2 States: The Story of My Marriage Read online

  ‘Request? What are you requesting me? You young people do whatever you want, anyway.’

  ‘No this isn’t about Ananya and me. This is about our Citibank concert.’

  Over the next half an hour I explained the upcoming event. I told her about the Fisherman’s Cove venue, the who’s who of Chennai that we expected to be present, the popular music concert for two hours divided between three singers, and that I wanted her to be one of them.

  ‘Me?’ she echoed, shocked.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘I’ve never sung popular music,’ she said.

  ‘You have a trained voice. Switch on MTV and see the latest chartbusters. Three Kollywood, three Bollywood. You are done.’

  ‘Why me?’ she asked, still bewildered.

  ‘Actually, we are desperate. We need three singers and we found only two. My boss gave me the job of finding the third singer. So, my appraisal depends on you.’

  ‘Who are the other two singers?’

  ‘They are a bit known. So, the third one has to be fresh to balance things out.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Hariharan and S.P. Balasubramanium,’ I said.

  Aunty’s mouth fell open. She stood up and left the room. I followed her into the kitchen. ‘Aunty, it is no big deal. It isn’t a public concert.’

  Aunty answered by placing a frying pan on the stove and pouring oil in it. Once the oil heated up, she tossed in mustard seeds and curry leaves. A pungent smell filled the kitchen. I coughed twice.

  ‘See, this is what I do all day. I cook, I don’t perform. I am an amateur. I can’t even sit in front of Hariharan and S.P., let alone share the same stage.’

  ‘It’s a fun night, not a competition. They sing after you.’

  She tossed chopped onions in the pan. My eyes burned along with my throat. ‘Aunty, have you ever performed on stage before?’

  ‘No. OK, yes, a couple of times in the Tamil Sangam events where Ananya’s father was posted. But this, five-star hotel, high-society, Hariharan. . . . You’ve got Hariharan, why do you need me?’

  ‘Only professionals will make it too commercial. We want to give our clients a family feel. A casual vibe will be nice,’ I said.

  Aunty shook her head. I continued to convince her until she had prepared the evening dinner of tomato rasam, lemon rice and fried bhindi. I had followed the recipe and could now make rasam from scratch. However, I still didn’t have her on board.

  ‘Why are you doing this? I accepted your apology, didn’t I?’

  ‘That’s not why I am doing it.’

  ‘Then why?’ She covered the dishes with plates.

  ‘I am doing it because I think you are a good singer.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Because Ananya told me. She also said you’ve trained all your life. And I believe her.’

  She looked at me.

  ‘Don’t tell me the idea doesn’t excite you. Not even a little?’ I said as we came back to the living room.

  ‘Of course, it is a huge honour, but I can’t.’

  ‘Don’t say you can’t. C’mon, we will keep it a surprise. We won’t tell uncle. We won’t even tell Ananya if you want.’

  We sat down on the sofa. I noticed the whisky bottle, the level was the same as I had left it.

  ‘OK, here is the deal. You give a tentative yes now. You prepare the songs when Ananya and uncle are not at home. If on the day of the concert, you want to back out, let me know the night before and I will manage. If not, give it a shot. Deal?’

  ‘I will chicken out at the end,’ she promised.

  ‘I’ll take a chance. Please,’ I said.

  She took ten seconds, but she gave a brief nod at the end.

  I sprang up the sofa in excitement. ‘Cool, your practice starts now,’ I said and picked up the TV remote and put on MTV.

  ‘What are these songs?’ she said as the screen showed two hundred South Indian dancers dancing on the Great Wall of China.

  ‘I’ll let you figure it out. And now, I better get to work,’ I said, ‘The Citi never sleeps, but the Citi shouldn’t bunk office, too.’

  I fist-pumped as I left Ananya’s house.

  32

  People close to you have the power to disturb you the most. I should have torn my father’s letter. I ended up reading it thrice.

  Son,

  I am omitting the ‘Dear’ as I am not sure I can address you as that anymore. I knew you are on the wrong path the day you lost respect for your father. I am sure you remember that day. You have broken all contact with me since.

  I have learnt you are involved with a girl in Chennai. I don’t know the details. I can only deduce so much from your mother’s conversations with her useless relatives.

  We should choose the girl for you, not you. For you are on the path to becoming a man of low character. Such are the values given to you by your mother and her siblings that you may not even know how disgraceful your actions are.

  That you chose to hide your actions from me only reinforces that at some level you are ashamed of them as well.

  Unfortunately,

  Your father

  I changed my sleeping position for the tenth time. I wanted to sleep, but felt more alert than anytime in office. Forget it, he only wants to provoke you, I said to myself again. Go to sleep, now! – I scolded myself. The funny thing about sleep is you can’t instruct it to happen. Your mind knows the facts and repeats them to you – it is late, only five hours when you have to wake up again, you need the rest. Your mind also has a million options on what it can think about; the stars in the clear moonless sky, the beautiful flowers at the Nungambakkam flower shop, the smell of incense in Ananya’s house, your best birthday party. There are positive thoughts somewhere in people’s heads all the time. But somehow, even one negative thought will crowd them out. Maybe it is an evolutionary mechanism so we can focus on the problem at hand rather than rejoice in all things wonderful. But it makes life a bitch, as good memories have to make space for the next pain in the neck item. And what does one gain by losing sleep? I hope our genes mutate ASAP so we can evolve out of this.

  Memories of that day my father referred to kept coming back. What drama is he going to do when I tell him my marriage plans? I thought. Go to sleep, idiot, only four hours to wake up, my mind scolded me.

  My brain refused to relax. I sprang out of bed at two and called home. ‘Hello?’ my mother said in a sleepy voice.

  ‘Sorry, it is me.’

  ‘Krish? Everything OK?’ she sounded panicked.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Dad sent a letter. I’m quite disturbed.’

  ‘Oh, really? What did it say?’

  ‘Not important. He knows about Ananya.’

  ‘Your friend, no? Yes, so what?’

  ‘Mom, she is not just a friend. I want to marry her.’

  ‘Oh Krish, don’t start this so late at night. A girlfriend is fine, do whatever you want in Chennai. But why are you forcing her on us?’

  ‘I am not imposing, I am telling you about my choice of life partner,’ I said, my voice loud.

  ‘Stop screaming.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘If you have the guts, shout at your father.’

  ‘I don’t speak to him at all. You know I don’t care.’

  ‘Then why is that letter bothering you?’

  I kept silent.

  ‘Hello?’ my mother said after five seconds.

  ‘I’m here,’ I said, my voice soft.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  I held back my tears as I spoke. ‘I’m lonely, mom. I don’t need this from dad.’

  ‘Tear the letter and throw it.’

  ‘I am battling Ananya’s parents here anyway. This is such a strange city, I am welcome nowhere. And now you think I am imposing on you,’ I said and couldn’t control myself. I held the phone tight and cried.

  ‘Stop Krish, don’t,’ my mother s