2 States: The Story of My Marriage Read online

  ‘I lied. We lived together for two years. But please don’t tell anyone this.’

  ‘Lived together?’ Her eyebrows peaked. ‘Like together? You mean, you have done everything?’

  ‘That’s not important. I only told you so you don’t feel bad about my lack of interest in you.’

  ‘Two years? She didn’t get pregnant?’

  ‘Dolly, stop. Thanks for the coffee.’

  ‘I can make you forget her,’ Dolly said as she opened out her waist-length hair.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I know what guys want.’

  ‘You don’t. And try to stay away from wrong numbers.’

  We left Barista and drove back in her spacious Honda. I realised this Honda could be mine if only I didn’t believe in stupid things like love.

  ‘What should I tell my mother?’ Dolly asked.

  ‘Say you didn’t like me.’

  ‘Why? She’ll ask.’

  ‘It’s easy to slam an IITian down. Say I am a geek, boring, lecherous, whatever,’ I said.

  ‘She doesn’t understand all that,’ Dolly said.

  ‘OK, tell her Krish has no plans to continue in the bank. He’ll quit in a few years to be a writer.’

  ‘Writer?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You are too hi-fi for me,’ she said as we reached her house.

  14

  ‘I can’t believe you said no to Dolly,’ my mother said. ‘There has to be a reason, no?’

  She had brought up the topic for the twentieth time three days later. My father didn’t come home until late so my mother had taken the risk and invited her sister home for lunch. Some Indian men cannot stand any happiness in their wives’ lives, which includes her meeting her siblings.

  ‘Pammi is buying one more house in the next lane. She told me it is for her daughter,’ Shipra masi said, rubbing salt into my mother’s wounds. My mother hung her head low.

  ‘You are making the same mistake again. You chose an army person for your own marriage. You said they are sacrificing people. We have seen how much. You have spent your whole life in misery and poverty.’

  My mother nodded as she accepted her elder sister’s observation. Shipra masi had married rich. Her husband, a sanitary-fittings businessman, had struck gold building toilets. My mother had valued stupid things like virtue, education and nature of profession, and suffered. And according to Shipra masi, I planned to do the same.

  ‘How much will that Madrasin earn?’ Shipra masi inquired. ‘Dolly would have filled your house. When was the last time you bought anything new? Look, even your dining table shakes.’

  Shipra masi banged on the dining table and its legs wobbled. I pressed the top with my palm to neutralise her jerks.

  ‘I say, meet Pammi once again and close it,’ Shipra masi suggested. ‘What are you thinking?’ she said after a minute. ‘Do you know Pammi bought that phone, the one you can walk around with everywhere?’

  ‘Cordless . . .’ my mother said.

  ‘Not cordless, that new one costing twenty thousand rupees. You can take it all over Delhi. Pass me the pickle,’ Shipra masi said. She ate fast to catch up for the lost time she spent on her monologue.

  Cell-phones had recently arrived in India. A minute’s talktime cost more than a litre of petrol. Needless to say, it was the newest Punjabi flaunt toy in Delhi.

  ‘And what is this writer thing? Dolly said you will leave the bank to be a writer one day.’

  ‘What?’ my mother gasped.

  ‘In time, after I have saved some money,’ I said and picked up my plate to go to the kitchen.

  ‘This is what happens if you educate children too much,’ my masi said.

  ‘I have no idea about him becoming a writer. When did this start?’ my mother turned to me as I returned from the kitchen.

  ‘That South Indian girl must have told him. They love books,’ Shipra masi said.

  I banged my fist on the table. The legs wobbled. Maybe we did need to change it.

  ‘Nobody asked me to be a writer. Anyway, it is none of your business, Shipra masi.’

  ‘Look at him, these black people have done their black magic,’ Shipra masi said. ‘Don’t be foolish, Kavita, tell Pammi he will remain in Citibank and make a lot of money. Get his price properly.’

  I glared at everyone at the table, went to the living-room sofa and picked up the newspaper. The matrimonial page opened out. I threw it in disgust.

  ‘Let’s look at some educated girls. You want to see educated girls?’ my mother threw a pacifier at me.

  ‘I have an educated girl. I like her. She has a job, she is pretty, decent, hard-working and has a lot of integrity. What is your problem?’

  ‘Son,’ Shipra masi said, her voice soft for reconciliation, ‘that is all fine. But how can we marry Madrasis? Tomorrow your cousins will want to marry a Gujarati.’

  ‘Or Assamese?’ my mother added.

  ‘My god!’ Shipra masi said.

  ‘So what? Aren’t they all Indian? Can’t they be good human beings?’ I said.

  Shipra masi turned to my mother. ‘Your son is gone. I am sorry, but this boy belongs to Jayalalitha now.’

  The bell rang twice. Panic spread in the house as my father had arrived earlier than usual. I never welcome my father home. However, I was happy as it meant Shipra masi would leave now.

  ‘Hello Jija-ji,’ Shipra masi said as my father entered the house.

  My father didn’t answer. He picked up the newspaper thrown on the floor and folded it.

  ‘I said hello Jija-ji,’ Shipra masi said and smiled. She didn’t give up easily.

  ‘I like your goodbye more than hello,’ my father replied. No one can beat him in the asshole stakes.

  ‘My sister has invited me,’ Shipra masi said.

  ‘Useless people invite useless people,’ my father said.

  Shipra masi turned to my mother. ‘I don’t come here to get insulted. Only you can bear him. The worst decision of your life,’ Shipra masi mumbled as she packed her handbag to leave.

  ‘I would appreciate it if you don’t interfere in our family matters,’ my father said and gave her a brown bag. It was the mithai Shipra masi had brought for us. They exchanged glares.

  ‘Take it or I will throw it in the dustbin,’ my father said.

  I stood up to argue. My mother signalled me to back off. Shipra masi reached the main door. I came with her to shut it. I touched her feet, more out of ritual than respect.

  ‘Son, now don’t make foolish decisions like your mother. Marry a good Punjabi girl before they find out about your father. Dolly is good.’

  My father’s ears are as sharp as his tongue. ‘What is going on? Who is Dolly?’ my father shouted.

  Shipra masi shut the door and left. Nobody answered.

  ‘Are you seeing girls?’ my father demanded of my mother.

  My mother kept quiet.

  ‘Did you see a girl?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. I was kind of glad I did, just to piss him off.

  ‘I will . . .’ he screamed at my mother, lifting his hand.

  ‘Don’t even fucking think about it!’ I came close to him.

  ‘In this house, I make the decisions,’ my father said. He picked up a crystal glass and smashed it on the floor. The violence intended at my mother had to come out somehow.

  ‘You sure seem mature enough to take them,’ I said and moved towards the kitchen.

  ‘Don’t walk barefoot,’ my mother called out. She bent to pick up the splintered shards. Anger seethed within me. Not only at my father, but also my mother; how could she let him get away with this and start cleaning up calmly?

  ‘I don’t know why I come to this house,’ my father said.

  ‘I was thinking the same thing,’ I said.

  ‘Bastard, mind it!’ he shouted at me like he did at his army jawans ten years ago.

  ‘Krish, go to the other room,’ my mother said.

  ‘Not until this nutcase leaves,�