Written in the Stars

by Divya Anand

  ‘Chithi,*’ she exclaimed, as she rushed at me and enveloped me in a hug. ‘I thought you said you couldn’t come when I messaged you!’

  ‘I said I might not come,’ I corrected her.

  Her message was the reason I had decided to show up. After all, how hard-hearted would I be to refuse an invite accompanied by a GIF of Fluttershy with a puppy-dog expression saying ‘PLEASSSSEEEE’.

  I picked up a dish of sambhar and followed Sahana out of the door as she began setting the table.

  ‘It took us a long time to reach last night,’ my mother said. ‘There was a terrible jam right outside the railway station. I told Appa we should take the metro, but of course, he didn’t agree.’

  My mother loved public transport and would do anything to take the metro instead of relying on a cab or any other mode of transport. Unfortunately for her, my father wasn’t a fan of switching metro lines or even walking to the metro station, especially when luggage was involved. Amma joined Sahana and me in the dining room and pulled out a chair, with my father and Ram following close behind.

  ‘Kuzhanthai innuma thoongarthu?’* my mother asked Sahana. She was whispering in the sing-song lilt that people used when they were talking to babies, even though the baby wasn’t even in the room.

  ‘Yes, Patti,** he’s asleep,’ said Inaya. ‘I told Amma I also want to take a nap, but I’m not allowed. He can sleep the entire day but I have to do homework, and go to art class and . . . ’ she trailed off, frowning at the injustice. She scraped her chair over to sit near me with a loud screech, causing both her parents to glare at her. Ram seemed to hold his breath as he stared at the baby monitor by his plate. Thankfully, the baby didn’t stir.

  ‘Nee ellam* big girl,’ my mother informed Inaya. ‘Chak is a baby, and they need to sleep.’

  Chak. One year ago, Sahana had her second child and decided to give him half a name. Apparently, it was the rage to give your child an ‘international’ name and not a ‘boring, old-fashioned one that sounds like they’re named after someone’s grandmother’. Except, my sister had picked a name off her favourite parenting app without realizing it was an abbreviation. I tried telling her that ‘Chak’ wasn’t a name, that at the very least it would be ‘Chakrapani’ or ‘Chakravarthy’ but she wouldn’t listen. She said it meant ‘brilliance’, according to the app. I refrained from reminding her that the same app had convinced her to name her daughter ‘Taana’ because it claimed the word meant ‘encourage’ without any indication of the provenance of this weird interpretation. I had argued with her for months that ‘Taana’ was only used in the negative sense, and meant ‘taunt’ in Hindi. Unfortunately for Chak, I wasn’t as successful. I even tried telling her that to be truly international, she should consider ‘Chuck’, which was also an abbreviation, but you try telling a post-partum mother anything without getting your head bitten off. I hoped she’d begun an SIP for the therapy he’d have to undergo to get over being teased. The Brilliant Boy with Half a Name.

  ‘Did you know Sitara is up for a promotion?’ Sahana said, as she entered with freshly made curd. Of course, she served home-made curd in a traditional pot. Meanwhile, I was lucky if I remembered to buy a packet. The last time my parents visited, I didn’t have any curd and the store was shut. After that, we’d come to a tacit understanding that we would meet at Sahana’s house whenever they visited Bangalore.

  ‘All this focus on work, but no thought about her future otherwise,’ sniffed my mother, shaking her head in disapproval.

  ‘How many people will you manage if you’re promoted?’ my father asked, finally putting away his paper and looking at me with some interest.

  We began passing the dishes.

  ‘I’ve told you this before, Appa. We have a flat structure. I won’t have any people reporting into me yet. I need to be more senior for that.’

  ‘So you do all this work for nothing? Back in my day, one didn’t stay at a job for years without having people to manage. . . . ’ my father launched into one of his stories about how companies used to function while I tuned out. In my father’s world, the title ‘manager’ meant that you managed people. I had given up trying to explain my job or my title. As far as my parents were concerned, I was a glorified beautician, and if I had a team they’d probably equate me with the manager of a salon!

  ‘It’s not for nothing,’ I said. ‘A promotion is a step in the right direction.’

  ‘You need job security,’ he said. ‘These new-fangled start-ups don’t know what they’re doing. See, even today, there’s news about that “Blluee” app shutting shop. You should’ve taken the job at P&G,’ he said. My father had been devastated when I had turned down the chance to join P&G as a management trainee six years ago. He couldn’t believe I would pick some unheard-of start-up over one of the world’s leading consumer goods firms. He had been predicting Glam’s demise ever since.

  ‘I wouldn’t have managed to do the kind of work I get here,’ I said.

  ‘So what? Everyone knows P&G, it’s stable. Who has heard of Glam?’ he asked.

  I opened my mouth to defend myself. But my mother jumped in, every ready to defuse yet another father-daughter blow-up in her own inimitable style.

  ‘So, where’s this kurta from? I hope you didn’t get it from one of those Fab India, Anokhi type places. Those are quite costly.’

  And off we’d jumped from the frying pan directly into the fire. I took a deep breath. It was going to be a long lunch.

  Thankfully, we managed to get through the rest of the meal without further disagreements. Everyone focused on the food—my father on his favourite sambhar rice and potato fry, Ram on the kaju katli I’d brought, and me on Sahana’s excellent lemon rasam. Of course, the tentative peace was too good to last.

  ‘That Arjun’s proposal keeps playing on TV,’ my mother said as she picked up another katli from the box. I tried to look nonchalant.

  ‘I don’t think there’s anyone left in the country who missed it! He must’ve spent a fortune on that ring,’ said Sahana, ever the chartered accountant.

  ‘This is what happens if you only focus on work. That could’ve been you,’ my mother said accusingly. Yet again, I wondered what had ever possessed me to date my mother’s best friend’s son. Even if he was the cutest guy in college, I should’ve looked the other way. My parents didn’t know about his commitment phobia and I was routinely blamed for our break-up.

  ‘You should’ve stuck it out. If that had been you, Ram and I could’ve been in a VIP box watching a match live tomorrow,’ my father said.

  ‘I’m so sorry I ruined your life,’ I said pointedly. I stared at my plate, wishing it would open up a portal into another world so I could escape this conversation.

  ‘Inaya, show Chithi your project for the weekend,’ my sister jumped in, giving me a way to leave the room. I mentally thanked her. Inaya immediately jumped up and grabbed my hand. She began pulling me towards her room.

  ‘It’s a secret project,’ she whispered to me in a conspiratorial tone. ‘I don’t show it to just about anyone.’

  ‘Aw, thanks for showing me,’ I said, as we left the room.

  ‘Amma and Appa usually make me go away if they’re talking about me,’ said Inaya. ‘Or if they’re talking about something they don’t want me to tell people. Amma says I have no filter. What’s a filter, Chithi?’

  I delicately sidestepped her question, ‘They’re probably talking about me today, so you don’t have to worry.’

  She opened the door to her room. I gasped. I blinked a few times to make sure that I wasn’t seeing things. Inaya’s room was normally ultra-neat and organized. Right now, it looked like a tornado had hit it. I wondered if she’d suddenly decided to play Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz. That would explain the state of her room, as well as the baggy overalls she was wearing. There were mountains of clothes, stationery, books, toys, and other odds and ends piled up in the room.

  ‘Today is Kondo-day,’ Inaya announced as she walked righ
t into the centre of the mess.

  ‘What day?’ I asked.

  ‘Not what, Chithi, who! Marie Kondo. You know about the KonMari method, don’t you?’

  ‘Um, how do you know about Marie Kondo?’ Our family had an obsessive cleaning trait, but I hadn’t expected it to percolate in this manner into my ten-year-old niece.

  ‘I’ve read the book,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘All you have to do is pick up an item and model it. I will decide if it sparks joy or not. If it does, I’ll keep it. If it doesn’t, I’ll give it away.’

  ‘Hmm, so things that don’t spark joy are given away,’ I said. I spied a giant garbage bag in the corner that was presumably being used to collect these objects.

  ‘Yes, when we get rid of things that don’t spark joy, we find inner peace and happiness,’ she replied seriously. I wondered if it was time to introduce her to the new and improved Ash and his guru. She probably could give them a few tips.

  ‘In that case, how do I get rid of your Thatha*-Patti?’ I asked. ‘They’re not sparking any joy!’

  ‘Chithi,’ Inaya squealed with laughter. ‘It’s not for people! I said things. You’re being mean.’ I took my place in her assembly line and began passing her things. As we sorted through her stuff, we continued talking.

  ‘I’m still not used to being ten. I feel so old,’ she said as she passed me some books that she claimed she was too old for.

  ‘Well, you’ll always be my baby niece, no matter how old you are,’ I replied.

  ‘That’s because you’re VERY old,’ she said brutally. ‘Appa says you will soon be so old that no one will want to marry you.’

  And there was that filter Sahana had told her about. Thanks a lot for the vote of confidence, Ram! I thought.

  ‘Marriage isn’t everything,’ I told her. ‘It’s not even the most important thing in life. There are other things that are more important.’ I didn’t want Inaya to grow up thinking that the sole purpose of her existence was to get married and have babies.

  ‘I know. I’m going to get married though. To Rohan, from my class,’ she announced. ‘He’s so cute. All the girls have a crush on him.’

  I tried to keep a straight face.

  ‘Looks aren’t everything, Inaya.’ I hoped to teach her not to fall for the best-looking guy in class, unlike myself. The best-looking ones weren’t always the smartest and I had learnt that the hard way after being routinely bored out of my brains.

  ‘But Rohan is the best at maths and he can do the fastest cartwheels in school. And he always exchanges his lunch with me if I have something boring,’ she defended her crush. I couldn’t really argue with her logic. I had dated people with fewer accomplishments.

  ‘Anyway, Chithi, you should add lavender oil to your bath water,’ she said, producing a bottle from a mountain of essential oils that she’d already moved to her ‘spark joy’ pile. ‘It reduces stress and makes you smell good.’

  ‘Are you trying to tell me I smell bad?’ I asked as she giggled.

  ‘NO! It’s for stress. Thatha said you never call, and then Amma said it’s because you are always stressed about work.’ My niece believed there was an essential oil to solve each and every one of life’s problems. She handed me the bottle. I took it, knowing that she didn’t give these away lightly.

  ‘Also, Chithi, if you’re becoming a sprinter, then you need to use clove oil to relax your muscles. Especially since you’re really old. Your knees will hurt with so much running,’ she continued.

  Sprinter? I was vehemently against running of any kind so I wondered where she’d got that from.

  ‘Um, Inaya, who told you I’m becoming a sprinter,’ I said.

  At first, she didn’t reply. I willed her to spill the beans.

  Slowly, she said, ‘I heard Appa telling Amma. They don’t know that sometimes I go out into the landing and spy on them when they’re talking to each other.’ She looked extremely pleased with herself.

  And then the penny dropped.

  ‘Are you sure they said sprinter and not spinster?’ I asked her.

  ‘Maybe,’ she said dismissively. ‘I wonder if there’s an essential oil to help spinsters? I’ll find it for you!’

  For the second time that day, I hoped that my sister was investing in SIPs for her child’s future therapy needs. Even if Chak survived the trauma of his name, Inaya most definitely would need to get over the impact of all the ‘lessons’ she was imbibing from her incessant eavesdropping.

  My parents left right after lunch, much to Sahana’s dismay and my joy at having successfully evaded Amma’s attempts at a pranic healing session. They said they had a bhajan to attend at their friend Vrinda Aunty’s house. Amma insisted it would be impossible for Vrinda Aunty to manage all the arrangements. Appa said that he didn’t want food to go waste as they’d already confirmed their attendance. Personally, I knew he was looking forward to dinner as Vrinda Aunty was a fantastic cook who never skimped on ghee, sugar and everything else that my health-conscious mother rationed. I didn’t know why Sahana was bothered—our parents were staying at her place for two weeks, so she would have a lot of time with them. I had originally planned to leave after my evening cup of chai, but she convinced me to extend my visit. Before I knew it, it was well past 9 p.m. and Inaya was getting ready for bed.

  ‘Stay over,’ said Sahana. ‘I’ll set up the sofa bed for you. Amma Appa are also on their way back, we can spend the day together tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, stay,’ said Ram half-heartedly while he turned the page on the book he was reading.

  ‘No, I have an early start tomorrow. It’s much easier to get back tonight,’ I said.

  ‘Ram, drop her. It’s really late,’ Sahana said. Ram slowly stood up and reluctantly began rifling through the key holder near the entrance for his car keys.

  ‘No, don’t worry,’ I cut in. ‘I’ll share my ride with you so you’ll know I got home safe.’ I picked up my bag and looked inside it to make sure my phone was there. I needed to check my messages. I shuddered to think of how many e-mails I would’ve missed today.

  ‘Remember that Appa’s surprise birthday dinner is next weekend,’ Sahana said as she gave me a hug.

  I didn’t reply.

  ‘You cannot skip it,’ she said, giving me a look.

  ‘Nothing will stop me from attending,’ I lied.

  She raised an eyebrow at me. As always, she could see right through my stories. I avoided her gaze and looked down at my phone. Hallelujah! My cab was right outside the door.

  ‘I have to go, Sahana! I’ll see you soon,’ I said.

  ‘Text me once you’re in your apartment,’ she replied. ‘And don’t you dare come up with a last-minute excuse to skip the party!’

  As if I would ever do such a thing.

  9

  Surprising News Is on Its Way

  I couldn’t believe this was how I was spending a ‘productive’ Wednesday evening. If I had a choice, I would have been working on my new subscription programme, but instead I was stuck at this ridiculous workshop. My only consolation was that Dhruv was also stuck, so he wasn’t getting ahead either.

  It turned out that the giant questionnaires that we’d all filled indicated that the entire team was under enormous stress, something that anyone with eyes could’ve figured out without putting us through the stress of filling it! Thanks to that, day 1 was called ‘Centre of Calm’. So far, we’d been through an intense round of yoga and were now going to be part of a meditation routine that would help us de-stress. I wondered if Ash realized that the FOMO of not being able to check our phones for almost three hours was causing more stress than all the yoga and meditation could effectively address. But apparently, this was going to help us become more ‘centred’. I wriggled from my position on the yoga mat trying not to wince as I got a whiff of what was likely someone else’s dried up sweat.

  ‘Relax and relaaaax. Totally relax your whole booodddyyy,’ the guru sang.

  I struggled to stifle my gi
ggles. From the muffled noises I heard by my side, everyone else was having the same problem. I wondered how Ash managed to stay at a two-week-long retreat run by this guru. The man definitely dressed the part, with bright orange robes and a long, scraggly beard. However, I wasn’t convinced he was an actual enlightened soul, what with his unerring habit of referring to himself in the third person as well as his demands that we show our respect to him. He had yelled at us at the start of the session because we didn’t stand up when he first entered the room. As he droned on, I tried to focus on my breath. Unfortunately, I was perennially distracted by the pins and needles on the underside of my foot. If only I hadn’t listened to the instruction to put my weight on my feet while doing the Downward Dog!

  ‘Only Ash would find a guru who looks completely Indian but has a Texan twang,’ Upasana muttered under her breath.

  ‘He’s an NRI,’ Shirin whispered back. ‘He went to business school with Ash and then gave up his corporate career to become a corporate guru.’

  I shushed them both. We couldn’t afford to have one of the guru’s flunkies identify us as troublemakers; he’d already given Abhijit a dressing down for not being ‘serious’ earlier.

  ‘You will now enter the phase of deep relaxation,’ the guru’s drawl broke into my thoughts. ‘Free your mind of all cares . . . ’

  As if.

  This three-day workshop and the time it was taking away from my work was the biggest care I had. The easiest way for me to free my mind would be to quit the workshop. I wondered if the Circle of Success worked like PT class at school, and if I could excuse myself by claiming it was that time of the month.

  RRRRRR!

  The silence was shattered by the sound of loud snores. I opened one eye to spot the snorer. I wasn’t the only one. There was a lot of shuffling and some muffled whispers as everyone tried to surreptitiously look around. I wondered what fate would befall a person who converted the ‘centre of calm’ to the ‘centre of a storm’.