I am not even sure I know how I feel about this and am trying to make sure that Purva does not go online.
Ever.
16 August 2013, 10.00 a.m.
‘You look happy, Kassie,’ said Padma, flicking aside her hot new bangs and grinning her widest. Of course she knew already. Pitajee and Padma have become too thick recently for her to not have found out within minutes of us getting back together.
‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’ I said, throwing my arms around her.
‘You silly girl,’ said Padma, wrapping her arms around me. ‘That doctor guy is perfect for you, you know that, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I do! Yes, I do!’ I yelped, grinning from ear to ear.
20 August 2013, 11.30 p.m.
After her last post on our pending nuptials, Mum has been inundated with questions from despairing mums from across the world, all worried about getting their daughters married to suitable surgeons with high networth.
Mum called today to comment philosophically on how borders are but lines on the maps and how mothers from all over the globe seem to have the same problem – difficult, obstinate daughters.
Her readers seem to treat her with an inexplicable air of reverence. Mum treats them with an equally inexplicable I-am-shri-shri-shri-Prabha-Shukla-esque superiority.
25 August 2013.
‘We might have a problem,’ said Purva, looking seriously at the faces before him.
‘What?’ Anu and I said, in unison.
‘My mum.’
‘Oh dear!’ I said, slumping back into my chair. I had completely forgotten about her.
Pitajee giggled.
‘And what is that for?’ I asked.
‘From what I know, her conclusion, when you called off the engagement, was that you are off your rocker.’
‘What?’ I wailed. The problems just don’t seem to end.
‘If I remember correctly, she lamented that Agra was too far, else the mental asylum there would be the perfect place for you spend the rest of your life,’ said Pitajee, now howling with laughter like a madman.
‘Pitajee,’ I said, the tone of my voice heavy with threat. ‘Stop it or I will throw this coffee at you.’
By now, Purva was trying hard not to laugh and that infuriated me further.
‘I mean, only a few days ago, after due deliberation, the consensus was that you are as mad as a hatter. And now, to tell her that you are back in her son’s life … can I be there when she is told of the return of the madwoman?’
Even though he had a point, a promise was a promise, and I picked up my latte and threw it at him with a sweet smile on my face.
Once the commotion that obviously arises when someone throws coffee at someone else had subsided and Pitajee had glared at me to his heart’s content, we settled back to discuss the matter.
‘Really, Kas,’ Purva said, straightening up. ‘We will need to work on Mum.’
‘But how?’ I said, looking around.
‘I have no clue,’ said Purva, shaking his head.
‘Neither do I,’ said Anu, biting her nails.
‘Me neither,’ said Pitajee.
‘I,’ said Vikram looking quite superior, ‘may have an idea.’ Attentively, we all leaned in to listen to his masterplan.
30 August 2013.
‘Don’t you have any shame?’ I asked Pitajee.
‘No,’ he said, his mouth full of chips.
‘There is a girl in this room trying to sort out her sari,’ I tried again, as Anu fiddled with the two hundred safety pins that were holding up the proverbial six yards of grace.
‘Who? Where?’ he asked, looking around, unable to spot the ‘girl’.
I picked up the bottle of talcum powder and threw it at him. He ducked artfully to dodge the flying weapon.
‘Arre, Bahu,’ said Pitajee, coming closer and amicably placing the talcum powder back on the dressing table where it belonged. ‘What about the ghoonghat?’
Grinning idiotically, he placed the aanchal of the sari over my head. I stared at the reflection in the mirror and had to admit that I looked tense. It was, after all, only the most important day in my life and nothing was in my control.
‘Pitajee,’ I groaned. ‘I look so silly.’
‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘It’s fine. Anju Aunty will like this.’ Anu, who was helping me with the bangles, now nodded her head in vehement agreement.
I sighed and stuck a safety pin to make sure that the pallu did not slide off. Today was a big day. Anju Aunty had only this morning been informed that Purva and I were back together. Before she could have a shock induced heart attack, Purva had invited her to my place for dinner.
She would be here anytime now.
7.00 p.m.
You could cut the tension in the room with a blunt knife. The air was heavy with suspense. The only thing missing was a suitably goose-bump-inducing background score from a B-grade horror flick.
Anu, Pitajee and I sat in the living room looking nervously at each other. Pitajee was chewing his lower lip, Anu was biting her nails and I was trying to manage my sari. Anytime now…
The bell rang shrilly, cutting through the blanket of anxiety we were all wrapped in, making us jump.
Purva, Vikram and Anju Aunty had arrived. And with that, it began.
‘I don’t think this is a good idea,’ I heard her saying when I walked into the drawing room. She was clearly still recovering from the shock of having me back in the life of her precious son. Oh, well.
Anju Aunty stopped mid-sentence the moment her eyes fell on me standing shyly at the door, clad in the yellow sari, head covered in a pallu, bangles adorning my hands. I was, let’s face it people, any potential mother-in-law’s sweetest dream.
‘Umm … Kasturi,’ she said, staring at me from top to toe. ‘You are wearing a sari and bangles.’
‘Ji Auntyji,’ I said, primly settling the pallu over my head and walking towards her, Anu by my side. ‘Charan sparsh, Auntyji,’ I said and bent low to touch her feet. Pitajee had spent two hours with me the day before, helping me perfect the charan sparsh.
‘Charan sparsh to you too, Beta,’ said Anju Aunty, obviously bewildered at what was happening. For a moment, I wondered if I should bless her with a ‘doodho nahao, puto phalo’ just for kicks, but one glare from Anu, who knew exactly what was going on in my head, and I shut my mouth. The whole idea behind this was for me to not be me.
‘You … err … look different…’ Anju Aunty mused.
‘Ji Auntyji,’ I said, nodding my head and looking down at my hands. With the TV awash with perfect daughters-in-law, Anu and I had to but watch a few hours of saas-bahu serials to perfect my imitation of the ideal bahu. I looked up at the ceiling and sent a silent thanks to Ekta Kapoor.
For a few minutes, no one spoke. Vikram then nudged me. I had almost forgotten. ‘Oh!’ I said out loud, and everyone looked at me. ‘I almost forgot.’
‘What? What did you forget?’ asked Vikram, looking innocently at me.
‘Time for puja,’ I said.
‘Who is Puja? Are we expecting someone else?’ asked Anju Aunty.
‘Oh no, Auntyji,’ I tittered. ‘It’s time for my puja. Prayers. Worship,’ I clarified. Purva shook his head, disbelieving.
Anju Aunty stared at me. ‘You do puja?’ she asked.
‘Every day at err…’ I paused and glanced at my wrist watch, ‘at 7.17 p.m.’
‘Oh.’
‘If you don’t mind, Auntyji, please can I be excused for a few minutes?’ I asked politely.
‘If you don’t mind, can I join you?’ Anju Aunty asked, not to be outdone.
‘Sure,’ I said and got up. Soon we had all trooped into the box room which had been hastily, over the last few days, converted into a puja room.
Having practised this all week, I knew exactly what to do and quickly set to work. I lit the diya and incense stick. Anu had arranged a huge metal tray with fresh flowers and fruit, which I placed in front of the idols.
‘Auntyji,’ I
began hesitantly.
‘Yes?’
‘Umm…’ I pointedly looked at her head.
‘Oh! Of course, of course,’ she said, and quickly covered her head with the pallu of her dupatta. Pitajee had a coughing fit that subsided as abruptly as it had started.
When everyone was ready, I folded my hands and began to sing Om Jai Jagdish, the only bhajan I had been able to learn by heart in the short time that I had been given.
‘Purva!’ hissed Anju Aunty, who stood next to me limply watching me sing. ‘Sing with her!’
‘Are you kidding me, Mom?’ asked Purva, staring at me and shaking his head.
‘Bhaiyya, you should!’ said Vikram and joined in, as did Anju Aunty. By the time the bhajan concluded, I was standing with folded hands, profusely apologizing to the gods for using them like this and hoping that they understood. In that moment of remorse, I promised weekly attendance at the local mandir for a month.
Anju Aunty’s eyes had turned glassy with wonder by now. We left the box room and trooped into the dining room where the table had been set. Flowers and candles added elegance to the whole setting and Anju Aunty stared at the table for a few seconds before taking her seat.
‘I am sorry, Aunty, the puja took longer than expected,’ I said, turning to face Anju Aunty. ‘I just get so lost in my prayers sometimes…’
I saw Anju Aunty gulp visibly. ‘That’s fine, not a problem,’ she said with obvious difficulty.
‘Let us sit down for dinner. It’s ready,’ I said to everyone and pointed towards the dining table.
‘Who cooked?’ Anju Aunty asked Anu as I busied myself in making sure that everyone was comfortable.
‘Kasturi did, Aunty. She’s a fantastic cook!’ Anu said loudly. ‘Though of course, I am sure you know that already.’
‘Oh, come on,’ I said piously, dismissing her carefully practised compliments with the wave of a hand.
‘Have you made the daal and paneer?’ said Anju Aunty, staring at the delicious-looking food that was already on the table.
I nodded my head. ‘And the kofte, the kebabs, chicken biryani, butter chicken and Konkani fish that I am about to get from the kitchen,’ I added.
‘Oh, wow!’ said Anju Aunty. ‘Maybe someday you can share the Konkani fish recipe?’
‘Of course, Aunty, of course,’ I said, gushing.
There was another coughing fit from Pitajee, whose mother had spent the better part of the morning cooking the food. Anu and Vikram both glared him into feeling healthier again.
‘You cooked all this?’ asked Anju Aunty again, not quite believing what she was seeing.
I nodded my head shyly, settling the pallu over my head. I noted that Anju Aunty still had her head covered as well.
‘You … you seem very different now,’ she said as she sat down. I flitted around her, fussing over the food and her plate.
This was it. My cue.
‘Aunty, I am different now. Let us just say…’ (pause, count till three, look far away, resume) ‘…being away from Purva taught me a big lesson. I am sorry for all the trouble I caused. Each day … each day … each day…’ I paused, panicking as my brain froze. The next few words that Pitajee and Vikram had written together for me refused to come to me. I stood still, not moving, and stared helplessly at Pitajee. I could not forget my words now! No!
‘When you pray,’ he said and then had another coughing fit.
Yes! Bless you, Pitajee!
‘Each day,’ I continued jubilantly, ‘when I pray, I ask God to forgive me. I don’t know if He will, or when He will, but till then … I am guilty…’
Then, most dramatically, I gave a little sniff and, covering my mouth with one end of the pallu, rushed out of the room.
‘I think she became a little emotional,’ said Anu in a sad voice.
‘Oh…’ said Anju Aunty, quite bewildered.
‘I will go get her,’ Anu said.
‘Yes, do that please,’ said Purva, covering his face as Vikram grinned.
‘Don’t grin like that, Vikram,’ said Anju Aunty angrily. ‘The girl is emotional. You have to be more considerate.’
Pitajee had yet another coughing fit. A little later, I came out, looking more composed and we all finally sat down to dinner.
‘Paranthas, Auntyji,’ I said, smiling at her.
‘Mughlai?’ she asked, laughing.
I nodded my head. The only thing at the table that I had made.
Pitajee and Anu exchanged a look as Anju Aunty laughed delightedly and picked two fluffy, round and soft paranthas for herself.
‘So Auntyji,’ I said chattily. ‘How is Lata Taiji?’
Anju Aunty looked at me, surprised. ‘You remember her?’
‘Of course!’ I said, indignantly. ‘You were telling me once how well her boutique was doing.’
‘Yes, yes, of course.’
‘The one that Betu Didi is helping out with these days,’ I said.
‘Is she?’ she asked me, her eyes growing bigger by the second. ‘I knew someone was helping her! Lata Didi is incapable of doing this on her own! How do you know?’
‘Betu Didi told me.’
‘When? How?’
‘We are Facebook friends…’ I lied.
‘Oh, yes ... of course,’ she said, her eyes growing bigger.
‘And Beti Didi?’ I asked, nonchalantly breaking a piece of parantha and dipping it in the daal. ‘How is her course coming along?’
Anju Aunty did not speak for a few minutes and stared first at the sari-clad girl sitting in front of her with her head covered, then at the various dishes on the table. She even peered in the direction of the box room from which the aroma of burning incense was wafting in. To put it mildly, I think she was overwhelmed.
‘Kasturi Beta,’ she said, putting a hand on my head. ‘Do you think I should speak to your Mum about the wedding date?’
Purva stared open-mouthed at his mother and Vikram nudged his brother, arching his eyebrows, a superior look plastered all over his face.
‘Oh Auntyji,’ I said, following it with a half giggle and looking down at my plate.
‘GOAL!’ shouted Vikram, and when we all stared aghast at him, he grinned and pointed towards the TV.
Once Anju Aunty had left, and before we all collapsed on the large sofa in the drawing room with sheer relief, the first thing I did was send Betu Didi a Facebook friend request.
11.35 p.m.
‘Beta,’ said Mum when I picked up the phone.
‘Mum?’
‘What did you do to Anjuji?’
‘Worked my magic. Why?’
‘She has already spoken to her panditji.’
‘For?’
‘The wedding date.’
‘Whose wedding date?’
‘Kasturi!’
‘Oh sorry, my wedding date!’
‘We have one date available in December and nothing for six months after that. For obvious reasons, we all think it’s best the wedding date is set for as soon as possible.’
‘Oh my god!’
‘Should I say yes?’ she asked, her voice a little bit on edge. We all knew what had happened the last time the parents had agreed on a date.
I grinned. ‘Mum, say yes! December is fine!’
‘Are you sure?’ she asked, laughing.
‘Yes!’
‘Okay, bye then!’
11.36 p.m.
Arrggghhh.
‘Mum,’ I said into the phone as soon as she picked up.
‘Beta?’
‘When am I getting married?’
‘Why?’
‘Mum! The date! At least I should know the date?’
‘Oh sorry, yes. The ninth of December. Just finalized it with Anjuji.’
Why was the date so familiar, I wondered to myself as I cancelled the call. Then it hit me a few seconds later. Anu was getting married to Saumen on the ninth of December!
34
15 September 2013, 8.00 p.m.
&nb
sp; Purva, Pitajee and I were sitting in our living room playing Scrabble. Let me rephrase that. Purva and I were playing Scrabble while Pitajee was playing another form of the same game, the rules of which changed every now and then as per his convenience. To show his displeasure at me pointing this out to him, Pitajee had just picked up a cushion and was aiming it at me when Anu burst through the door, her face awash with tears.
She sank to the floor, her face in her hands, her body racking with sobs. Pitajee reached her first, sank to the floor with her and held her in his arms. For a few seconds, no one spoke.
‘What’s wrong, Anu?’ said Pitajee as he gently rocked her. Purva and I looked on, worried and helpless.
‘My wedding lehenga is ready,’ she said simply and sank further into the ground, crying harder than before.
It was only when Purva wiped the tears off my face that I realized that I was also crying.
20 October 2013, 2.00 p.m.
‘Kasturi Beta,’ said Vijaywada, coming to my desk and placing a paternal hand on my head.
Now what was wrong?
‘Yes Sir?’
He heaved a deep sigh, sat down and then proceeded to stare at me with undisguised pity in his eyes.
‘You are getting married, Beta, are you not?’
I had distributed invitations and a box of sweets to everyone in office. Of course I was getting married.
‘Yes Sir. I hope you will be attending the wedding. It will mean a lot to both Purva and me,’ I said primly.
‘I have been thinking…’
Never a good sign. ‘And?’ I probed, worried.
‘I think I have figured out the perfect gift for you.’
‘Okay? What is it?’ I said cautiously. Anything could happen now. I did not trust the man sitting across the desk from me.
He smiled. ‘My brother who lives in the US is visiting India.’
‘Okay? So?’ Oh my god! Gifts from America?
‘He is a famous ENT surgeon.’
I gulped with slight difficulty.
‘I told him about your ailment, my child, and he is very curious about your sporadic deafness. He has offered to examine you next week! Who knows, if all goes well, you will be perfectly fine before the wedding!’
What? WHAT?
‘Kasturi Beta…’ prodded Mr Vijaywada, no doubt a little concerned by my lack of enthusiasm.
Can This Be Love? Page 16