2 States: The Story of My Marriage Read online

  ‘Shsh, Tamilian,’ I said.

  ‘Tamilian?’ my mother echoed even as Ananya continued the introductions.

  ‘Mom, this is Krish, and this is Krish’s mother.’

  ‘Hello,’ Ananya’s mother said, looking just as stunned as my mother.

  ‘Isn’t this cool? Our families meeting for the first time,’ Ananya cooed even as everyone ignored her.

  ‘Krish’s father has not come?’ Ananya’s father asked.

  ‘He is not well,’ my mother said, her voice butter-soft. ‘He is a heart patient. Advised not to travel.’

  My mother faked it so well, even I felt like sympathising with her.

  Ananya’s parents gave understanding nods. They whispered to each other in Tamil as they took their places.

  ‘I better go, I’m one of the first ones.’ Ananya giggled and ran up to join the line of students.

  I sat sandwiched between my mother on one side and Ananya’s mother on the other.

  ‘You want to sit next to Ananya’s mother?’ I asked my mother.

  ‘Why? Who are these people?’ she frowned.

  ‘Don’t panic, mom. I said it because I have to join that line soon.’

  ‘Then go. I have come to see you, not sit next to Madrasis. Now let me watch,’ she said.

  The chief guest started the diploma distribution. The audience broke into continuous applause for the initial students. Then they got tired and went back to fanning themselves with the convocation brochures.

  ‘Get to know them. We’ll probably go for lunch together,’ I said.

  ‘You go for lunch with them. I can eat alone,’ my mother said.

  ‘Mom . . .’ I said as the announcer read out Ananya’s name.

  Ananya walked on to the stage, probably the only student whose picture was worth taking. I stood up and applauded.

  My mother gave me a dirty look. ‘Sit. Even her parents are not standing.’

  Maybe they don’t love her like I do, I wanted to say but didn’t. I sat down. Ananya’s parents clapped gently, craning their necks to get a better view. Ananya’s mother looked at me with suspicion. I realised that I hadn’t yet spoken to her. Start a conversation, you idiot, I thought.

  ‘Your daughter is such a star. You must be so proud,’ I said.

  ‘We are used to it. She always did well in school,’ Ananya’s mother replied.

  I tried her father. ‘How long are you here for, uncle?’

  Uncle looked up and down at me as if I had questioned him about his secret personal fantasies.

  ‘We leave day after. Why?’ he said.

  Some whys have no answer, apart from the fact that I was trying to make small talk. ‘Nothing, Ananya and I were wondering if you wanted to see the city. We can share a car,’ I said.

  Ananya’s mother sat between us and listened to every word. She spoke to her husband in Tamil. ‘Something something Gandhi Ashram something recommend something.’

  ‘Gandhi Ashram is nice. My mother also wants to see it.’ I said.

  ‘What?’ my mother said from her seat. ‘Don’t you have to go on stage, Krish? Your turn is coming.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said and stood up. Gandhi Ashram would be a good start for the families. He stood for peace and national integration, maybe that could inspire us all.

  ‘Then go,’ my mother said.

  ‘Wait,’ I said and bent to touch her feet.

  ‘Thank god, you remembered. I thought you were going to touch Ananya’s mother’s feet,’ she said.

  My mother said it loud enough for Ananya’s mother to hear. They exchanged cold glances that could be set to the backdrop of AK-47 bullets being fired. Surely, it would take a Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi to make them get along.

  ‘Mom, control,’ I whispered to her as I turned to leave.

  ‘I am under control. These South Indians don’t know how to control their daughters. From Hema Malini to Sridevi, all of them trying to catch Punjabi men.’

  My mother had spoken so loud that the entire row heard her. For a few moments, people’s attention shifted from the convocation ceremony to us.

  Ananya’s mother elbowed her husband. They stood up, pulled up Ananya’s scrawny brother between them and found some empty seats five rows away.

  ‘Mom, what are you doing?’ I struggled to balance the graduation cap on my head.

  ‘Kanyashree Banerjee,’ the announcer said over the mike and I realised I was horribly late. I had missed my last convocation as I had overslept. I didn’t want to miss it this time.

  ‘What have I said? It’s a fact,’ my mom said, talking to me but addressing everyone who had tuned into our conversation that beat the boring degree distribution hollow any day.

  ‘Krish . . .’ I heard my name and ran up. The five Mohits were waiting near the stage. I smiled at them as I climbed the steps to the stage. The chief guest gave me my diploma.

  My mother was standing and clapping. ‘I love you,’ she screamed. I smiled back at her. For the last ten years my father had told her that her son would get nowhere in life. I held up my diploma high and looked up to thank God.

  ‘Move, the next student has to come,’ the announcer said as I emotionally thanked the chief guest again and again. As I walked down the steps, I saw Ananya’s parents. They had not applauded or even reacted to my being on stage. I came back towards my seat. Ananya stood at our row’s entrance, looking lost. ‘I stayed back to get some pictures with friends. Where are my parents?’

  ‘Five rows behind,’ I said.

  ‘Why? What happened?’

  ‘Nothing. They wanted a better view,’ I said.

  ‘I’ve booked the car. We are all going afterwards, right?’

  ‘Go to your parents, Ananya,’ I said firmly as I saw my mother staring at me.

  11

  ‘We’ve already paid for the taxi,’ I said. ‘So, you can pretend to get along. See it as a budget exercise.’

  My mother and I walked towards the taxi stand outside campus. She had no inclination to see where Mr Gandhi lived. The Sabarmati Ashram, on the outskirts of the city, was a key tourist attraction. Ananya had got lunch packed in little packets from Topaz. According to her, it would be a Kodak moment to picnic somewhere by the Sabarmati river. Of course, she had no idea about her missed Kodak moment when my mother had made insightful comments about certain South Indian actresses.

  ‘We had booked a Qualis,’ I told the driver who stood next to an Indica. Ananya and her family were already at the taxi stand. Her mother looked like she had just finished a grumble session, maybe her natural expression.

  ‘The Qualis is on election duty. We only have this.’ The driver crushed tobacco in his palm.

  ‘How can we all fit in?’ I wondered.

  ‘We take double the passengers, squeeze in,’ the driver said.

  ‘Let’s take an auto,’ I said.

  ‘I’m not taking an auto,’ my mother said as she slid into the backseat.

  ‘You can sit in front and make madam sit in your lap,’ the driver pointed Ananya to me. Ananya’s mother gave the driver a glare strong enough to silence him for the rest of the day.

  ‘Mom, can you take an auto?’ Ananya requested her mother.

  ‘Why, we have also paid for this,’ she said. ‘Something something illa illa!’

  ‘Seri, seri, Amma,’ Ananya said.

  We finally arrived at an arrangement. Ananya’s dad sat in front with Ananya in his lap. Ananya’s mother sat behind with her son in her lap. My mother had already taken a window seat behind the driver. I squished myself between the two ladies in the middle.

  The Sabarmati Ashram is eight kilometres away from campus. The twenty-minute drive felt like an hour due to the silence. Ananya tried to make conversation with her parents. They pretended not to hear her as they kept their heads out of the window. My mother took out a packet of Nice biscuits and started eating them without offering them to anyone. She took one biscuit and put it in my mouth, to assert maternal rig