2 States: The Story of My Marriage Read online

  ‘What’s wrong with IIT?’

  ‘Nothing, are you from there?’ She sipped water.

  ‘Yes, from IIT Delhi. Is that a problem?’

  ‘No,’ she smiled, ‘not yet.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ I said. Her smugness had reached irritating levels.

  ‘Nothing,’ she said.

  We stayed quiet.

  ‘What’s the deal? Someone from IIT broke your heart?’

  She laughed. ‘No, on the contrary. I seem to have broken some, for no fault of my own.’

  ‘Care to explain?’

  ‘Don’t tell anyone, but in the past one week that I’ve been here, I’ve had ten proposals. All from IITians.’

  I mentally kicked myself. My guess was right; she was getting a lot of attention. I only wished it wasn’t from my own people.

  ‘Proposals for what?’

  ‘The usual, to go out, be friends and stuff. Oh, and one guy from IIT Chennai proposed marriage!’

  ‘Serious?’

  ‘Yes, he said this past week has been momentous for him. He joined IIMA, and now he has found his wife in me. I may be wrong, but I think he had some jewellery on him.’

  I smacked my forehead. No, my collegemates can’t be doing this, whatever the deprivation.

  ‘So, you understand my concern about you being from IIT,’ she said, picking up a chicken breast next.

  ‘Oh, so it is a natural reaction. If I am from IIT, I have to propose to you within ten minutes?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘You implied that.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s OK. I expected you to be like this. Let me guess—only child, rich parents?’

  ‘Wrong, wrong. I have a younger brother. And my father works in Bank of Baroda in Chennai. Sorry, you expected me to be like what?’

  ‘Some girls cannot handle attention. Two days of popularity and every guy in college should bow to you.’

  ‘That’s not true. Didn’t I come out with you?’ She neatly transferred the bare bones of the chicken on to another plate.

  ‘Oh, that’s huge. Coming out with a commoner like me. How much is the bill? I’ll pay my share and leave.’ I stood up.

  ‘Hey,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m sorry. Please sit down.’

  I had lost interest in the conversation anyway. If there is nothing as attractive as a pretty girl, there’s nothing as repulsive as a cocky chick.

  I sat back and focussed on the food and the irritating instrumental music for the next ten minutes. I ignored the Brahmin who stereotyped my collegemates.

  ‘Are we OK now?’ she smiled hesitantly.

  ‘Why did you come out with me? To take your score to eleven?’

  ‘You really want to know?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I need some friends here. And you seemed like a safe-zone guy. Like the kind of guy who could just be friends with a girl, right?’

  Absolutely not, I thought. Why would any guy want to be only friends with a girl? It’s like agreeing to be near a chocolate cake and never eat it. It’s like sitting in a racing car but not driving it. Only wimps do that.

  ‘I’m not so sure,’ I said.

  ‘You can handle it. I told you about the proposals because you can see how stupid they are.’

  ‘They are not stupid. They are IITians. They just don’t know how to talk to women yet,’ I said.

  ‘Whatever. But you do. And I’d like to be friends with you. Just friends, OK?’ She extended her hand. I gave her a limp handshake.

  ‘Let’s share, sixty each,’ she said as the bill arrived.

  That’s right, ‘just friends’ share bills. I didn’t want to be just friends with her. And I didn’t want to be the eleventh martyr.

  I paid my share and came back to campus. I had no interest in meeting my just friend anytime again soon.

  2

  ‘You OK?’ I said, going up to my just friend. She remained in her seat as her tears re-emerged. The last lecture had ended and the classroom was empty.

  I hadn’t spoken much to Ananya after our lunch last week. Pretty girls behave best when you ignore them. (Of course, they have to know you are ignoring them, for otherwise they may not even know you exist.)

  But today I had to talk to her. She had cried in class. We had auditorium-style classrooms with semi-circular rows, so everyone could see everyone. Students sat in alphabetical order. Ananya, like all kids doomed with names starting with the letter A, sat in the first row on the left side. She sat between Ankur and Aditya, both IITians who had already proposed to her without considering the embarrassment of being rejected and then sitting next to the rejector for the whole year.

  I sat in the third row, between Kanyashree, who took notes like a diligent court transcripter, and five Mohits, who had come from different parts of India. But neither Ankur, nor Aditya, nor Kanyashree, nor the five Mohits had noticed Ananya’s tears. Only I had caught her wiping her eye with a yellow dupatta that had little bells at its ends that tinkled whenever she moved.

  In the past week, I had limited my communication with Ananya to cursory greetings every morning and a casual wave at the end of the day. During classes we had to pay attention to the teacher as we had marks for class participation – saying something that sounds intelligent. Most IITians never spoke while people from non-science backgrounds spoke non-stop.

  Twenty-three minutes into the microeconomics class, the professor drew an L-shaped utility curve on the blackboard. He admired his curve for ten seconds and turned to the class.

  ‘How many economics graduates here?’ asked Prof Chatterjee, a two-decade IIMA veteran.

  Fifteen students out of the seventy students in section A raised their hands, Ananya included.

  Chatterjee turned to her. ‘You recognise the curve, Ms Swaminathan?’ He read her name from the nameplate in front.

  ‘The basic marginal utility curve, sir,’ Ananya said.

  ‘So, Ms Swaminathan, how would you represent that curve mathematically?’

  Ananya stood up, her eyes explaining clearly she had no clue. The remaining fourteen economics graduates lowered their hands.

  ‘Yes, Ms Swaminathan?’ Chatterjee said.

  Ananya clutched the trinkets on her dupatta so they didn’t make a noise as she spoke. ‘Sir, that curve shows different bundles of goods between which a consumer is indifferent. That is, at each point on the curve, the consumer has equal preference for one bundle over another.’

  ‘That’s not my question. What is the mathematical formula?’

  ‘I don’t know that. In any case, this is only a concept.’

  ‘But do you know it?’

  ‘No. But I can’t think of any real life situation where a mathematical formula like this would work,’ Ananya said.

  Prof raised his hand to interrupt her. ‘Shsh. . . .’ He gave a sinister smile. ‘Notice, class, notice. This is the state of economics education in the country. Top graduates don’t know the basics. And then they ask – why is India economically backward?’

  Prof emphatically dropped the chalk on his table to conclude his point. He had solved what had dumbfounded policymakers for decades. Ananya Swaminathan was the reason for India’s backwardness.

  Ananya hung her head in shame. A few IITians brightened up. Microeconomics was an elective course in IIT and those who had done it knew the formula. They were itching to show off.

  ‘Anyone knows?’ Prof asked and Ankur raised his hand.

  ‘Yes, tell us. Ms Swaminathan, you should talk to your neighbours more. And next time, don’t raise your hand if I ask for economics graduates,’ Prof said.

  He went to the board to write lots of Greek symbols and calculus equations. The course had started with cute little things like how people choose between tea and biscuits. It had moved on to scary equations that would dominate exams. The class took mad notes. Kanyashree wrote so hard I could feel the seismic vibrations from her p