‘If you marry me you won’t have to worry about money,’ Vikram pointed out.
Tara gave him an appalled look. The money angle of marrying him hadn’t struck her at all, and for a second she’d been so busy defending her choice of career that she’d forgotten the reason she was talking to him. Now he probably thought she was out for a cushy corporate wife lifestyle while she played at being a scientist.
‘If you don’t marry me I’ll have to worry about it,’ she said, recovering quickly. ‘My stipend won’t be enough to keep a cat alive. I’ll need to work part-time until I complete my doctorate. But I think it’s worth it.’ The last bit came out sounding a little defiant, because Vikram’s expression was unreadable and she couldn’t help feeling that she wasn’t convincing him.
She was wrong, though—Vikram was intrigued. He didn’t come across too many starry-eyed idealists in his line of work, and Tara’s unshakeable confidence in her dream was impressive and oddly endearing at the same time.
‘Worth it?’ he asked, stretching the words out a little. ‘Even worth marrying someone you hardly know as long as you get to complete your degree?’
‘That part’s a little complicated,’ Tara muttered, hoping he wouldn’t ask her anything more right then. She didn’t want to explain the situation with her parents until absolutely necessary.
Thankfully, he didn’t probe further, instead asking abruptly, ‘How old are you anyway?’
‘Twenty-two,’ Tara said, and as a nasty thought struck her she bubbled into further speech. ‘I hope you’re not thinking of talking to my dad about this? He’ll burst a blood vessel if he finds out I came here to meet you. If you decide not to marry me tell your parents you don’t like the shape of my nose or something. Or say I’m too short. I’ll figure some other way out.’
‘But you’ll go and enrol for that PhD, no matter what?’ Vikram said. ‘Relax, I’m not planning to tell him.’ His lips twitched slightly. ‘And, for the record, I quite like the shape of your nose.’
‘Really?’ she asked. Distracted from her immediate woes, she put up a hand to touch it. ‘Everyone says it ruins my face—too snub.’
‘Snub is cute,’ Vikram said, standing up and touching her hair gently, sending an unexpected thrill through her body. ‘I need some time to think, and it’s time I left. We’re meeting tomorrow in any case—you can call me on this number if you need to talk.’
‘OK,’ Tara said, taking the card with his mobile number.
She managed to flash a smile at him as he said goodbye in the car park, but she felt deeply despondent. He’d sounded more like an indulgent older brother than someone even remotely interested in marrying her.
The next day Vikram sat silently in Tara’s parents’ living room, listening to his parents making polite conversation with her father. Tara’s father had so far not made a very good impression. He was over-eager to please, and his wife—an older, washed-out version of Tara—was obviously scared of him. Tara herself had not made an appearance yet, and Vikram was getting impatient.
He cut into a long-winded description of Tara’s various accomplishments and said pointedly, ‘Maybe she could tell us more herself?’
‘Of course, of course,’ Mr Sundaram said effusively. ‘You must be eager to meet her.’ He turned to his wife and said in an angry undertone, ‘Get Tara here quick. She should have been ready hours ago.’
‘I thought you said …’ his wife began, and then quailed under her husband’s glare.
‘I’ll call her right away,’ she said hurriedly, and left the room.
She came back with Tara a few minutes later.
Vikram blinked. Tara was almost unrecognisable. The day before she’d been dressed in jeans and a loose sweater, with her long hair gathered back in a ponytail. Today she was wearing a pale-pink salwar-kameez, and her hair was done up in an elaborate braid. Huge dangly earrings swamped her tiny shell-like ears and she was wearing a bindi in the centre of her forehead. His initial impression was a picture of modest womanhood—except for her eyes, which had a little glint in them that hinted at her being less than pleased with the situation she found herself in.
‘This is my daughter,’ Mr Sundaram was saying proudly. ‘Very well-educated, MSc in Botany, gold medallist. Tara, you’ve already met Mr and Mrs Krishnan.’
‘Namaskaram,’ Tara said, folding her hands in the traditional gesture.
Both the Krishnans beamed back, clearly enchanted by her. Vikram could see why—Tara looked the epitome of good daughter-in-law material, and in addition she was vibrant, intelligent and very pretty.
‘This is their son, Vikram,’ Mr Sundaram continued. ‘Very successful lawyer.’
‘Thirty-three years old, six feet two inches,’ Tara said demurely. ‘Bengaluru-based.’
Her father glared at her, but Vikram’s parents burst out laughing.
‘I told you the ad was a dumb idea,’ Mr Krishnan said to his wife. ‘Vikram’s annoyed we put it in without telling him, and Tara thinks it’s a joke.’
‘Of course not, sir. How can you say such a thing?’ Tara’s father said immediately.
Vikram remembered that his father was Mr Sundaram’s boss. That went a long way towards explaining his overly eager-to-please attitude.
‘You can ask Tara what you want,’ he was saying now, the ingratiating smile still in place. ‘She’s been very keen to meet you.’
The thought of conducting a stilted conversation under the eyes of both sets of parents obviously appealed to Tara as little as it did to him, because she shot him a quick look.
‘I’d actually prefer to talk to her alone,’ Vikram said crisply, and before anyone could suggest that they move to another room—or, worse, go outside and talk in the garden—he continued, ‘I was thinking of taking her out for dinner tonight.’
Going by the stunned silence that greeted this, he might have been suggesting that he take her out and rape her in the bushes. Tara’s father was the first person to find his voice.
He said weakly, ‘But, son, we’ve made dinner. I mean Tara’s made dinner. I thought it would be a good idea for you to sample her cooking …’
‘I chop vegetables really well,’ Tara said before she could stop herself.
She knew she was going to get into trouble with her father later on, but really! Sample her cooking, indeed. Not that she couldn’t cook, but for this occasion her mother had done everything—other than chop the vegetables. The whole charade was beginning to irritate Tara intensely—right from the fake smile her father had plastered on his face to the ridiculous earrings she’d been forced to wear.
‘I’ll leave my mother to judge her cooking,’ Vikram said, as if Tara hadn’t spoken. ‘I’ll take the car, Dad, I’ll pick you up from here when I drop Tara off after dinner. OK by you, Tara?’
‘Can I change first?’ she asked. This time her mother gave her an appealing look, so Tara muttered, ‘Oh, all right. I look like a Christmas tree in this, that’s all.’
‘Have a good time!’ Vikram’s mother called after them as they left the room together.
Tara’s room was at the front of the house, and she stopped to pick up her handbag and a sweater before running outside. Vikram was holding the car door open for her, and she slid in with a muttered thank-you.
‘Where do you want to go?’ Vikram asked as he drove out of the lane.
‘Mmph,’ Tara said in response, her face obscured by the grey cashmere sweater she was trying to tug down over her head.
Vikram pulled to the side of the road, and waited patiently as she struggled. ‘Do you need help?’ he asked politely after a few minutes passed, and his prospective fiancée continued to wrestle with the sweater.
‘Darn thing’s caught on my earring,’ Tara panted, lifting a corner of the sweater to reveal her flushed face. ‘I should have taken the earrings off first. They’re like bloody chandeliers.’
‘Stop wriggling,’ Vikram said, clicking the car light on and reaching across to disentangle the earring. Tar
a obligingly leaned closer, and he was treated to a sudden glimpse of cleavage. Despite himself Vikram found himself looking—he had to tear his eyes away and concentrate on getting the earring out of the delicate wool. ‘Done,’ he said finally, his voice coming out a little thicker than normal.
In addition to the cleavage, there had been soft skin at the nape of her neck that he hadn’t been able to avoid touching several times. And she was wearing a perfume that managed to be sweetly innocent and madly tantalising at the same time—a lot like Tara herself, Vikram thought, before he shook himself. He’d been celibate too long, he thought cynically, if he was starting to get excited about touching a woman’s ear.
‘Thanks,’ Tara said, giving him a cheeky little smile. ‘I thought I’d be stuck inside that thing for ever, blundering around like a headless horseman.’
‘You’re welcome,’ he said, his voice sounding a little cold even to his own ears. ‘Now, where would you like to go for dinner?’
‘I don’t know,’ Tara said cheerfully as she tugged off the annoying earrings and deposited them in her handbag. ‘Dad always takes us to his club, but the food’s horrible and all the waiters have known me since I was ten years old.’
‘There’s a restaurant in the new five-star hotel, isn’t there?’ Vikram asked, mentioning the only decent hotel he’d seen in the city. ‘I don’t know Jamshedpur very well. This is my first visit since my father got transferred here.’
Tara was busy scrubbing the lipstick off her lips with a tissue. ‘I’ve never been there,’ she said. ‘It’s too expensive for the likes of us.’ A little too late she realised that the remark could be interpreted in several ways, and tried to correct herself. ‘I mean Dad doesn’t like eating out much. He says it’s a waste of money. And when we do go out …’
‘You go to his club.’ Vikram said. ‘You told me. How do I get to the hotel from here?’
‘You take the next left and go straight for around five kilometres,’ Tara said, sounding a little subdued.
Vikram glanced at her. She had managed to get her hair out of the complicated-looking braid it had been in and was now finger-combing it into obedience. It was really lovely hair, he thought, as she bent her head to dig in her purse for a scrunchie, and it fell over the side of her face like a jet-black curtain. An auto-rickshaw honked indignantly, and he turned his eyes hastily back to the road.
‘What’s the news on your PhD?’ he asked.
‘I spoke to my supervisor again,’ Tara replied. ‘She said she’s willing to wait for me till January, but after that she’s going to take on the next research applicant on her list.’
Vikram nodded, and she didn’t dare to ask him if he’d made up his mind. Presumably, as he was taking her out to dinner, he hadn’t decided definitely not to marry her. Or maybe he had, and he just wanted to tell her in person rather than on the phone. This was all very confusing, Tara thought, wrinkling up her nose and peeking quickly at his rather stern profile.
‘You look quite different now,’ Vikram remarked as Tara got out of the car at the hotel.
‘Different from yesterday, or different from five minutes ago?’ Tara asked.
‘Both, actually,’ Vikram said. ‘Though I meant your in-car makeover. An immense improvement, if you don’t mind my saying so.’
It was. Unlike the sweater she’d worn to the station, the plain grey one she was wearing now was clingy, outlining her slim curves perfectly. After several unsuccessful attempts at tying up her hair she’d let it hang loose—that and the kohl that she’d wisely not tried to rub off made her look older and way more sophisticated than she had earlier. Though a lot of the effect was neutralised by the way she now stared at the water feature in the foyer of the hotel. Vikram had the distinct feeling that if it weren’t for his hand under her elbow, steering her towards the restaurant, she would run up to it and stick her hands under the shimmering cascade of water.
‘This place is cool,’ she said, her eyes sparkling as she slid gracefully into a chair opposite Vikram.
He nodded, oddly touched at her excitement. He’d been to scores of restaurants, with scores of women, but none of them had been so genuinely pleased with so little. She went through the wine list carefully, but shook her head when he asked her what she’d like to drink.
‘Just a Coke please,’ she said. ‘I don’t drink. I was just looking at the names of the wines.’
Even the waiter smiled indulgently as he wrote her order down. Vikram had been about to order a Chilean wine that he was rather fond of, but he changed his mind and ordered a mocktail instead.
‘I’ll get straight to the point,’ he said after the waiter left. ‘Are you really serious about marrying me to get to Bengaluru and do your PhD?’
She nodded. ‘I’m sorry about yesterday,’ she said awkwardly. ‘You must have thought I was crazy, accosting you like that. But your parents happened to mention that you didn’t want them meeting your train, and I thought that was the only opportunity I’d get to speak to you alone.’
‘I’m glad you came,’ he said. ‘It just took me a little while to understand what you wanted. Your father’s still absolutely against your studying further, is he?’
Tara nodded. ‘You saw him today,’ she said. ‘Getting me married off to a good South Indian man is currently topmost on his priority list. If he isn’t able to manage that, he’s OK with me taking up a teaching job while he continues with the manhunt.’ She looked straight into his eyes. ‘Look, I don’t want to put you on the spot,’ she said. ‘If you don’t want to marry me that’s perfectly OK. I understand.’
Vikram glanced away for a second. His motives for wanting to get married were complex, but his requirements were extremely simple. Pretty much any nice-looking, reasonably well-educated girl would do—Tara fitted the description, and he genuinely liked her.
‘I think marriage will work for us if we’re both clear about what the other person wants,’ he said finally. ‘I’m the first one to admit that I’m going about this in a rather cold-blooded way. At your age you probably expect romance and candlelit dinners and a fairytale wedding.’
Tara smiled, her face taking on an uncommonly wise expression. ‘People have been getting married in India for centuries without even meeting each other before the ceremony. I guess we’re lucky we’ve been born into a generation that has some choice. Or at least you do—I don’t think my dad has quite realised which century he’s living in.’ She took in the look on Vikram’s face and grinned. ‘The short answer is no, I’m not looking for romance. Though I wouldn’t mind a candlelit dinner now and then.’
‘You haven’t considered leaving home and striking out on your own?’ Vikram asked. He found it a little difficult to believe that a girl as confident as Tara was so closely controlled by her father. Her body language when her father was around didn’t suggest that she found him intimidating in the least.
‘Oh, I have,’ Tara said. ‘Until you appeared on the scene it seemed to be my only option. But my dad would have cut me off from the family completely—and though he’s a pain I wouldn’t like that to happen. My mum would be lost without me.’
The last bit was believable, Vikram thought. Her mother was definitely under her father’s thumb, and he could imagine Mr Sundaram making her life miserable if Tara left home against his wishes.
The waiter came up with their drinks, and Tara’s eyes lit up as she saw the mocktail. ‘Ooh, that looks cute,’ she said, pointing at the little umbrella perched on top of the bright blue drink.
Vikram winced. ‘You can have it if you want,’ he said. ‘I’m quite happy with a Coke.’
Tara exchanged the drinks and sipped at the blue mocktail. ‘It’s good,’ she pronounced. ‘It looks a bit like window-cleaning fluid, but it tastes nice.’ She plucked the umbrella off the drink and tried opening and shutting it a few times, before looking up. ‘You can ask questions now,’ she prompted politely.
Vikram gave her a puzzled look. ‘What questions?’
‘Marriage interview questions,’ she said. ‘Aren’t you supposed to quiz me on my hobbies, whether I can cook, how many children I’d like to have—that kind of thing?’
He laughed, and Tara found herself laughing with him.
‘OK, here goes,’ he said, entering into the spirit of the thing. ‘We’ll begin with a rapidfire round. What’s your favourite book?’
‘To Kill a Mockingbird. Yours?’
Vikram shook his head, his eyes dancing. ‘No, I get to ask the questions. Movie?’
‘Three Idiots. Except the bit where the guitarist guy hangs himself.’
‘Music?’
‘Classical Karnatic.’ He looked surprised, and she laughed. ‘My parents spent a bomb on lessons. It’s kind of expected. Though, to be honest, it’s grown on me.’
‘Right. Food?’
‘Rasam and rice.’
‘Hmm, very traditional. Hobbies?’
‘Science, trekking and crochet.’
‘Crochet?’
He sounded incredulous, and Tara’s ears went a little pink. ‘Yes,’ she said, trying to sound as firm as she could.
‘Like Miss Marple? Fluffy wool and a little hooked needle?’
‘Yes,’ Tara said, her ears going pinker. But she stuck to her guns. ‘It’s creative and it’s easy to carry around. Don’t laugh.’
‘I’m not,’ Vikram said, looking so serious that Tara almost burst into giggles herself. ‘I have immense respect for crochet. And trekking. But—if I may ask—crocheting what? And trekking where?’
‘Crocheting purses for my mum and aunts, mainly.’ Tara said. ‘And trekking in the hills around the city—we had a group in college.’
‘OK,’ he said, consideringly. ‘Now, what else. Pet hates?’
‘Frogs. The city’s overrun with them in the monsoons. I hate the way they look at me, as if they’re expecting me to kiss them.’ She gazed solemnly at Vikram, and his mouth twitched.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘I hope I don’t remind you of one?’
She put her head to one side. ‘No. Though you’re still a few kisses short of turning into Prince Charming.’
Take One Arranged Marriage… Page 2