2 States: The Story of My Marriage Read online

  ‘M.S. Subbulakshmi,’ Manju said, noticing my worried expression. ‘Devotional music.’

  I nodded as I flipped through the chemistry book to find a problem challenging enough for the little Einstein.

  ‘Every Tamilian house plays it in the morning,’ he said.

  I wondered if Ananya would play it in our house after we got married. My mother could have serious trauma with that sound. The chants became stronger with every passing minute.

  ‘What is IIT like?’ he asked.

  I told him about my former college, filtering out all the spicy bits that occurred in my life.

  ‘I want to do aeronautics,’ Manju said. At his age, I didn’t even know that word.

  He took out his physics textbook after an hour. He gave me a problem and I asked for time to solve it. He nodded and read the next chapter. The tutor was being tutored.

  I passed the rest of the hour learning physics from Manju. I stood up to leave. I reached the living room where Ananya’s dad was making slow love to The Hindu. Ananya had instructed me to spend as much time with her father as possible. I waited for ten minutes until he finished his article.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘I finished the class.’

  ‘Good,’ he said and flipped another page.

  ‘How’s the bank, uncle?’

  He glanced up from the newspaper, surprised. ‘Which bank?’

  ‘Your bank.’ I cleared my throat. ‘How is your job?’

  ‘What?’ he said, stumped by the stupidity of the question. ‘What is there in job? Job is same.’

  ‘Yes, sure,’ I said.

  I stood for another five minutes, not sure of what I should do. I couldn’t compete with The Hindu, and a fresh one came every day.

  ‘I’ll leave now, uncle,’ I said.

  ‘OK,’ he said.

  I had reached the door when he called out, ‘Breakfast?’

  ‘I’ll have it in office.’

  ‘Where is your office?’

  ‘Anna Salai,’ I said.

  ‘That’s on my way. I leave at eight-thirty. I can drop you,’ he said.

  I realised eight-thirty would mean I’d reach an hour later than my boss. It didn’t work for me. But the lift also meant I could be in this house for another two hours and be in the car alone with my father-in-law-in-courtship.

  ‘That’s perfect. I have to reach at the same time,’ I said.

  ‘Good,’ he said and went back to his paper again.

  We sat for breakfast at seven-thirty. Ananya’s father went to the temple room to pray, and came back with the customary three grey stripes on the forehead. I wondered if I should go pray too, but wasn’t sure how I’d explain the three stripes in office along with my lateness.

  We had idlis for breakfast, and Ananya’s mother put fifty of them in front of us. We ate quietly. Ananya had told me they never spoke much anyway. The best way to fit in was to never talk.

  ‘More chutney?’ Ananya’s mother’s question (and my shaking my head) was the only insightful conversation we had during the meal.

  Uncle reversed his Fiat from the garage. He peeked out to look at me several times. I wasn’t sure if he wanted to avoid me or make a direct hit.

  ‘Sit,’ uncle said. I went around the car to sit next to him. Sitting with my girlfriend’s father in a car brought back traumatic memories. I took deep breaths. This is not the same situation, play cool, I said to myself several times.

  Uncle drove at a speed of ten an hour, and I wondered what reason I’d give to my boss for not coming to office two hours ago. Autos, scooters and even some manual-powered vehicles like rickshaws came close to overtaking us.

  I wanted to talk but couldn’t think of any trouble-free topic. I opened my office bag with the dubious ‘Citi never sleeps’ logo and took out my research reports to read. Dot com stocks had lost 25% last week. The analysts who had predicted that these stocks would triple every hour now claimed the market had gone into self-correct mode. Self-correct – it sounded so intelligent and clever it sort of took the pain away from people who had lost their life savings. It also made you sound dumb if you’d ask why didn’t the market self-correct earlier? Or the more basic, what the fuck do you mean by self-correct anyway?

  I had two clients who had lost ten lakh each coming to visit me today. With my IIMA degree I had to come up with a sleight of hand to make the losses disappear.

  The car came to a halt near a red light.

  ‘You wrote those reports?’ uncle asked.

  I shook my head. ‘It’s the research group,’ I said.

  ‘Then what you do at the bank?’ he was more rhetorical.

  ‘Customer service,’ I said, not sure how anything I did was service. Asking people to give you their money and scraping away at it wasn’t service.

  ‘Do you know how to write those reports?’ he said.

  The cars behind us began to honk. The Fiat didn’t start instantly. Uncle made two attempts in vain.

  ‘Illa servicing quality,’ he cursed at his car as he pulled the choke. I kept the reports inside as I became ready to push the car. Fortunately, the car started at the third attempt.

  ‘I can write them, why?’ I said, answering his earlier question.

  ‘Nothing. Stupid joint venture my bank has done. Now they want us to submit a business plan. And that GM has asked me.’

  ‘I can help,’ I screamed like a boy scout.

  ‘Rascal,’ he said.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘That GM Verma. In my thirty years at the bank I haven’t done any report. Now I have to make a pinpoint presentation as well.’

  ‘Powerpoint presentation?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, that one. Intentionally rascal gave me something I don’t understand,’ uncle said.

  ‘I can help,’ I said. Maybe I had found a way to bond with uncle.

  ‘No need,’ uncle said, his voice serious. He realised he had opened up more than he should have.

  ‘You get off here,’ uncle said and drove to a road corner. ‘Citibank is hardly hundred metres.’

  I stepped out of the car. I said thanks three times and waved him goodbye. He didn’t respond. He put his hand on the gear-shift.

  ‘Don’t meet Ananya too much. We are simple people, we don’t say much. But don’t spoil her name in our community,’ he said.

  ‘Uncle, but. . . .’

  ‘I know you are classmates and you are helping Manju. We can be grateful, we can feed you, but we can’t let Ananya marry you.’

  I stood at the traffic intersection. Autos blared their horns at each other as if in angry conversation. It was hardly the place to convince someone about the most important decision of your life.

  ‘Uncle, but. . . .’ I said again.

  Uncle folded his hands to before pressing the accelerator. The car started to move. Fuck, how do I respond to folded hands? I thought. Uncle drove past me. Like a defeated insurance salesman, I lifted my bag and walked towards the bank.

  21

  ‘Welcome sir, welcome to State Bank of India,’ Bala said. His tone couldn’t hide his anger, thereby ruining the sarcasm of his lines. He sat on my desk, waiting for this exact joyous moment when he could squash me.

  ‘I’m really sorry, my auto met with an accident,’ I lied.

  ‘Your chummery servant said you left at five,’ he said.

  ‘You called my chummery? It’s only nine. Isn’t that the official time anyway?’

  ‘No, this is Citibank. Not a public sector bank,’ he said.

  ‘So, people who work here cannot have a life,’ I mumbled.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. Ms Sreenivas is coming at ten today,’ I said.

  ‘And you haven’t prepared for it. Have you read the reports?’

  ‘Yes, I have. But the tricky part is she is down ten lakh. And that is because she believed these reports. So no matter how well I read these reports, she won’t trust them. Can I sit on my chair?’ I aske