2 States: The Story of My Marriage Read online

‘Depends,’ I said.

  ‘On what?’

  ‘Did you feel bad when they didn’t make you GM?’ I said.

  Uncle looked at me for a few seconds. He leaned forward from the sofa to come near me. ‘Let me tell you one thing. What is your name?’ he said.

  Obviously, I was not anywhere close to getting close to him. ‘Krish,’ I said.

  ‘Of course, sorry, this whisky . . . Anyway, Krish, I had offers. Ten years back I had offers from multinational banks. But I stayed loyal to my bank. And I was patient to get my turn to be GM. Now, I have five years to retire and they send this rascal North Indian.’

  ‘You did feel bad,’ I said.

  ‘I still feel horrible. I haven’t even told this to my wife. I am drinking too much,’ he said.

  ‘It’s OK. The point is, if you feel horrible then you need to do what it takes to get to be number one. And. . . .’ I stopped myself.

  ‘What? Say it,’ he said.

  ‘And if you don’t have marketing skills, then better admit that than take a moral high ground about knowledge. You’ve done good work, let the world know. What the hell is cheap or shameless about that?’

  Uncle didn’t respond.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, composing myself.

  ‘No, you are right. I am useless,’ he said, his voice quivering. I became worried he’d cry.

  ‘I didn’t say that. We made this, right?’ I pointed to my laptop.

  ‘You think I should present? Will I be able to?’ he asked.

  ‘You will kick ass,’ I said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sorry, I said you need ice?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘You’ll be fine. Tell Verma you will present this. Don’t give him a copy.’

  ‘I’ll fight with him?’

  ‘Yes, if you call it that,’ I said. ‘And make sure from now on, people know about the work you do. Look at Bala, my boss. He copies the country manager on everything. Bala briefed the country manager about the food menu for this stupid local concert we are having next month. You definitely have to get noticed, you don’t have to do the work. That’s how corporates work, everyone knows it.’

  Uncle nodded and fell deep in thought. I checked the time: 2 a.m. I couldn’t control a yawn.

  ‘OK, we should go to bed,’ uncle said and stood up. ‘Wait.’ He came back with a lungi and vest. ‘Here, will this do?’

  You got to be kidding me, I wanted to say, but said, ‘Perfect.’

  Uncle showed me the guestroom. I sat down on the bed with the nightclothes in my lap.

  ‘What do you want to be? MD at Citibank?’ uncle asked me as he reached the door to leave my room.

  ‘A writer,’ I said.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said and his tired body became alert again.

  ‘MD, country manager, I don’t care, It’s not me,’ I said.

  ‘Will you leave the bank?’

  ‘Not immediately. I’ll save for a couple of years first.’

  ‘And after that? What about your parents? Are they OK with this?’

  ‘We’ll see. You should sleep, uncle. You have a presentation to make tomorrow,’ I said.

  Uncle switched off the main light and left. I went to the bathroom and struggled with my lungi. Finally, I used a belt to tie it around my waist and lay down in bed. My back was resting after eighteen hours; I let out a sigh of relief.

  Uncle knocked on my door. He came inside and switched on the light again.

  I sat up on the bed in one jerk.

  ‘What?’ ‘Water,’ uncle said as he left a bottle next to my bed. ‘Drink up, or you will have a headache in office tomorrow.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  ‘You OK with that lungi? You need help?’

  ‘No, I am fine,’ I said and clutched my belt and modesty close to myself.

  ‘Good night,’ uncle said as he switched off the light again.

  ‘Good night, sir,’ I said and cursed myself for the next ten minutes for calling him sir.

  29

  ‘Three lakh!’ Bala flipped during the concert steering committee meeting. Yes, one of the great value additions from Bala is to make everything sound important. He created the CSC, or the Concert Steering Committee. It sounded so important, I could almost put it in my resume.

  But right now, we had a problem. Everyone kept silent as the person in charge of the singers gave her report. ‘You want three celebrity singers, sir,’ said Madhavi, a fat agent with spectacles who looked like a cross between a school prefect and an ICU nurse.

  ‘But how can they get paid so much?’ Bala said. Somehow, Bala felt only he deserved a job that paid far in excess of the work involved.

  ‘They come with a band, sir, and back-up singers,’ Madhavi said.

  Everyone in the room nodded.

  Bala shook his head. ‘Why do we need back-up singers? The main ones will crash or something?’

  Nobody laughed.

  ‘Back-up means chorus, sir,’ Madhavi said.

  Bala remained unimpressed.

  ‘Chorus are those people who say aa aa aa in love songs, sir,’ said Renuka, another agent.

  ‘I know what chorus is,’ Bala said as he banged his fist on the table. ‘But this is too much.’

  ‘We can cut the food,’ said one agent. He got more dirty looks than an eve-teaser in a bus. He retracted his suggestion.

  ‘Why don’t we get some lesser known singers?’ I asked.

  ‘But this is a Citibank event. If we get B-grade singers and tomorrow HSBC does an event with A-grade singers, we are screwed,’ Bala said.

  ‘Sir, the venue. . . .’ one agent who had never spoken in a meeting in his entire career was shot down mid-sentence.

  ‘Has to be five-star,’ Bala said.

  ‘Who is the top singer of the three?’ I said.

  ‘Hariharan,’ said one agent.

  ‘No, it is S.P. Balasubramanium,’ said another.

  War broke out between the normally peaceful Tamilians. When it came to music, they could kill.

  ‘No match, Hari is no match for SP,’ Madhavi shouted emotionally.

  ‘Suchitra? You forgot Suchitra?’ another agent said.

  Bala stood up. Like all corporate meetings worldwide, even this one had ended without a conclusion. ‘All I am saying is, we can’t afford to pay this much. The venue, food and advertising are already costing four lakh,’ Bala said.

  ‘Advertising?’ I asked.

  ‘We are giving a half-page ad in The Hindu,’ Bala said.

  The agents closed their files to leave.

  ‘Isn’t it an invitation-only event?’ I said.

  ‘Exactly, the ad will say so. Only our customers will have the invites. However, the ad will ensure their friends and relatives feel jealous.’

  ‘That’s the Citi advantage,’ I said.

  ‘Exactly.’ Bala patted my back.

  ‘So, dad’s happy, huh?’ I quizzed Ananya inside the auto.

  ‘You bet. Dad only talks about the presentation at dinner every day. And now he’s in Delhi, to make the same presentation in head office. Can you believe it?’ Ananya said.

  ‘Wow!’ I said as we reached our destination.

  We had come to Ratna Stores in T. Nagar to buy steel plates for my chummery. I needed four, this place had four million of them. Seriously, every wall, roof, corner, shelf and rack over two floors was covered with shiny steel utensils. If direct sunlight fell in the store, you could burn like an ant under a magnifying glass. I wondered how the store kept track of its inventory.

  ‘How do you ever choose?’ I said to Ananya as we neared the plates section.

  Ananya demonstrated the desired width with her hands to one of the attendants.

  ‘Seriously, thanks for helping dad. I think he likes you now,’ she said.

  ‘Not as much as he likes Harish. I drank his whisky though.’

  ‘What?’ Ananya said. I told Ananya about our drinks session.