2 States: The Story of My Marriage Read online

  ‘Don’t overreact. I am doing it to fob off Shobha aunty. I still have the final say. I’ll say no.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Because this is not important. You saw the petrol pump girl, didn’t you?’

  ‘But I told you later. And it wasn’t a formal thing. My mother went to visit Pammi aunty.’

  ‘And neither is this formal. My parents said Harish is only coming for a casual visit.’

  ‘Oh, so people match horoscopes casually?’

  ‘It is the first step. And Shobha aunty did it. Krish, listen. . . .’

  ‘Ananya!’ a Tamil-accented scream filled the room.

  ‘I love you,’ she said, ‘and I have to go now.’ She brushed past me to the door.

  ‘Why are you wearing this stunning sari?’ I placed my hand on the bolt to stop her.

  ‘Because my mother chose it for me. Now, can I go or do you want appa to come here?’

  ‘Let’s elope,’ I said.

  ‘Let’s not give up,’ she said and stood up on her toes to kiss me. The taste of strawberry lip-gloss lingered on my lips.

  I came outside after five minutes. The hubbub over Harish had settled down a little. The men opened their newspapers. The women gave each other formal smiles like ballet dancers. The groom took out his latest Motorola Startac mobile phone, checking messages. Ananya’s mother served her standard fossilised snake snacks. No one spoke to each other. In a Punjabi home, if a similar silence occurred, you could assume that something terrible has happened—like someone has died or there is a property dispute or someone forgot to put butter in the black daal. But this is Ananya’s home protocol. You meet in an excited manner, you serve bland snacks and you open the newspaper or exchange dead looks.

  My re-entry made everyone notice me. Ananya’s mother seemed surprised. Ananya sat next to her and faced Harish’s parents. I occupied my corner chair.

  ‘Manju’s tutor,’ Ananya’s mother said. Everyone looked at me, the tutor who came to teach in a corporate suit.

  ‘He is Ananya akka’s classmate,’ Manju said, restoring some status to me.

  ‘You also went to IIMA? I have many colleagues who are your seniors,’ Harish said.

  ‘Really? That’s nice,’ I said. I wanted to shove the spiral snacks up his moustache-covered nose, but I kept a diplomatic smile.

  Ananya’s father spoke to Harish’s father in Tamil. ‘Something something Citibank Chennai posted something. Something something Punjabi fellow.’

  Everyone nodded and felt relieved after my credentials of being a Punjabi made me a safe outsider.

  ‘Talk, Ananya,’ Ananya’s mother whispered to her.

  ‘How long are you here for?’ Ananya asked as her bangles jingled. She really didn’t have to wear the bangles.

  ‘Two weeks. Then I have to go for our annual conference to Bali,’ he said.

  ‘Bali?’ one of Ananya’s aunts said.

  ‘Bali is an island in Indonesia, an archipelago. It is eight hours flying time from here via Singapore,’ Harish’s mother said.

  Everyone nodded as they absorbed the little nugget of knowledge before breakfast. Ananya’s family loved knowledge, irrespective of whether they ever used it.

  We moved to the dining table, or rather the dining floor. Ananya’s mother had already kept the banana leaves. I found them a little greener than usual, perhaps my jealousy reflected in them.

  Aunties loaded up Harish’s leaf.

  ‘This is too much,’ Harish said, pointing to the six idlis on his leaf. ‘Does anyone want one?’ He picked up an idli and placed it in Ananya’s leaf.

  ‘Wow!’ all the aunties screamed in unison.

  ‘See, how much care he is taking of her already. You are so lucky, Ananya,’ an aunt said as I almost tore a piece of banana leaf and ate it.

  I saw the bowl of sambhar in the middle. I wondered if I should pick it up and upturn it on Harish’s head. She can take her own idlis, idiot, why don’t you go drown in Bali, I thought.

  Harish thought it really funny to shift everything he was served to Ananya. He transferred parts of the upma, pongal, chutney and banana chips from his leaf to hers. Really Harish, did nobody teach you not to stretch a bad joke too far? And all you aunts, can you please stop sniggering so as to not encourage this moron?

  ‘We must decide the date keeping in mind the US holiday calendar,’ Shobha aunty said and I felt she was moving way, way too fast.

  ‘Easy, aunty, easy,’ Ananya said.

  Thanks, Ananya madam, that is so nice of you to finally impart some sense to these people. ‘You OK?’ Manju offered an idli to me. I had spent two months with him. He could sense the turmoil in me.

  ‘I’m good,’ I said.

  The breakfast continued. And then Ananya’s mother did something that paled all the idli-passing and date-setting comments. She began to cry.

  ‘Amma?’ Ananya said as she stood up and came to her mother.

  Amma shook her head. Manju looked at her but didn’t stop eating. The uncles pretended nothing had happened.

  ‘What, Radha?’ Suruchi aunty said as she put a hand on Amma’s shoulder.

  ‘Nothing, I am so happy. I am crying for that,’ she said in such an emotional voice even I got a lump in my throat. All the other aunts had moist eyes. Harish’s mother hugged Ananya’s mother. I looked at Ananya. She rolled her eyes.

  ‘How quickly our children grow up,’ one aunt said, ignoring the small fact that along with the children, she’d grown into an old woman, too.

  I’m going to get you all, I will, I swore to myself as I went to wash my hands.

  25

  ‘Why don’t you tell them! This gradual strategy is obviously not working,’ I said as I opened the menu.

  We had come to Amethyst, a charming teahouse set in an old colonial bungalow. It is one of the few redeeming aspects of the city. Set in a one-acre plot, the bungalow is on two levels. Outside the bungalow there are grand verandahs with cane furniture and potted plants with large leaves. Waiters bring eclectic drinks like jamun iced tea and mint and ginger coolers along with expensive dishes with feta cheese in them. It is a favourite haunt of stylish Chennai ladies and couples so madly in love, they feel a hundred bucks for jamun mixed with soda was OK.

  ‘I’ll have the Jamun iced and chicken sandwich, and some scones and cream, please.’ Ananya said.

  ‘And some water, please,’ I said to the waiter.

  ‘Still or sparkling, sir?’ the waiter said.

  ‘Whatever you had a bath with this morning,’ Krish said.

  ‘Sir?’ the waiter said, taken aback, ‘tap water, sir.’

  ‘Same, get me that,’ I said.

  ‘I have told them, of course. They don’t agree,’ Ananya said, as we reverted to our topic.

  ‘Is Mr Harish history?’

  ‘Finally, though it will take years to make Shobha athai OK again. She is like – tell me one thing wrong with Harish.’

  ‘He can’t get a woman on his own,’ I said.

  ‘Shut up, Krish,’ Ananya laughed. ‘You know how I finally closed it?’

  ‘Did you tell him about me?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Sort of?’ I said, my voice loud. ‘I am not Mr Sort Of. I am The Guy.’

  ‘Yeah, but I can’t tell him exactly. How would he feel? My boyfriend sat with me when he came to see me.’

  ‘Imagine how I felt. Anyway, what did you tell him?’

  ‘He asked me, rather hinted, about my virginity.’

  ‘He did not! I will kill that bastard,’ I said, my face red.

  Ananya laughed. ‘Jealousy is a rather enjoyable emotion to watch,’ she observed.

  ‘Funny.’

  ‘He just said . . . wait let me remember. Yes, he said, are you still pure or something,’ she giggled.

  ‘What a loser. What is he looking for – ghee?’ I asked.

  Ananya laughed uncontrollably. She held her stomach as she spoke. ‘Wait, you�€