When Hari Met His Saali

by Harsh Warrdhan

  The two grannies grumblingly stepped away.

  ‘Dekho beta, Hari is our only son. You are our only daughter. There’s no denying that, and I think you know that. We have always considered you as our own daughter. You are both smart, ambitious, full of plans and dreams, and both myself and Barry would go to any length to support you, but beta, you must also understand that Hari was born and brought up here … in America.’

  Here we go, the defending of the son — the heir to the throne — begins.

  ‘And I am not defending his … his behavior from last night,’ Mary continued, ‘but what I am trying to say is, no matter how long two people have known each other, when they get married and live together a whole new level of compromise, commitment and adjustments are required. Not just from you but from both of you. And, my advice as a woman who has been married for thirty years is this. Let go of such incidences, there will be more, different ones. Learn to let go. And both of you will have to learn to let go of them and look at the next day as a new day. That is the key to making relationships work.’

  Tia didn’t like a single thing about that, but she knew what Mary was saying was probably right, but accepting it as such — at least at this stage — would mean redefining lots of things in her life.

  ‘Mary, I know that. But like you said, if Hari was born and brought up here, I came to this country with specific things to achieve in my life as well. Being born in America doesn’t give one a license to mistreat a woman. My work and my life should go hand-in-hand, Mary, and that is what I want from Hari. It is not too much to ask if I am willing to do the same for him, right?’ Tia leaned forward. ‘Right?’

  Now Mary was a woman, but her being a mother to Hari superseded that, and for the tiniest brief moment this occurred to her.

  Oh my God! This kudi is going to make my poor Hari run around all his life!

  ‘You are right, Tia’ she said, not wanting to inflame her further.

  ‘I am going to sit down with Hari and ask him some tough questions,’ Tia said. ‘Respect and accepting me as I am is the least he should be offering me!’ Tia was not done and was going to tighten the screws further.

  Mary nodded.

  ‘If the things he said to me last night were any indication, he has lots of hostility towards me, Mary. I sometimes wonder if Hari had a choice he would prefer to be with another more docile woman!’ Although it seemed like a topic Tia might have saved for a discussion with Jenny, she had strategically tossed it out to Mary to see her reaction. Regardless of what Mary would say, the manner in which she would say it was going to be telling.

  ‘That’s something best left for you two to decide!’ Mary replied as she got up with the glass and walked to the kitchen.

  ‘My God, what’s gotten into her today? God, please give strength and clarity to my poor Hari,’ Mary mumbled just loud enough for Tia to know she was mumbling something, but not loud enough for her to hear what it was she mumbled. This pissed Tia off.

  ‘I am sorry, I didn’t hear that?’ Tia asked Mary, craning her neck. If Tia wanted to play this game, she shouldn’t have forgotten that Mary was a veteran at it. She had lived with her mother-in-law for over twenty years.

  ‘Don’t worry. You won’t understand,’ Mary said without turning to face her.

  Dismissed.

  Same time — Upstairs

  Hari was staring at himself in the bathroom mirror like Robert De Nero in Taxi Driver. He was having an argument with … um … himself.

  Hari’s Trivia # 103: Chronic alcohol use can cause an overall reduction in brain size.

  ‘Why does she have to rat on me like that to my mom?’ he asked his image as he threw his T-shirt into the laundry basket.

  Although he was not drinking at the moment, the amount of alcohol consumed by Hari the night before was not completely out of his system. He was somewhere in between being almost drunk and sobering up.

  His image in the mirror, now shirtless, answered back like a thug with an attitude.

  ‘That’s cuz you were pissed drunk, shamelessly drunk. She has all the right to feel disrespectful, you fool!’

  Hari threw his hands in the air.

  ‘Hey buddy, if I tried to count the number of ways she has disrespected me on one hand I’d … I’d be running out of fingers, OK? And in any case, if she’s gonna be my life partner, I wanna know she’s got my back! She can fight it out with me, I have no probs with that, but to cry boo-hoo to my mom? What’s that childish shit?’

  The image in the mirror was pointing a finger at him.

  ‘First of all, watch your language. You are Hariprasad for crying out loud, all this macho language of cursing and swearing doesn’t suit you. You sound fake. So cut that out, now! Secondly, let me remind you … you were pissed drunk, shamelessly drunk, without any reason for being so, OK?’

  ‘OK, OK. We agreed on that, but hear me out now. Me being drunk … that’s almost beside the point; we are supposed to be friends first. She has to understand that I am not going to change my ways. Not for her, not for nobody.’

  Hari flipped a finger at the mirror. He was shocked to see that the image in the mirror already had his middle finger up.

  ‘Why are you suddenly talking like an Italian gangster from a Scorsese movie?’ the reflection said, turning the topic around.

  Hari was surprised to see that his hands, both hands, were gesturing like Italian mob guys who talk with their hands in Hollywood films.

  ‘Who? Me? Talking like a gangster? Whatchyatalkingaboud?’

  ‘There. Can’t you hear yourself? You look funny talking like that.’ The image was mocking him now and was getting on Hari’s nerves. So he upped the aggression levels.

  ‘Hey, hey, hey … You mean, let me understand this cause, ya know maybe it’s me, I’m a little fucked up maybe, but I’m funny how, I mean funny like I’m a clown, I amuse you? I make you laugh, I’m here to fuckin’ amuse you? What do you mean funny, funny how? How am I funny?’

  The image in the mirror dissolved into laughter and was replaced by a somber Hari, which he was.

  ‘Oh my God, I am repeating lines from Goodfellas!’

  Hari suddenly remembered that very early into last night, Chitthi and him watched Goodfellas while they waited for the others to join them. It was their favorite film. Hari must have seen that film at least a one hundred and fifty-seven times. Hari put his palm in front of his mouth and blew on it … whoosh … the breath bounced back into his nostrils and boy did it stink of booze.

  He picked up his phone and sent a quick email to his office telling his staff that he was not coming in. He was not even sure if he had discussed his Hyderabad meeting with the Reddy brothers with Chitthi last night.

  ‘I am still pissed drunk, shamelessly drunk,’ Hari finally said, agreeing with his image in the mirror just before crashing out again on his bed. He would have what doctors call REM or Rapid Eye Movement Sleep.

  In the normal sleep cycle, REM is a stage during which dreams occur. The body undergoes marked changes including rapid eye movement, loss of reflexes, and increased pulse rate and brain activity.

  His brain would try to process, analyze and solve all at the same time. He would feel guilt and regret. His mind would pray and hope that he could turn back the clock, take back his words. At the same time the fact that he was at fault would seize his brain, along with the solution that he had to do whatever it would take to apologize to Tia. His brain would release a slow stream of tears from his eyes as he would fold himself up in the fetal position, afraid to face anyone — especially his Tia and his mother.

  Morning — Nagpur

  When Simi received Tia’s text instead of the scheduled Skype call she didn’t think much of it.

  Congrats on the visa. Have transferred 5,000 USD to your SBI account. Should be enough for your tickets. Ask if you need more.

  Simi wanted to immediately text back saying that she had the money arranged, but she held back, thinking she could get a nice m
odern American dress made instead. She planned not to tell her mother about it. The news of her getting a ten-year multiple entry visa had travelled like wildfire across Nagpur. Unknown to her, Simi’s social standing had suddenly improved.

  She heard a loud honk from the outside. Simi grabbed her bag and screamed to her mother.

  ‘Mom, going for some shopping with Sharmila. Do you need anything?’

  ‘No, no, I don’t need anything,’ her mother replied from inside, ‘but while coming back get a one-liter pack of Amul milk?’

  ‘OK’ Simi said. As she was almost out the door her mother added: ‘Aur expiration date dekh ke lana,’ reminding her to check the expiration date.

  When Simi climbed into Sharmila’s fancy chauffer-driven Audi SUV, she saw Namit. There was some tension between the two, but Simi dismissed him as a non-threat. He was inconsequential, at least for now. She had simply moved him from the ‘potential lover’ column to the ‘harmless friend’ column in her head.

  ‘When he heard you were going to America, he came running like a dog with his tongue out!’ Sharmila didn’t waste any time in degrading Namit. She was that kind of a girl.

  Simi knew that options were limited in Nagpur. The way these two were flirting, it was possible that they could have come to pick her up after making out with each other. But Sharmila never lost a chance to show off about how she could treat boys really badly and they still followed her.

  ‘Aye, don’t talk rubbish. I want to get her a nice dress for her trip, OK?’ Namit said in his defense, in his squeaky voice.

  ‘Arrey, you guys fight after I am gone, OK? Sharmila, did you talk to that designer guy?’ Simi asked.

  By the evening, Simi had — along with lots of pleading and maska from Sharmila and with Namit’s two cents of ‘Please bhaiya, please bhaiya’ — convinced Nagpur’s young and talented designer, Ketan Panday (KP), to sketch, tailor and deliver her a simple but elegant dress by the following night. Afterwards the three of them had gone to the Haldiram’s on West High Court Road to have some snacks. Although both Sharmila and Namit wanted a beer party, Simi had not given in to that. However, she promised that she would take them out to a bar after she was back.

  What is this obsession Nagpur women have with beer?

  When she got home she could see that her mother had been crying. She also knew why. After dinner, when her talkative, inquisitive mother had not asked her what was in the shopping bag, Simi switched off the TV and went to her in the bedroom.

  ‘Mom, you are not sleeping, right?’ she asked. Her mother wiped her moist eyes and tried to sit up in the bed. ‘No, no, just sleep,’ Simi urged her. ‘I want to sleep next to you tonight,’ Simi said, laying her blanket next to her mother.

  ‘Now, this little bed is not big enough for both of us, Simi. Now you are not little but are a grown woman,’ she said dryly as she made some room for Simi.

  ‘Thanks for telling me, Mom. I could have missed that,’ Simi said with a sarcastic smirk on her face.

  ‘Mom, you watch too many Hindi movies. These days, you only talk with a heavy dialogue with me. I am still your little Sim-Sim,’ she said, hugging her mother.

  ‘Who are you fooling, beta? I know what a woman needs at your age, hai,’ her mother said, going off on her own trip, her own tangent.

  ‘What are you talking about, Mom? Why so melodramatic?’ Simi said, feeling exasperated.

  ‘My life is melodramatic, bete. Now see, today Tia will be gone. Parayi ho jaayegi. Tomorrow, it’ll be you I’ll be sending off to your in-laws place,’ her mother said, caressing Simi’s hair.

  Gosh, seriously, she must be watching old, old Hindi movies. Because her language is so outdated and nobody talks like that any more, not even in Ekta Kapoor’s saas-bahu serials.

  ‘Mummy-di-jaan, your dialogue is getting as old as you,’ Simi teased her mother.

  ‘Let it be, but what I am saying is true, na! That’s all that matters.’ Her mother mocked Simi by hitting her lightly on her head.

  ‘Mom, come with me to America, na. It’ll be so much fun. OK, OK … you have never worn jeans, na?’ Simi was excited as she sat on her knees and prodded her mother.

  Of course, her mother had never worn jeans. Was she crazy to wear jeans in Nagpur?

  ‘Hai, I am not crazy to wear jeans in Nagpur! What will people say?’ She was so predictable, Simi’s mother.

  ‘See, then you can wear jeans in America. Everybody wears jeans in America, even a khusat buddhi like you!’ Simi excitedly walked to her cupboard and opened it.

  ‘I am not an old hag, thank you!’ her mother cried.

  When Simi was little her mother would dress her up like a doll. Simi would love it but now, now that she was a grown woman, she sometimes dressed her mom up like a doll. Of course all this happened with the curtains drawn shut, the lights dimmed and in the middle of the night. Her mother had tried the same with Tia when she was little, but Tia was a spoilsport and a crybaby. Tia had never … never worn something picked out by someone else.

  Simi showed her mother the pair of brand new jeans she had picked up that day. She urged her to try them and after some cajoling her mother looked at them.

  ‘Mom, this is Benetton!’ Simi said, proudly stressing that the jeans were imported.

  ‘Imported, hai?’ Her mother was getting excited at the prospect of trying out the jeans. But the price tag, which Simi had forgotten to rip out, attracted her attention.

  ‘Two thousand eight hundred rupees? For jeans?’ Her mother almost had a heart attack and Simi immediately ripped off the price tag.

  ‘Mom, they were on sale. Seventy percent off!’ Simi lied. ‘Please try them, na!’ Simi nudged her mother a little more.

  Mrs. Galhotra looked around to make sure the room was secure and then pushed Simi out of the bedroom, shut the door and then locked it from the inside.

  Somehow, she got into the jeans.

  ‘They’re a little tight at the waist,’she called out as she unlocked the door. When Simi entered she saw a funny sight. Her mother was wearing the jeans up over her stomach instead of around her waist. They were possibly even higher than her stomach. Simi adjusted them, pulling them down further. Her mother turned to look into the mirror.

  ‘Can they alter jeans, Sim?’ her mother asked curiously.

  ‘Yes they can, and if I get them altered, are you going to wear them?’ Simi asked laughingly.

  ‘Hai … What’s wrong with you, what will people say?’ Her mother frowned at the idea.

  Simi hugged her mom.

  ‘Mom, people ko maro goli. You look so sweet in these! Now we are going to try some lipsticks!’

  By the time they finally got into bed Simi had spent an hour making her mother try out a bunch of different clothes and lipsticks. Mrs. Galhotra put Simi’s head on her lap.

  This position — a daughter’s head on her sitting mother’s lap — is a must-do grand tradition that has been performed by Indian mothers and their girls throughout the history.

  Simi felt like she should say something heavy-handed and philosophical, such as “the peace one can find in your mother’s lap cannot be found even at the most beautiful place in the world”.But instead of saying anything, she simply enjoyed it.

  ‘You know Sim, these days when you put your head on my lap I feel like goodbyes are coming soon for you too,’ her mother stated simply. Simi tried to bring her head up to protest, but her mother gently held her down.

  ‘Mom, please stop with this nonsense talk, OK? I am never leaving you or going anywhere … after this U.S. trip, OK?’ Simi said loudly from her position on her mother’s lap.

  ‘That’s not what I mean, silly. I never ask you, but I must now. What do you think about your life, bete? I mean, what do you want to do?’ Her mother probably had suppressed this conversation inside her for a long time.

  ‘What do you mean what I want to do, Mom?’ Simi sat up and her mother let her.

  ‘No, what do you want from life, beta?
I ask only so that I can help you and prepare you for that.’ Mrs. Galhotra was looking straight into Simi’s eyes. She wanted straight answers.

  ‘I don’t know, Mom. Do I have to know and answer you … like right now?’ Simi was feeling cornered. She knew she didn’t have a satisfactory answer for her mother.

  ‘Do you want to settle down in America? Like Tia? I am fine with that if you want to. If not that, shouldn’t we start looking for a suitable boy for you here in Nagpur?’

  ‘Mom, getting married doesn’t mean getting what you want in life and to be honest, I haven’t thought about what I want from life, OK? But seeing that it is such a big concern to you and that you keep bringing it up, I will think about it and report back to you. Give me some time though. And no, I am never going to leave you and if you don’t want me to, I won’t even go to the U.S.!’ Simi announced, taking her blanket and storming out.

  Of course, the not going to the U.S. part was not true. Her excitement betrayed that little declration.

  The next day went by quickly with Simi running around and packing for her trip. Sharmila and Namit helped her pack and weigh her baggage. There was some confusion about the weight allowance for her check-in luggage and because the information on the Internet was contradictory. Namit called his cousin who worked at Nagpur airport to clarify it. It turned out that the airlines had reduced their luggage allowances again.

  After some repacking was done and adjustments were made the job was done. But at the last minute Simi’s mother appeared insisting that Simi wear a sari at Tia’s engagement ceremony. It was the same sari her mother had worn during her own engagement ceremony. Sharmila and Namit looked at Simi. They knew that what Simi really wanted to wear was the KP dress buried somewhere in one of the two large suitcases. Nonetheless, Simi packed the sari and planned to decide what to wear on the day of the event.

  To Sharmila and Namit’s — as well as Simi’s — astonishment and feeble attempts to discourage it, Mrs. Galhotra put a red tika on each of the suitcases and tied the handles with a cheap silver ribbons, ‘so that no one else will take your luggage!’ as she put it.