2 States: The Story of My Marriage Read online

  ‘Yes, the Citi chummery. My first home too,’ he leaned forward and patted my back.

  I suppose I had a good boss. I should have felt happy but didn’t. I wondered if I should call HLL first or straight land up there.

  I came back to my desk in the afternoon. I met some customers, but most of them didn’t have time to stay long. Ms Sreenivas had given me a lucky break, but it wasn’t that easy to woo conservative Tamilians, after all.

  ‘Fixed deposit. I like fixed deposit,’ one customer told me when I asked him for his investment preferences.

  At three in the afternoon, I had a call.

  ‘It is for you, sir,’ Sri said as she transferred the line to my extension.

  ‘Hi, I’d like to open a priority account, with my hot-shot sexy banker.’

  ‘Ananya?’ I said, my voice bursting with happiness, ‘Where are you? When are we meeting? Should I come to HLL? I am sorry my flight. . . .’

  ‘Easy, easy. I am in Kancheepuram.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Three hours from Chennai. I’ll head back soon. Why don’t you come home for dinner?’

  ‘Home? Your home? With your mom and dad?’

  ‘Yes, why not? You have to know them anyway. Mom’s a little low these days, but that is OK.’

  ‘Why is she low? Because of us?’

  ‘No, she finds other reasons to be miserable. Luckily, this time it has nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Ananya, let’s go out, OK?’

  ‘I can’t today. My aunt is visiting from Canada. Come at eight.’ She gave me her address. I noted it down after making her spell it thrice. ‘See you in five hours,’ she said and hung up.

  I stared at the watch, hoping it would move faster. The reps left at six, and as Citi’s great culture goes, MBAs never left until eight.

  I killed time reading reports on the Indian economy. Smart people had written them, and they made GDP forecasts for the next ten years with confidence that hid the basic fact—how can you really tell, dude?

  At seven-thirty I stood up to leave. Bala came towards me. ‘Leaving?’ he asked, puzzled as if I had planned to take a half day.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Not much to do.’

  ‘One tip, never leave before your boss,’ he said and winked at me. He laughed, and I didn’t find it funny at all. I want to see what a Tamil joke book looks like.

  ‘What time do you leave?’ I said, tired.

  ‘Soon, actually let me call it a day. Kusum will be waiting. You want to come home for dinner?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ I said.

  He gave me the second disappointed look.

  ‘I have to go somewhere, distant relatives,’ I said.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, his voice still a little sad.

  I am sorry, dude, I am not handing you the remote of my life because you are my boss, I thought.

  17

  ‘Swaminathan’, the name plate of Ananya’s small standalone house proclaimed in arched letters. I pressed the doorbell even as a buzzing grinder drowned the ring.

  ‘Yes?’ Ananya’s father opened the door with a puzzled expression. I bet he recognised me but feigned ignorance to rattle me. He wore a half-sleeve white vest with a front pocket and a checked blue and white lungi.

  ‘Krish, sir, Ananya’s friend,’ I said. For no particular reason, fear makes me address people as sir. I had brought a gift pack of biscuits, as my Punjabi sensibilities had taught me to never go to someone’s house without at least as many calories as you would consume there.

  ‘Oh, come in,’ he said after I reintroduced myself.

  I stepped inside and handed him the gift pack.

  ‘Shoes!’ he said in a stern voice when I had expected ‘thanks’.

  ‘What?’ I said.

  He pointed at the shoe rack outside the house.

  I removed my shoes and checked my socks for smells and holes. I decided to take them off, too. I went inside.

  ‘Don’t step on the rangoli,’ he warned.

  I looked down. My right foot rested on a rice flour flower pattern. ‘Sorry, I am really sorry, sir,’ I said and bent down to repair the pattern.

  ‘It’s OK. It can’t be fixed now,’ he said and ushered me into the living room. The long rectangular room looked like what would be left if a Punjabi drawing room was robbed. The sofas were simple, with cushions thinner than Indian Railways sleepers had and from the opposite of the decadent red velvet sofas of Pammi aunty. The walls had a pale green distemper finish. There were pictures of various South Indian gods all around the room. The dining area had floor seating. At one corner, there was a daybed with a tambura (which looks like a sitar) kept on it. An old man sat there. I wondered if Ananya’s parents were cool enough to arrange live music for dinner.

  ‘Sit,’ Ananya’s father said, pointing at the sofa.

  We sat opposite each other as I faced Ananya’s dad for the first time in my life. I strained my brain hard for a suitable topic. ‘Nice place,’ I said.

  ‘What is nice? No water in this area,’ uncle said as he picked up a newspaper.

  I hung my head, as if to apologise for the water problem in Mylapore.

  Uncle opened the newspaper, which blocked his face from mine. I didn’t know if it was intentional. I kept quiet and turned to the man with the tambura. I smiled, but he didn’t react. The house had an eerie silence. A Punjabi house is never this silent even when people sleep at night.

  I bent forward to see if uncle was reading the paper or avoiding me. He had opened the editorial page of The Hindu. He read an opinion piece about AIADMK asking the government to do an inquiry on the defence minister who had sacked the naval chief. It was heavy-duty stuff. No one in my family, correction, no one in my extended clan ever read editorial pages of newspapers, let alone articles about AIADMK.

  Uncle caught me peeking over him and grunted, ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said. I didn’t know why I felt so guilty.

  Uncle continued to read for five minutes. I had an opportunity to speak again when he turned the page. ‘No one is at home, sir?’

  ‘Where will they go?’

  ‘I can’t see anyone.’

  ‘Cooking. Can’t you hear the grinder?’ he said.

  I didn’t know if Ananya’s father was naturally like this or extra grumpy today. Maybe he is pissed about me being here, I thought.

  ‘You want water?’ he said.

  ‘No sir,’ I said.

  ‘Why? Why you don’t want water?’

  I didn’t have an answer except that I felt scared and weird in this house. ‘OK, give me water,’ I said.

  ‘Radha,’ uncle screamed. ‘Tanni!’

  ‘Is that Ananya’s grandfather,’ I said, pointing to the old man.

  ‘No,’ he said.

  I realised Ananya’s father answered exactly what was asked. ‘Who is he?’ I asked slowly.

  ‘It’s Radha’s Carnatic music teacher who came to see her. But she is busy in the kitchen making dinner for you. Now what to do?’

  I nodded.

  Ananya’s mother came in the living room. She held a tray with a glass of water and a plate of savouries. The spiral-shaped, brown-coloured snacks resembled fossilised snakes.

  ‘Hello, aunty,’ I stood up.

  ‘Hello, Krish,’ she said.

  ‘I am sorry I came at the wrong time,’ I said, looking at the teacher.

  ‘It’s OK. Ananya invited you. And she has a habit of not consulting me,’ Ananya’s mother said.

  ‘Aunty, we can all go out,’ I said.

  ‘It’s OK. Food is almost ready,’ she said and turned to her husband. ‘Give me half an hour with Guruji.’ She went up to Guruji and touched his feet. The Guruji blessed her. Ananya’s mother picked up the tambura and they left the room.

  ‘So, Citibank placed you in Chennai?’ uncle said, initiating conversation with me for the first time.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I said. Ananya had told him the bank had transferred me.