2 States: The Story of My Marriage Read online

  ‘What’s after dinner?’ Rajji mama said.

  ‘The muhurtam is six-thirty. Let’s sleep early.’

  ‘See Kavita, how your son has become a Madrasi,’ Kamla aunty said and everyone laughed like she had cracked the best joke in the world.

  I made a face.

  ‘How can we sleep early? It is your wedding,’ Kamla aunty pulled my cheeks.

  ‘So, what do you want to do?’ I said.

  ‘We’ll organise a party. Minti’s daddy, come let’s go,’ Kamla aunty said and they went out.

  ‘And you go to the beauty parlour to get a facial,’ my mother said.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, but be careful. The beauty parlours can make you black,’ Shipra masi said and my clan found another reason to guffaw like only Punjabis can.

  I can’t really call the party Rajji mama organised for me as a bachelor’s party, especially since all my aunts were present. However, the makeshift arrangements gave it a single-guy-bash feel. Rajji mama had come back with two bottles of whisky, one bottle of vodka and a crate of beer. Kamla aunty also brought chips and juice for the ladies.

  ‘Let the ladies also have a drink tonight,’ Rajji mama proclaimed as many aunties feigned horror. My cousins had already booked the vodka bottle.

  ‘Ice,’ Rajji mama told a waiter at the hotel and gave him hundred bucks. He returned with a bucketful.

  ‘You have a music system?’ Rajji mama asked the waiter. The waiter agreed to borrow one from his friend for another hundred bucks. The choice of music was a challenge though, and we had to limit ourselves to the soundtracks of the movies Roja and Gentleman. The lyrics were Tamil but at least the tunes were familiar.

  ‘After two drinks, you will be able to understand the Tamil words also,’ Raji mama said.

  The men took Room 301, my room. The women went to 302, while the teenage and young cousins were in 303. The under-thirteens stayed in 304, watching cartoon channels on cable TV. The under-fives and over-seventy-fives were cooped up in 305, the latter babysitting the former.

  Rajji mama kept shuttling from 301 to 302, to gossip with the ladies and discuss stocks and real estate with the men in 301.

  ‘It’s eleven,’ I reminded my relatives, ‘we should sleep,’

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ Rajji mama said and hugged me happily. ‘If we sleep now, we won’t wake up at all. Let’s keep going until morning.’

  The party continued and rooms 301, 302 and 303 turned into discos. The Indian soundtrack was played five times. I realised if my relatives didn’t sleep, we may never make it to the wedding. I went down to the lobby at half past midnight.

  ‘Call the cops,’ I told the front desk.

  ‘What?’ the manager said, ‘You are the groom.’

  ‘Yes, and I have a six-thirty muhurtam. I need to be there at five with all of them. They are in no mood to rest.’

  The manager laughed. Rajji mama had bribed him well. ‘Don’t worry, sir, I will stop them in half an hour.’

  A car stopped outside the hotel just then and a person stepped out. Even in the darkness I could tell who it was. I immediately sprinted up the stairs, my heart beating fast. Rajji mama was close-dancing with Kamla aunty in 302 to a sad song from Roja.

  ‘My dad’s here,’ I announced.

  In two minutes flat, our nightclubs shut down as if there was a police raid. Everyone went into their rooms to sleep. The corridor was stark silent as my dad climbed up to the third floor.

  ‘Dad,’ I said.

  We looked at each other for a few seconds. He had decided to come, after all. I couldn’t think beyond that fact. I didn’t push him for a reason either. He was like me; we Indian men don’t do emotions too well.

  ‘You haven’t slept? Aren’t you getting married in a few hours?’ he asked mildly.

  I didn’t respond. He walked towards 301. I stopped him. The last thing I wanted him to see was the debauchery of my maternal uncles.

  ‘There are more rooms upstairs. This one needs repairs,’ I said and took him to the next floor. I left him there to change. My mother was in 301, trying to clean it as fast as possible.

  ‘It’s fine, he is upstairs,’ I said.

  ‘What’s he doing here?’ my mother said, ‘He’s come to create trouble?’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘He’s fine. He came to attend my wedding.’

  ‘Now? He has come now?’

  ‘It’s OK, mom, you go to bed. I’ll tell him you are asleep,’ I said. I kissed my mother on the cheek and went up.

  My father had changed into a white kurta pajama.

  ‘Thank you, dad,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ he said. ‘Where’s your mother?’

  ‘Everyone slept early. We have to wake up at four,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, I’m keeping you up. Are you sleeping here?’

  I nodded and switched off the lights. I lay down next to only him, probably for the first time in twenty years.

  ‘I love you, son,’ he said, his eyes closed.

  I choked up. The words meant as much to me as when Ananya had said them the first time.

  ‘I love you too,’ I said, and wondered which love story I was really chasing anyway.

  62

  I had to pour mugfuls of water over their faces to wake up my relatives. Rajji mama had a severe hangover. I had slept only three hours and had a splitting headache. We asked room service for triple strength coffee.

  ‘This is inhuman, how can they get married at this time?’ my mother said. She opened her suitcase to take out her new sari for the occasion.

  Ananya’s father had sent a bus to our hotel for the two-hundred-metre journey. I waited outside while every female in my clan blow-dried hair and applied lipstick. Panic calls started at five-fifteen.

  ‘The priests have lit the fire. Chants have begun,’ Ananya’s father said.

  ‘Two more old ladies, coming real soon,’ I said and hung up the phone.

  We reached the mandapam at five-thirty. Ananya’s relatives had already taken the best seats. I waded through them to sit in front of the priests.

  ‘The mother sits here,’ the priest said, ‘and if the father is not there then a senior male relative. . . .’

  ‘My father is here,’ I said.

  Ananya’s parents sprang up from their seats. ‘Welcome,’ Ananya’s father said, ‘How is your fever?’

  ‘What fever?’ my father said as he took his place.

  The priests continued their fervent chants. Rajji mama passed on Saridon strips as everyone with a hangover took a pill. Ananya’s uncles passed copies of The Hindu to each other as they continued to gather knowledge through the wedding.

  ‘Come, Krish,’ Ananya’s father said after five minutes of prayers.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You have to change. I am supposed to help you,’ he said matter-of-factly.

  I had worn a new rust-coloured silk kurta pajama my mother had bought for me. ‘This doesn’t work?’ I said.

  Ananya giggled. Ananya’s father shook his head and stood up. I followed him to the room next to the main hall. He ominously bolted the door. ‘Take off your clothes,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ I said as he fingered my kurta’s hem to help me take it off.

  ‘I will do it myself,’ I said hastily. I removed my kurta.

  ‘Pajama also,’ he said, reminding me of my college ragging days.

  ‘Is this necessary?’ I snapped, wondering if my strip-tease would make the mantras more effective.

  He didn’t respond. His hands were about to reach my pajama cord when I decided to get rid of my modesty myself. I had worn a white underwear with Mickey Mouses prancing all over it.

  ‘Why are you wearing . . . this?’’

  I had brought a pack of six Disney-themed underwear. Considering I was going to get married and Ananya liked cartoon characters, I had thought she’d find it cute. Of course, I couldn’t give this reason to my future father-in-law.

  ‘How was I to