the door. I hadn’t fought with him for weeks, so it was about time anyway.

  My father didn’t respond.

  ‘Here are your printouts. I didn’t know how many copies you’d need.’

  ‘Thanks,’ my father said.

  ‘Where do you go so late? Your real estate agency work can’t take this long,’ I said.

  ‘I am not answerable to you,’ my father said.

  ‘And that is why we are an officially fucked-up family,’ I said.

  I came back to my room. I slammed the door shut as I prepared for another night with the devils in my head. I promised myself to call Dr Iyer in the morning and get a prescription for those happy drugs. Fuck the side effects, I couldn’t take the mind monsters anymore.

  I fell semi-asleep at three in the night. Persistent rings woke me up. I checked my watch; 5 a.m. Who the hell was calling at this hour?

  I woke up groggy with a headache already in place. I reached the living room. I picked up the phone, ready to scream at the milkman or whoever else felt it was OK to call now.

  ‘Hello,’ a female voice said.

  ‘Ananya?’ I said. I knew that voice too well.

  ‘Thanks sweetie, thank you so much,’ Ananya said. Had she dialled the right number?

  ‘What?’ I said, still not fully in my senses.

  ‘You fixed everything. Thank you so much,’ she said, her voice super-excited.

  ‘What did I do?’ I blinked sleepily.

  ‘Don’t pretend! You should have at least told me.’

  ‘Told you what?’

  ‘That your dad is coming to Chennai,’ Ananya said.

  ‘What?’ I said and woke up in an instant.

  ‘Stop behaving like a dumbo. He spent seven hours with my parents yesterday. He assured them that I would be treated like a daughter and apologised for any past misgivings.’

  ‘My dad?’ I tried for clarification.

  ‘Yeah, my parents feel so much better after meeting him. In fact, they asked me if I have a date in mind. Can you imagine?’ Ananya spoke so fast, it was hard to catch her words.

  ‘Huh, really?’ I said.

  ‘Oh, wake up properly and call me. I love you, baby. Sorry about the day before, I’d been so disturbed.’

  ‘Me too,’ I said.

  ‘What? You too love me or you too are disturbed.’

  ‘Both,’ I said, ‘but wait, my dad came to your house?’

  ‘You seriously didn’t know.’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘Wow,’ she said, ‘please thank him from my side.’

  I went to my parents’ room. They were still asleep. I don’t know why, but I did a totally sappy thing. I slid right into the middle and put an arm around them both. In a minute, I was fast asleep.

  I woke up five hours later, at ten. My parents were not in the room. I sprang out of bed, panicking at how late I was for office. I came outside.

  ‘Where’s dad?’ I said as I saw my mother.

  ‘In the balcony,’ my mother said.

  My father sat on a chair, digging up mud in one of the flower pots. He saw me but kept quiet. I wondered what I should say to him. I picked up another spade and started digging with him.

  ‘Dad, you went to Chennai?’

/>   ‘News travels fast,’ he said. He didn’t look up from the flower pot.

  ‘Why? I mean, how come?’

  ‘My son needed help,’ my father said as he pulled out the weeds from the soil. His voice had been plain, yet I felt a lump in my throat.

  He placed a sapling in the pot and put freshly dug mud around it. I came and sat next to him and pressed the soil with my thumb.

  ‘How did you know?’ I said.

  His eyes met mine, he said, ‘Because I am your father. A bad father, but I am still your father.’

  He continued, ‘And even though you feel I have let you down in the past, I felt I should do my bit this time. A life partner is important. Ananya is a nice girl. You shouldn’t lose her.’

  ‘Thanks, dad,’ I said, fighting back tears.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ he said. He gave me a hug. ‘I’m not perfect. But don’t deprive me of my son in my final years,’ he said.

  I hugged him back. Tears slipped out as I let go of any self-control. The world celebrates children and their mothers, but we need fathers too.

  I closed my eyes. I remembered Guruji. I stood on top of a green mountain, watching a beautiful sunrise. As I held my father, the heavy cloak fell off, making me feel light again.

  ‘I won’t come for the wedding though,’ my father said.

  ‘Why?’ I said, surprised.

  ‘Your mother won’t go without her relatives. I don’t know what I will do there if they are there.’

  ‘You won’t come for your own son’s wedding?’ I said.

  ‘Ananya is coming to our home only,’ my father said.

  I felt too much gratitude towards him at that moment to be mad at him.

  ‘You have to come. I’m late for work, but I’ll convince you later,’ I said.

  59

  ‘Like I said, much simpler for us if you get your relatives to Chennai,’ Ananya said.

  ‘How do I get them all? I can’t afford so many air tickets,’ I said.

  We were on our countless pre-nuptial calls.

  ‘They won’t fly down themselves?’ Ananya said.

  ‘Are you crazy? We have to take care of the baraat, until they reach you, of course.’

  ‘Only you understand these Punjabi customs,’ Ananya said.

  ‘You’d better too,’ I said.