2 States: The Story of My Marriage Read online

  ‘Please don’t play with my life.’

  ‘I’m not doing anything! Be strong, move on,’ she said. ‘It’s not easy for me. So please, let me be.’

  She went back to her office, leaving me still sitting there burning with fatigue and fury. I hadn’t shaved for ten days. Other girls in the cafeteria stayed away from me; I resembled a Kollywood villain who could rape anyone anywhere anytime. My flight didn’t leave until the evening. I had half a day and no money to spend. Like a total loser, I decided to go to Citibank and visit Bala.

  ‘Krish!’ Bala said, shocked at my presence and appearance.

  ‘Hi, how is the champion of the South?’

  ‘I’m fine, but you look fucked,’ he said.

  ‘I am,’ I said and slumped in front of him.

  Bala ordered coffee for both of us. He pulled his chair forward, eager to hear the gossip from the other office.

  ‘Is Citi Delhi screwing you? Don’t tell me you want to come back.’

  ‘Fuck off Bala, you think Citibank can get the better of me?’ I said.

  ‘Someone clearly has. Boy, your eyes. Do you have conjunctivitis?’

  I shook my head. He touched my arm.

  ‘Dude, you have high fever. Do you want to see a doc?’

  ‘I want a drink. Can you get me a drink?’ I said.

  ‘Now? It is not even lunchtime.’

  My stomach roiled and I retched. Thankfully, nothing came out and Bala’s office could maintain its pre-me conditions.

  ‘You are sick. My cousin is a doctor, I’ll call him. He works in City Hospital on the next street.’

  ‘What do girls think? We can’t live without them?’ I muttered. I couldn’t believe I was venting out to Bala. But I needed someone, anyone.

  Bala dropped me at the clinic run by his cousin, Dr Ramachandran or Dr Ram. Dr Ram had returned from the US two years ago after being a general surgeon, working on cancer research and collecting several top degrees. He told me to go to the examination bed as he collected his instruments.

  ‘I’ll see you later then,’ Bala said.

  ‘You South Indians have too much brain but too little heart,’ I said to Bala as he left.

  ‘I heard that,’ Dr Ram said as he came to me. He put a cold stethoscope on my chest.

  ‘So, this is a situation involving a girl?’ Dr Ram asked.

  ‘What girl?’

  ‘When did you eat last?’ he said.

  ‘I don’t remember,’ I said.

  ‘What’s that smell?’ the doc said. He sniffed his way to my laptop bag. Stale paranthas stank up the room. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Last night’s dinner,’ I said. ‘Oh, my laptop, I hope it is OK.

  ’ I opened my laptop and switched the power on. It worked fine.

  ‘Can I see it?’ Dr Ram said, pointing to my computer.

  ‘Yes sure, are you looking to buy one?’ I said.

  He didn’t respond. He spent five minutes at my computer and gave it back to me.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You should rest and eat food for sure. But you also need to see a psychiatrist.’

  ‘What? Why?’ I said. Sure, I am a bit of a psycho, but I didn’t want to make it official.

  ‘What’s the name of this girl?’ Dr Ram said.

  ‘What girl? I don’t like girls.’

  ‘Bala said she is Tamilian. Ananya Swaminathan who stays in Mylapore, right?’ he said.

  ‘I don’t like Tamilians,’ I screamed. ‘And don’t mention her name or neighbourhood.’

  ‘Good, because the psychiatrist I am referring you to is a Tamilian girl. Dr Iyer is upstairs. Please go now.’

  ‘Doctor, I have to catch a flight. I am fine.’

  I pushed myself off the bed. My legs felt as if the blood had drained from them. I couldn’t balance. I fell on the floor.

  Dr Ram helped me back up.

  ‘What problem do I have?’ I said, worried for the first time about my illness.

  He handed me the specialist referral letter as he spoke again.

  ‘There’s no precise medical term. But some would refer to it as the early signs of a nervous breakdown.’

  56

  ‘So, that’s it, I’ve told you everything,’ I said.

  Dr Neeta Iyer broke into laughter as I finished my story.

  ‘This is insane. You find comedy in my tragedy?’ I was miffed.

  She didn’t stop laughing.

  ‘I’m paying you to treat me,’ I said and checked the time. ‘And I have to leave for the airport in twenty minutes.’

  It dawned on me that I had spoken to her for four hours. I had no money for this extravagance.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘you reminded me of my first boyfriend. He was North Indian.’

  ‘You didn’t marry him?’

  ‘He didn’t want to commit,’ she shook her head.

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ I said.

  ‘It’s OK. I’m over it.’

  ‘Of course you are, you are a therapist. You should be able to cure yourself, if nothing else.’

  She walked to the window. ‘Ah Krish, it doesn’t work like that. A broken heart is the hardest to repair.’

  I sighed. ‘Do you accept Citibank credit cards?’ I opened my wallet.

  ‘It’s fine, send me a cheque later,’ she said. ‘You should have eloped.’

  ‘We thought we will win our parents over. Where’s the joy of getting married if your parents won’t smile on your wedding day?’ I said.

  She came to me and patted my shoulder.

  ‘You have to leave. So, what do I do now? Do you want pills?’ she said.

  ‘You mean anti-depressants? Aren’t they bad for you?’

  ‘Yeah, but depends on how bad you feel right now. I don’t want you googling for suicide recipes.’

  ‘I won’t,’ I said, ‘I’ll probably wither away anyway. Is there another option apart from pills?’

  ‘There’s therapy, sessions like this. It takes a few months though. I can try and find a therapist for you in Delhi.’

  ‘No, if my Punjabi family finds out, I’m done. They’ll say I am mental or something.’

  ‘You’re not. But you know, there is one thing you can try yourself.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When you told me your story, why did you mention that episode with Guruji?’

  ‘At the Aurobindo Ashram?’

  ‘Yes, it didn’t really have a connection with Ananya or her parents. But you remember everything he said.’

  ‘Yes, about forgiveness.’

  ‘Yes, maybe it has some significance,’ she said.

  I kept quiet. The clock in her room told me it was time for my return journey. I took her leave.

  ‘Airport, vegamaa,’ I said as I hailed an auto.

  57

  I knew I had to eat, my brain knew this, but my body wouldn’t hear of it. The day after returning from Chennai, I only had soup at office; at home I pretended I’d already had dinner. My mother asked me when I wanted to shave. She wanted to schedule a meeting with the new girl. I told her I had decided to keep a beard for the rest of my life. She made a face and left the room.

  My father came home at ten. He looked extra tired. His normally tucked in shirt was out, and his hair wasn’t neatly combed as usual. He sat in front of me.

  ‘I’ve eaten dinner,’ he told my mother.

  ‘I don’t know why I even cook,’ my mother grumbled as she left the room.

  ‘You came back late last night,’ my father said to me. I had reached home only at midnight from the airport.

  ‘I had to work late,’ I said.

  ‘Everything OK?’ he said.

  I nodded.

  ‘I had a really bad day,’ my father said. ‘My pension papers are stuck in government offices. Bloody lazy buggers.’

  I nodded without paying attention. My thoughts were all over the place, but none in his department. I felt immense longing and loathing for Ananya at the same time. I