2 States: The Story of My Marriage Read online

  ‘Let it be, mom,’ I said.

  I ignited the gas stove and kept the pan over it. I poured cooking oil and opened the drawers to find cumin seeds. It was kept in the same place as when I left home for college over seven years ago.

  ‘Actually, I have a girl in mind. You have seen Pammi aunty’s daughter?’

  ‘No. And I don’t want to,’ I said.

  ‘Wait,’ my mother said as a new wave of energy was unleashed within her. I heard her open the Godrej cupboard in her bedroom. She brought a wedding album to the kitchen. ‘Lower the flame, you’ll burn it. And why haven’t you switched on the exhaust?’ She snatched the ladle from me and took control of the stove. She stirred the bhindi with vigour as she spoke again. ‘Open this album. See the girl dancing in the baraat next to the horse. She is wearing a pink lehnga.’

  ‘Mom,’ I protested.

  ‘Listen to me also sometimes. Didn’t I meet Jayalalitha’s family on your request?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing, see the picture.’

  I opened the album. It was my second cousin Dinki’s wedding to Deepu. The first five pages of the album were filled with face shots of the boy and girl in various kaleidoscopic combinations and enclosed by heart-filled frames. I flipped through the album and came to the pictures with the horse.

  I saw a girl in pink lehnga, her face barely visible under a lot of hair. She was in the middle of a dance step with her hands held high and index fingers pointing up.

  ‘Isn’t she pretty?’ My mother switched on the other gas stove and put a tava on it to make rotis. She took out a rolling pin and dough.

  ‘I can’t make out,’ I said.

  ‘You should meet her. And here, keep stirring the bhindi while I make the rotis,’ She handed me the ladle.

  ‘I don’t want to meet anyone.’

  ‘Only once.’

  ‘What’s so special about her?’

  ‘They have six petrol pumps.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Her father. He has six petrol pumps. And the best part is, they have only two daughters. So each son-in-law will get three, just imagine.’

  ‘What?’ I said as I imagined myself sitting in a gas station.

  ‘Yes, they are very rich. Petrol pumps sell in cash. Lots of black money.’

  ‘And what does the girl do? Is she educated?’

  ‘She is doing something. These days you can do graduation by correspondence also.’

  ‘Oh, so she is not even going to college?’

  ‘College degrees you can get easily. They are quite rich.’

  ‘Mom, that’s not the point. I can’t believe you are going to marry me to a twelfth pass . . . oh, forget it. Put this album away. And are the rotis done? I am hungry.’

  ‘We can get an educated Punjabi girl. Do you like doctors?’

  ‘No, I don’t like any Punjabi girl.’

  ‘Your mother is Punjabi,’ my mother said in an upset tone.

  ‘That’s not the point, mom,’ I said and opened the fridge to take out curd. ‘I don’t want any other girl. I have a girlfriend.’

  ‘You’ll marry that Madrasi girl?’ my mother asked, seriously shocked for the first time since she found out about Ananya.

  ‘I want to. In time, of course.’

  My mother slapped a roti on the tawa and then slapped her forehead.

  ‘Let’s eat,’ I said, ignoring her demonstrations of disappointment. We placed the food on the living-room coffee table and sat down to eat in front of the TV.

  The doorbell rang twice.

  ‘Oh no, it’s your father,’ my mother said. ‘Switch off the TV.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I said.

  My mother gave me a stern glance. I reluctantly shut the television. My mother opened the door. My father came inside and looked at me. I turned away and came back to the table.

  ‘Lunch?’ my mother asked.

  My father did not answer. He came to the dining table and examined the food. ‘You call this food?’ he said.

  I glared at him. ‘It took mom three hours to make it,’ I said.

  My mother took out a plate for him.

  ‘I don’t want to eat this,’ my father said.

  ‘Why don’t you say you’ve already eaten and come?’ I butted in again.

  My father stared at me and turned to my mother. ‘This is the result of your upbringing. All degrees can go to the dustbin. You only have this at the end.’

  This, and a job at Citibank that pays me three times at the start than what you ever earned in your life, I wanted to say but didn’t. I pulled the Citibank form close to me.

  My father went and touched the TV top. ‘It’s hot. Who watched TV?’

  ‘I did. Any problem?’ I said.

  ‘I hope you leave home soon,’ my father said.

  I hope you leave this world soon, I responded mentally as I took my plate and left the room.

  I lay down in bed at night, waiting to fall asleep. My mind oscillated between wonderful thoughts of Ananya’s hair as they brushed against my face when we slept in campus and the argument with my father this afternoon. My mother came to my room and switched on the light.

  ‘I’ve fixed the meeting. We’ll go to Pammi aunty’s place day after tomorrow.’

  ‘Mom, I don’t. . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ve only told them we are coming for tea. Let me show you off a little. You wait and see, they will ask me first.’

  ‘I am not interested.’ I sat up on my bed.

  ‘Come for the snacks. They are very rich. Even for ordinary guests, they give dry fruits.’

  ‘Mom, why should I come, really?’

  ‘Because it will make me happy. Is that reason enough?’ she said and I noticed her wrinkled hand with the bandage.

  ‘OK,’ I shrugged and slid back into bed. ‘Now, let me sleep.’

  ‘Excellent,’ she said and switched off the lights as she left the room. I allowed my mind to be trapped again by thoughts of my South Indian girl.

  13

  Pammi aunty lived in Pitampura, a hardcore Punjabi neighbourhood. Each lane in this area has more marble than the Taj Mahal. Every street smells of tomatoes cooking with paneer. We took an auto as my father never allowed us to take the car. My mother told the auto driver to stop a few houses away. We couldn’t tell Pammi aunty we hadn’t come by car.

  ‘He had a meeting, he dropped us outside and left,’ my mother said as Pammi aunty came to greet us at the door.

  ‘He should have come for a cold drink at least,’ Pammi aunty said and escorted us in. Pammi aunty’s weight roughly matched the decade she lived in, and that correlation had continued into the current nineties. Pammi aunty had been Miss Chandigarh thirty-seven years ago. A rich businessman snapped her soon after the title and gave her a life of extra luxury and extra calories. Now, she weighed more than the three finalists put together.

  We walked up five steps to get to their living room. Pammi aunty had difficulty climbing them. ‘My knees,’ she mumbled as she took the last step.

  ‘You are going for morning walk nowadays?’ my mother asked.

  ‘Where Kavita-ji, it is so hot. Plus, I have satsang in the morning. Sit,’ Pammi aunty said as she told her maid to get khus sharbat.

  We sank into a red velvet sofa with a two-feet deep sponge base.

  ‘Actually, even if you walk to satsang, it can be good exercise,’ my mother said.

  ‘Six cars, Kavita-ji. Drivers sitting useless. How to walk?’ Pammi aunty asked. She had demonstrated a fine Punjabi skill – of showing off her wealth as part of an innocent conversation.

  My mother turned to me to repeat her comment. ‘Six cars? Krish, you heard, they have six cars.’

  I didn’t know how to respond. Maybe I was supposed to applaud. ‘Which ones?’ I said, only because they kept staring at me.

  ‘I don’t know. My husband knows. Just last week he bought a Honda.’

  ‘How much for?’ my mother asked. It is