2 States: The Story of My Marriage Read online

  18

  The beautiful sunrise at Marina Beach compensated for the 5 a.m. wakeup call. Hundreds of people took a morning walk along the seashore, which ran down miles.

  ‘Do you know this is the biggest city beach in Asia?’ Ananya asked as she met me at the police headquarters building.

  ‘You’ve told me,’ I said.

  ‘Why are you in formals?’

  ‘I go straight to work. Trainees are expected to be there at seven-thirty,’ I said, removing my shoes and folding my pants up to walk along the beach.

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘To suck up to the boss, who if you do a good job will promote you to the next level of sucking up. Welcome to corporate life,’ I said.

  ‘I am not facing it yet. I have to sell a thousand bottles of ketchup every week. I am so behind my targets.’

  ‘You’d better ketch-up fast,’ I said.

  ‘Funny,’ she said and punched me. Ananya saw a man with a bicycle. He carried a basket full of idlis. ‘Breakfast?’ she offered.

  ‘Don’t they have toast?’

  ‘Don’t grumble,’ she said. We took four idlis and sat on a bench facing the water. She spoke about her mother. ‘Guruji didn’t accept mom. He felt she isn’t dedicated enough.’

  ‘But isn’t she really good?’ I asked, not that I could tell from the shrill cries I heard last night.

  ‘She isn’t good enough by Chennai standards. Dad used to be posted in towns outside Tamil Nadu. Mom became a star in the Tamilian community there. Here, she is just OK. Chennai’s Carnatic music scene is at a different level.’

  I nodded as if I understood.

  ‘My parents came to Chennai with great enthusiasm. But now dad lost his promotion. Pesky relatives visit us all the time. Amidst all this, their daughter wants to impose a non-Brahmin, non-Tamil, Punjabi boy on them. Of course, they will freak out. We have to be patient. I love them, too, Krish,’ she said and paused for breath.

  A gentle breeze blew on our faces. She laid her head on my left shoulder. I stroked her hair. The sun emerged out of the Bay of Bengal, a soft red at first, turning into a warmer orange. I put my arm around Ananya. In my tie and formal pants, I looked like a salesman with no place to take his girlfriend to make out.

  ‘There is only one way you can get regular access to my home,’ Ananya said after staring at the horizon for a minute.

  ‘What?’

  ‘IIT tuitions for my brother. They’d accept anything for that,’ she said.

  I let go of her and sat up straight. ‘Are you crazy? I prepared for the IIT exam eight years ago. I can’t teach him.’

  ‘I’m sure you can revise some notes and help him. My parents have to get comfortable with you. Only then can I ask them to seriously consider you.’

  I dipped my idli into coconut chutney and ate it. I missed my mother’s hot paranthas at breakfast.

  ‘Do you love me?’ She wiped a bit of chutney from my lips.

  I kissed her. I was kissing her after two months. I didn’t release her for a minute. I’d revise IIT chemistry for this chemistry any day.

  ‘Ai!’ a hoarse voice screamed behind us.

  I turned around. A pot-bellied Tamilian cop, looking more villain than police, walked fast towards us. ‘What is this?’ he said and slammed his stick on the bench. Both of us sprang up. Ananya hid behind me.

  ‘Oh fuck,’ she said. ‘Get rid of him.’

  The cop screamed at me in Tamil. Helpless, I asked Ananya to translate.

  ‘He wants to take us to the police station. He is saying we have some nerve doing all this outside police headquarters.’

  ‘Why do they have police headquarters opposite a beach?’ I asked.

  ‘Shut up and pay him off,’ she whispered.

  I look out my wallet and took out twenty bucks.

  ‘Illa Illa. . . .’ the cop continued to shout and grabbed my arm.

  I took out a fifty. He looked at me and Ananya. ‘Warning,’ the cop said as he took the note.

  Ananya laughed after the cop left us.

  ‘It’s so not funny,’ I said as I wore my shoes again and straightened my pants. ‘Can we meet at my chummery, please?’

  ‘In a while. I travel out of Chennai everyday and come back late,’ she said.

  ‘Weekend?’

  ‘I’ll try,’ she said. ‘You will feed me chicken? I’m dying to have non-veg. And get beer, too.’

  ‘OK,’ I promised. My building had vegetarian-only rules, but surely they wouldn’t notice if I brought something readymade from outside.

  We sat in our respective autos. She spoke to me from her side window. ‘And I’ll speak to my parents about the tuitions. Twice a week at five?’

  ‘Five in the morning?’ Why is everyone so eager to wake up in this town!

  ‘That’s when everyone goes for tuitions,’ she said and sped off. I had to wait for two miserable weeks in Chennai until Ananya finally decided to visit me in my chummery for lunch one Saturday. One weekend Ananya’s mother fell ill and Ananya had to cook for the family, courtesy a guilt trip from her mother. The food did not come out right, as Ananya’s culinary experience is limited to making Maggi in my room and making papads with a clothes iron (yes, it works). This led to another guilt trip from Shobha aunty to Ananya’s mother who blamed her for not bringing up her daughter right. That guilt trip percolated down to Ananya, who had to take Shobha aunty jewellery and sari shopping the next weekend.

  Meanwhile, I had visited Brilliant Tutorials and bought the IIT exam guides. I couldn’t believe how tough the course materials were. The only reason I managed to study them in the past was because that distracted me from my parents’ fights. I revised chemistry to prepare for my first class.

  I also went to my Sardar-ji neighbour to find out the best way to procure chicken and beer.

  ‘Who is coming? Punjabi friends?’ he asked.

  ‘Work people,’ I said, to stop him from inviting himself.

  ‘Be careful when you take it up in the lift,’ he said.

  As he had told me, I went to the Delhi dhabha in Nungambakkam, less than a kilometre from my house. I triple-packed the tandoori chicken so no smell came out. I went to the government-approved liquor shop, where they had trouble establishing my age. ‘Are you over twenty-five?’

  ‘No, but will be soon,’ I said.

  ‘Then we can’t give you,’ the shopkeeper said.

  ‘Even if I pay ten bucks extra a bottle?’

  It is amazing how money relaxes rules around the country. The shopkeeper packed the three bottles in brown paper, and I further placed them in a plastic bag, so one couldn’t make out the shape.

  ‘What’s in it?’ the liftman asked me as the bottles touched the ground noisily when I placed the packet on the floor.

  ‘Lemon squash,’ I said.

  ‘You should have coconut water instead,’ the liftman said.

  I nodded and reached my apartment. Ramanujan saw me place the bottles in the fridge. ‘What’s that?’ He wore a lungi and nothing on top apart from a white thread around his shoulder.

  ‘Beer,’ I said.

  ‘Dude, you can’t get alcohol in this building,’ he said.

  ‘My girlfriend is visiting me. She likes it,’ I said.

  ‘You have a girlfriend?’ Ramanujan repeated like I had ten wives. None of my flatmates had a girlfriend. They were all qualified, wellpaid Tamil Citibankers who planned to be auctioned off soon by their parents.

  ‘Yes, from college,’ I said.

  My other roommates came to the living room. None of them wore shirts. I shut the fridge to avoid further conversation on the beverages.

  ‘She is visiting Chennai?’ Sendil said.

  ‘Will she stay here? She can’t stay here,’ Appalingam said.

  ‘She lives in Chennai,’ I said.

  The boys looked at each other as to who would ask the bell-the-cat question.

  ‘Tamilian?’ Ramanujan asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I