When Hari Met His Saali

by Harsh Warrdhan

  An hour later, Simi’s Mausi and Mausaji arrived in their car. A small puja was done for Simi’s safe travels; a big red tika was put on her forehead and after some hugging and crying — with all the women saying to each other ‘don’t make me cry,’ and ‘I am not crying, these are tears of joy,’ and ‘hush now, hush, hush,’ — everyone was ready to go to the airport.

  A caravan of three cars left for the airport. Mausaji’s car had Mrs. Galhotra’s luggage in it as well, because she was going to stay with them for next month or so. Mind you, Simi’s Mausi’s house was only three blocks away from her own house. Simi didn’t like the idea that her mother would stay with her Mausi and Mausaji while she was gone.

  She always had suspicions about her Mausaji. He was one big lecherous creep. At least that was the running joke between herself and Tia all through their teenage years. He would ask them the most uncomfortable questions. Although this could have just been two sisters casting some man in their lives as a villain and having fun at his expense, it remained that Simi was going to be worried about her mother.

  There was more hugging and tearful goodbyes at the airport. Even Namit cried. Simi surprisingly held her own and didn’t cry at all. This could have been because she was overwhelmed by the journey ahead.

  After taking her seat on the plane, Simi texted Tia to let her know that she had boarded. She had already emailed her the itinerary and contemplated writing a funny text and sending it to Hari as well, but she couldn’t come up with anything funny that was relevant. He had not replied to her earlier text anyway. So she switched off her mobile and fastened her seatbelt. Simi closed her eyes and said a short prayer. It was going to be a long journey. You see Simi had booked the cheapest flight available and had three, no four, stopovers before she would land at LAX in Los Angeles.

  Simi’s itinerary: Nagpur to Mumbai ->1 hr. 25 mins

  Eight-hour stopover at Chatrapati Shivaji International Airport, Mumbai

  Mumbai to Doha ->3 hrs. 22 mins

  Six-hour refueling and flight change stopover at Doha International Airport, Qatar

  Doha to New York ->13 hrs. 53 mins

  Four hours for Customs & Immigration clearance, layover of two hours and flight change at John F. Kennedy International Airport

  New York to Phoenix ->4 hrs. 30 mins

  Two-hour stopover at PHX, Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport, Arizona

  Phoenix to Los Angeles ->53 mins

  By the time she would land in Los Angeles, Simi would wonder if saving that little amount of money had been worth it. It would take her 39 hours to reach Los Angeles from Nagpur. On top of that, as luck would have it, when she had checked her luggage in at Nagpur she bumped into, of all the people, Mrs. Shah — the elderly Gujarati aunty whom Simi had vehemently discouraged from going to America for her anniversary.

  Although Simi didn’t recognize her at first, Mrs. Shah had recognized her immediately — and had overheard Simi talking about her trip to America with the check-in girl — so Simi had no choice but to wish her a safe journey when she learned that her client was indeed going to Disneyland. It was embarrassing for Simi, as if she was caught with her hand in the proverbial cookie jar. She remembered advising Mrs. Shah to opt for a local destination, even giving her personal opinion that she herself was not interested in going to America. And now here she was with luggage tags and a boarding pass in her hands.

  Simi had that kind of luck. She tended to see, hear and bump into people at the worst time. Itwas as if she saw what the universe protected everyone else from seeing at the least favorable time.For example, once when she was eating panipuri (also known as gol-gappas or puchkas) with her friends, only Simi noticed the guy who was making the snacks was picking his nose with the same hand he was serving them with. No one else saw it. And nobody wanted to hear about it when Simi tried to tell them. People didn’t worry about kitchen hygiene when they dined out in India. It was an unsaid rule: It’s safe to consume as long as you didn’t see how it was made. It’s called street food for a reason. It goes without saying that Simi have had much difficulty eating panipuri ever since that day.

  Then there was the time that she had tried on numerous pairs of sandals before finally deciding on a pair only to find out after coming home that the shopwallah had packed two different sizes in the box. What was even worse was that the shopwallah refused to take them back. She was convinced the he had chipkaod her with his irregular stock. But what had really got her goat was that the exact same thing happened again but with another shoeshopwallah. Since it had happened in two different shoe shops, and she was the common recipient of the same injustice, she was convinced she was cursed.

  Another time, when she was in an upscale restaurant with her friends, the girls from the group had gone to the ladies room one by one with no problem at all. But when Simi went, there was a lady in the adjoining loo suffering from the worst bout of diarrhea. Simi totally lost her appetite. There were many incidents like that — too many for one human being to handle.

  So it came as no surprise to Simi that of all the people to be travelling from Mumbai to Doha, Mrs. Shah would be seated next to her.

  Although midair her luck seemed to turn and Mrs. Shah proved to be a fun person, mostly because she had brought along enough home-cooked food for a train journey with her six children.

  ‘Half of my marriage went into being pregnant, delivering babies and raising them,’ she told Simi. ‘We stopped after we had our sixth one, our son, Bhomesh.’

  After eating her food Simi wasn’t really interested in the fact that Mrs. Shah had five daughters first and didn’t stop trying until she had a son. There was an argument there, and if Tia were there in place of Simi, Mrs. Shah would have heard no end of it. But Simi couldn’t care less.

  I’m going to America!

  Same time — Back in the La-La Land of Tia

  Things were up in the air. The air between Tia and Hari was thick as a brick wall. There had been no phone calls or text exchanges between the two since the mega fuck-up at Chitthi’s place. Hari was at the office briefing Chitthi and his staff about his Hyderabad meetings. Chitthi was going to process the legal paperwork and courier it to the Reddy brothers.

  ‘Should I even ask? How are you doing?’ Chitthi asked after the staff had left the room. Hari knew he was talking about Tia.

  ‘Not good at all, man. I fucked up bad this time,’ Hari said genuinely. Chitthi laughed out loud.

  ‘Boss, just say sorry with a puppy face and then keep quiet. She’ll give you a big lecture on something, most likely on everything under the sun, just listen and nod your head,’ Chitthi advised, shaking his head as if to say ‘these kids!’

  ‘That’s it?’ Hari couldn’t comprehend that victory was in accepting defeat and bowing down.

  ‘Yeah man. That’s all it takes. In the beginning it’ll be hard for you to accept that you’re at fault every time, no matter who really was at fault, but then like all husbands since the beginning of the time have come to know, you’ll learn that it is the best way,’ Chitthi said, with the authority of a seasoned husband.

  Hari nodded in agreement.

  ‘But here’s the kicker. The secret. Today when you are with her kick her to the curb a little more, not literally, but behavior-wise. Give her a little more stress before you give her some sugar. Twist that knot one last time and then untie it.’ Chitthi was sharing this wisdom with enthusiasm and was ready to draw it out for Hari if needed.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Hari was perplexed.

  ‘Show her that you know you are a jerk by acting like one for a brief moment before you swoop in and apologize and take her breath away. It’s the push and pull principle … like a rubber band, you see?’ Chitthi said, demonstrating with a rubber band he had fished out of his pocket. This worried Hari. Who carries a random rubber band in their pockets and why?

  ‘I think I got it!’ Hari exclaimed.

  Chitthi had theproud expression of ‘welcome to the b
ig boys club’ written all over his face and wanted to hug Hari.

  ‘I have to meet her at the event planner’s office today,’ Hari said, looking at his watch.

  Later — Malibu West Beach Club

  Tia had arrived at the venue ten minutes before her scheduled appointment with the event planner, Minto. No sooner had she turned into this spectacular property her urge to get engaged there was amped up so high she felt as if she had two back-to-back mini orgasms.

  As she waited for Minto she was shown around the property. Her legs were becoming jelly like. This was the kind of place that usually featured in magazines like Martha Stewart Weddings. Standing at the edge of the ocean between Zuma State Beach and Broad Beach, the Malibu West Beach Club occupied one of the most desirable chunks of real estate in Southern California. Glorious white sand stretched for one hundred yards from the clubhouse to the breaking surf, and from the club’s deck there was a 180-degree panorama of the vast Pacific and miles of Malibu coastline.

  She was told that ceremonies took place on the fifty-foot deck overlooking the beach and the Pacific Ocean. After the ceremony, the newlyweds and their bridal party were invited down to the beach for the quintessential California beach pictures. There was even a Baywatch-style lifeguard tower on which everyone could pose for a group shot.

  Tia wanted to thank God, the Universe, the environment … gosh, she was just in love … in love. It was tantamount to an Oscar acceptance speech.

  In her excitement she texted Hari forgetting she was supposed to be still mad at him.

  Where are you? Tia.

  Just then a short, slick black haired man in a sharp suit walked towards her. He introduced himself as Mr. Minto and enquired about her fiancé. Tia told him Hari was on his way. Minto was a busy man, a very busy no-nonsense wedding planner who fancied himself as a creator and an artiste (with ‘e’ at the end).

  God, let him be gay, let him be gay.

  It was well known to Tia that gay men were the best at this profession and no one could match their attention to detail. She immediately felt guilty for stereotyping gays, or wedding planners, or both.

  How selfish of me!

  She was furiously texting Hari telling him to get his ass over there ASAP.

  Get your ass over here ASAP. Tia.

  Minto took the time to explain more about the venue to her.

  ‘The reception takes place inside a room with floor to ceiling windows overlooking the beach. Sunset is never far from your view. The interior of the room is a blank canvas on which to create your own vision. Driftwood floors …’

  A vision of the dream ceremony hovered in Tia’s imagination as she let the words fall on her ears. Minto continued his rehearsed pitch.

  ‘… georgette chiffon walls with little white lights and georgette chiffon drapes across the ceiling complete an elegant, yet beachy casual feeling. There is also a private bridal room for the bride and bridesmaids to prepare and get dressed while looking out over the ocean.’

  Tia was so impressed with Minto she didn’t even realize that he had taken her into his office. He asked her to take a seat as he went to attend on the waiting clients. There, a droolingly delicious looking three-tiered wedding cake sat next to his desk. It was a work of art.

  Minto sat on the extraordinarily large chair. In front of him was a young American couple. They were holding hands, sitting on the edge of their chairs, excited, eager and attentive. Tia was watching them from the sofa on the other side of the room. The American fiancé asked Minto if he could make the top tier of the cake in blueberries.

  ‘They are Stacy’s favorite,’ he told him. Stacy blushed.

  Tia admired the American guy instantly. He knew so much about Stacy.

  ‘Of course, of course,’ Minto nodded. ‘This is all about you two. I am just a mere helper here.’

  Minto took notes, but the American guy had one more request.

  ‘Oh and the tablecloths for dinner need to be champagne pink. Not just pink, but champagne pink. Another of Stacy’s favorites.’

  Minto, feeling proud for the whole of Menkind, nodded excitedly.

  ‘Pristine. Stacy, if I may say so myself, what you have here is a man with impeccable taste, a loving and caring man who knows your every like and dislike. Your choice of him is pristine and his choice of color scheme for the wedding reception is pristine.’

  There was lots of blushing going on over at the desk. At the back of the room Tia was misty-eyed at the way the American was taking initiative, being decisive and making the correct choice of champagne pink table napkins. Tia knew that any other shade of pink would just not go with the strawberry pink of the cake.

  Aah, this is why the compatibility of the bride-to-be and her groom-to-be is a must.

  Admittedly, this level of compatibility was a rarity, she knew, but she also knew that any man, if only he would take a conscious decision to be that compatible with his woman, could actually do it. She was glad she witnessed it in the American couple and she wanted to thank someone.

  Just then, Hari entered. He was dressed in torn jeans and a washed out T-shirt. He had a couple of days’ worth of stubble on his face and was carrying his mobile and iPad. He saw Tia.

  ‘Sorry, sorry, I’m late,’ he said loudly. ‘The traffic was a bitch.’ He would later regret putting so much emphasis on the word ‘bitch’.

  Minto and the American couple were distracted, pausing to look at the rude guy who just crashed into their meeting.

  ‘Shhh … be quiet,’ Tia said, embarrassed.

  Hari sat down next to her. He realized that he might have been in for a scolding for being late and tried to peck her on the cheek.

  ‘Sorry, I always forget. You like to kiss when we meet in public, right? Like a peck on the cheek?’ he asked with the puppy dog ‘me sorry now, please’ face.

  But Tia wanted to be prim and proper; this was no time for apologies.

  Focus man, focus!

  ‘Not the right moment, Hari,’ she whispered, distancing herself from him.

  Disappointed, Hari backed off, making a screeching sound with his chair.

  ‘Oh, sorry. Please continue,’ he said apologetically to the people in the room as everyone was looking at him astonished.

  In reality Hari was a very normal guy with this chair incident amounting to nothing, but to Tia he was an embarrassment! She had shifted from referring to him as Hari to ‘a man’ in a jiffy. Thankfully, this was all just swirling around in her head. She crossed her legs and leaned forward as if listening to a great teacher — Minto.

  As the American couple and Minto continued their meeting a ping-ping noise was sounding at regular intervals. Hari was playing Angry Birds on his iPad.

  ‘Hari!’ Tia whispered with clenched teeth.

  ‘Oh, sorry, I’ll put it on silent,’ Hari said, following Chitthi’s plan of tightening the knot just a little more.

  Minto gave him a look, and then he looked at Tia with an expression that said ‘I feel sorry for you’. Tia felt Minto was judging her for her choice of man. Her nostrils flared as she continued to stare at Hari, who had his head buried in his iPad and was laughing at his success in the video game. The way he was sitting with his legs spread, with unwashed sneakers on his feet, snorting from his nose!

  Gosh, you can be so juvenile sometimes.

  Actually, come to think of it, Hari was always goofy, silly and juvenile like a teenager, and he was mostly unapologetic about it. Tia couldn’t wait to straighten him out in terms of manners and courtesy and appearances and …

  Gosh, I am marrying this chunk of an excuse of a human being!

  Tia kept looking at him and thinking that although he seemed so assembled — like he had all the right limbs and hair and stuff — but that thing, the thing that doesn’t come with the assembly kit, was missing. He was so unpolished. He was what was called an average Joe in America — the generic, blanket description for the vast majority of men. And she chose him to be her dream man?
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  Tia clenched her feet together. Here we go again, the thoughts started pouring in her head. He was born and brought up in America, while she had only been in the country for a short time, but unlike him she had made an effort to adapt, to assimilate into this advanced civilization!

  Does familiarity really breed contempt? she thought. I mean, he has so much scope to improve, but look, just look at him, he is still acting out … like a monkey …

  Thankfully, her thoughts (and her rising rage) were interrupted when Minto called them to the table. The American couple had finished. Minto started his sales pitch for the various banquet hall packages. Another three-tiered cake was rolled into the office. This one was colorful, decked with rose petals and kiwi fruit, and had a papaya motif. Tia’s eyes had lit up.

  ‘Wow, this is a work of art, Mr. Minto! Please compliment the chef from us. I don’t think we need to see any more options, right Hari?’

  Hari now had his iPad on one thigh, his Galaxy Note II mobile on the other and his Blackberry in his hands. He nodded without looking up.

  ‘Awesome. Yeah, yeah.’

  Tia was not sure if he was reacting to something on his mobile or to the cake. She was embarrassed.

  ‘Would you like to taste a slice?’ Minto asked Hari.

  ‘Hari, would we like to taste a slice?’ Tia asked after Hari didn’t respond.

  Hari again nodded without looking up.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, sure.’

  An incoming email notification buzzed on his iPad. He gestured Minto with his hand, indicating ‘Just a second’.

  Minto gave him a look and folded his arms. Hari opened the email. Tia was embarrassed. She turned to him, now angry.

  ‘You know Hari, this cake is so handsome, I feel attracted to it so I might as well marry it!’

  Minto raised an eyebrow. Ah, this should be interesting.

  Hari was still busy reading his email.

  ‘Yeah, it’s nice!’ he responded.

  Tia, now disappointed on top of being angry and embarrassed, let him have it.

  ‘So after I marry the cake, we’ll have our honeymoon right here in the bakery. A little flour, a little milk, a little icing …’ She paused just for the benefit of Hari, hoping he would catch on to what she was saying.