‘Hi,’ I said. Krish from Delhi. I am in consumer finance.’
‘Huh?’ the guy said. ‘Oh, you are that guy. The only North Indian trainee in
Citibank Chennai. Come in, you are so late.’
‘Flight delay,’ I said as I came into the room.
He switched on the drawing- room light. ‘I am Ramanujan, from IIMB,’ he said. I
looked at him. Even just out of the bed, his hair was oily and combed. He looked
like someone who would do well at a bank. With my harried look after the scuffle
with the auto drivers, I looked like someone who couldn’t even open a bank
account.
‘That ’s Sendil’s room, and that ’s Appalingam’s.’
He pointed me to my room.
‘Anything to eat in the house?’ I said.
‘I don’t know,’ he said and opened t he fridge. ‘there is some curd rice.’ He took
out the bowl. It didn’t look like a dish. It looked like rice had accidently fallen into
the curd.
‘Anything else? Any restaurant open nearby?’
He shook his head as he picked up two envelopes and passed them to me.
‘Here, some letters for you. The servant said a girl had come to see you.’
I looked at the letter. One was t he welcome letter from Citibank. The second
envelope had Ananya’s handwriting on it. I looked at the curd rice again and tried
to imagine it as something yummy but I couldn’t gather the courage to eat it.
I came to my room and lay down on the bed. Ramanujan shut the lights in the
rest of the house and went back to sleep.
‘Should we wake you up?’ he had asked before going to his room.
‘What time is office?’
‘Nine, but trainees are expect ed to be there by eight. We target seven-thirty.
We wake up at five.’
I thought about my last two months in Delhi, when waking up at nine was an
early start. ‘Is there even daylight at five?’
‘Almost. We’ll wake you up. Good night.’
I closed my door and opened Ananya’s letter.
Hey Chennai boy,
I came to see you, but you hadn’t arrived in the afternoon as you told me. Anyways, I
can’t wait any longer as mom thinks I am with friends at the Radha Silks Shop. I have to
be back. Anyway there is a bit of drama at home but I don’t want to get into that now.
Don’t worry, we shall meet soon. Your office is in Anna Salai, not f ar from mine.
However, HLL is making me travel a lot all over the state. I have to sell tomato ketchup.
Hard, considering it has no tamarind or coconut in it!
I’ll leave now. Guess what, I am wearing jasmine flowers in my hair today! It helps to
have a traditional look in the interiors. I broke a few petals and have included them in
this letter. Hope they remind you of me.
Love and kisses,
Ananya.
I opened the folds of the letter. Jasmine petals fell into my lap. They felt soft and
smelt wonderful. It was t he only thing about this day that made me happy. It
reminded me why I was here.
16
It is bad news when you hate your job in the first hour of t he first day of office. It
isn’t like Citibank did anything to piss me off. In fact, they tried their best to make
me feel at home. I already had an assigned cubicle and computer. My first stint
involved working in a group that served ‘priority banking’ clients, a politically
correct term to address ‘stinking rich’ customers. There is little a customer
needed to do to become priority except wave bundles of cash at us. Priority
customers received special service, which included sofas for waiting areas
instead of chairs, free tea while the bank representative discussed new ways to
nibble…oops sorry, invest clients’ money. And the biggest touted perk was you
would get direct access to your Customer Service Managers. These were
supposed to be financial wizards f rom the top MBA schools who would take your
financial strategy to a whole new level. Yes, that would be me. Of course, we
never mentioned that your customer service manager could hate his job, do it
only for the money and would have come to the city only because his girlfriend
was here.
I had to supervise eight bank representatives. The bank representatives were
younger, typically graduates or MBAs from non-blue-blooded institutions. And I,
being from an IIM and therefore injected with a sense of entitlement for life, would
obviously be above them. I didn’t speak Tamil or know anything about banking,
but I had to pretend I knew what I was doing. At least to my boss Balakrishnan or
Bala.
‘Welcome to the family,’ he said as we shook hands.
I wondered if he was related to Ananya. ‘Family?’
‘The Citibank f amily. And of course, the Priority Banking family. You are so
lucky. New MBAs would die to get a chance to start straight in this group.’
I smiled.
‘Are you excited, young man?’ Bala asked in a high-pitched voice.
‘Super-excited,’ I said, wondering if t hey’d let me leave early as it was my first
day.
He took me to the priority banking area. Eight reps, four guys and four girls
read research reports and tips from various departments on what they could see
today. I met everyone though I forgot their similar sounding South Indian names
the minute ii heard them.
‘Customers start coming in at ten, two hours f rom now,’ Bala said. ‘And that is
when the battle begins. We believe trainees learn best by facing action. Ready for
war?’
I looked at him. I could tell he was a Citibank lifer. At forty, he had probably
spent twenty years already in the bank.
‘Ready? Any quest ions, champ?’ Bala asked again.
‘Yeah, what exactly am I supposed to do?’
Bala threw me the first of his many disappointed looks at me. He asked a rep
for the daily research reports. ‘Two things you need to do, actually three,’ Bala
said as he took me to my desk. ‘One, read these reports everyday and see if you
can recommend any investments to the clients. Like look at this.’ He pulled out a
report from the equities group. It recommended shares of Internet companies as
their values had dropped by half.
‘But isn’t t he dot com bubble bursting?’ I asked. ‘These companies would
never make money.’
Bala looked at me like I had spoken to him in pure Punjabi.
‘See, our research has given a buy here. This is Citibank’s official research,’
Bala spoke like he was quot ing from the Bible. Official research was probably
written by hung-over MBA three years out of business school.
‘Fine, what else?’
‘The second important job is to develop a relationship. Tamilians love
educated people. You, being from IIT and IIM, must develop a relat ionship with
them.’
I nodded. I was the endangered species in the priority-banking zoo that
customers could come throw bananas at.
‘Now, it is going to be hard for you as you are… Bala paused as if he came to
a swear word in the conversation.
‘Punjabi?’
‘Yes, but can you befriend Tamilians?’
‘I am trying to. I have to,’ I said, wondering where I could call Ananya apart
from her home number. If only these damn cell-phone prices would drop fast.
‘Good. And the last thing is,’ Bala moved f orward to whisper, ‘these reps are
quite lazy. Keep an eye on them. Anyone not doing t heir job, tell me.’ He winked
at me and stood up to leave. ‘And come to of fice early.’
‘I came at seven-thirty. Isn’t the official time nine?’
‘Yes, but when I was your level, I came at seven. If you want t o be like me,
wake up, soldier,’ Bala said and laughed at his own joke. The Tamil sense of
humour, if there is any, is really an acquired taste.
I didn’t want to be like him. I didn’t even want t o be here. I took a deep breat h
after he left and meditated on my salary package.
You are doing it for the money,
I
told myself .
Four lakh a year, that is thirty-three thousand a month,
I chanted the
mantra in my head. My father had worked in the army for thirty years and still
never earned half as much. I had to push bubble stocks and the cash would be
mine. Life isn’t so bad, I said to myself.
‘Sir, can I go to the toilet?’ one female rep came to me.
‘What?’
She looked at me, waiting for permission.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Sri.’
‘Where are you from?’
‘Coimbatore,’ she said, adjusting her oversized spectacles with cockroach-
coloured borders. Fashion is not a Chennai hallmark.
‘You went to college?’
‘Yes sir. Coimbatore University, distinction, sir.’
‘Good. Then why are you asking me for permission?’
‘Just like that, sir.’ She said.
‘No one needs to ask me permission for going to the toilet,’ I said.
‘Thank you, sir.’
I read reports for the next two hours. Each one had financial models done my
overenthusiastic MBAs who were more keen to solve equations than to quest ion
what they were doing. One table compared value of Internet companies with the
number of visitors to the site. The recommended company had the lowest value
to eyeball ratio, a t rendy term invented by the analyst. Hence, BUY! screamed the
report. Of course, the analyst never questioned that none of the site visitors ever
paid any money to the Internet company. ‘It is trading cheap on every multiple
conceivable!’ the report said, complete with the exclamation mark.
‘Sir, my customer is here. Can I bring them to you?’ Sri requested well after
her return from the toilet.
‘Sure,’ I said.
‘Sir, this is Ms Sreenivas,’ Sri said. A fifty-year-old lady with gold bangles
thicker than handcuffs came to my cubicle. We moved to the sofa area, to give a
more personal, living room feel as we robbed the customer.
‘You are f rom IIT?’ she peered at me.
‘Yes,’ I said even as I readied my pitch about which loss-making company to
buy.
‘Even my grandson is preparing for it,’ she said. She had dark hair, with oil
that made it shine more.
‘You don’t look old enough to have a grandson preparing for IIT,’ I said.
Ms Sreenivas smiled. Sri smiled back at her. Yes, we had laid the mousetrap
and the cheese. Walk in, baby.
‘Oh no, I am an old lady. He is only in class six though.’
‘How much is madam’s balance?’ I asked.
‘One crore and twenty lakh, sir,’ Sri supplied.
I imagined t he number in my head; I’d need to work in this job for thirty years
to get there. It almost felt right to part her from her money. ‘Madam, have you
invest ed in any st ocks? Internet stocks are cheap these days,’ I said.
Ms Sreenivas gave me a worried look. ‘Stocks? Never. And my son works in
an Internet company abroad. He said they might close down.’
‘That ’s USA, madam. This is India, we have one billion population, or two
billion eyeballs. Imagine the potential of the Internet. And we have a mutual fund,
so you don’t have to invest in any one company.’
We cajoled Ms Sreenivas f or five minutes. I threw in a lot of MBA terms like
strategic advantage, bottom-line vs. top line, top down vs. bottom up and it made
me sound very intelligent. Ms Sreenivas and Sri nodded at whatever I said.
Ultimately, Ms Sreenivas agreed to nibble at toxic waste.
‘Let’s start with ten lakh,’ I said to close the case.
‘Five. Please, f ive,’ Ms Sreenivas pleaded with us on how to use her own
money.
I settled at five and Sri was ecstatic, I had become their favourite customer
service manager.
Bala took me out for lunch at Sangeetha’s, a dosa restaurant.
‘What dosas do you have?’ I asked the wait er.
‘We have eighty-five kinds,’ the waiter pointed to t he board. Every stuffing
imaginable to man was available in dosa form.
‘Try the spinach dosa. And the sweet banana dosa,’ Bala said as he smiled at
me like the father I never had. ‘So, how does it feel, to get your first investment?
Heart pumping?’
My heart didn’t pump. It only ached. I’d been in Chennai for fifteen hours and
had not spoken to Ananya yet. I wanted to buy a cell-phone as soon as possible.
Wait, I’d need two.
‘I see myself in you. You are like me,’ Bala said as he dunked his first piece of
dosa in sambhar. I had no clue how he reached that conclusion.
I had Ananya’s home landline number. But, she didn’t reach home until seven.
She had a sales f ield job so no fixed office number as well. I remembered how
we’d finish lunch in campus and snuggle up for our afternoon nap. It is official,
life after college sucks.
‘Isn’t this fun?’ Bala said. ‘I get a rush every time I come to the bank. And it is
twenty years. Wow, I still remember the day my boss first took me out for lunch.
Hey, what are you thinking? Stop work thoughts now. It is lunch-time.
‘Of course,’ I said and collected myself. ‘How far is HLL office from here?’
‘Why? You have a pot ential client?’ Bala asked as if the only reason people
existed was to become priority banking customers.
‘Possibly,’ I said. One good thing about banking is that you don’t feel bad
about lying at all.
‘It is in Nungambakkam. Apex Plaza,’ he said.
The waiter reloaded our sambhar and delivered t he banana dosa. The latter
tast ed like a pancake, and I have to say, wasn’t bad at all. ‘Oh, that’s where I am
staying, right?’
‘Yes, the Citi chummery. My first home t oo,’ he leaned forward and patted my
back.
I suppose I had a good boss. I should have f elt happy but didn’t. I wondered if I
should call HLL first or straight land up there.
I came back to my desk in the afternoon. I met some customers, but most of
them didn’t have time to stay long. Ms Sreenivas had given me a lucky break, but
it wasn’t t hat easy to woo conservative Tamilians, after all.
‘Fixed deposit. I like fixed deposit,’ one customer told me when I asked him for
his investment preferences.
At three in the afternoon, I had a call.
‘It is for you, sir,’ Sri said as she t ransferred the line to my extension.
‘Hi, I’d like to open a priority account, with my hot-shot sexy banker.’
‘Ananya?’ I said, my voice bursting wit h happiness, ‘Where are you? When are
we meet ing? Should I come to HLL? I am sorry my flight…
‘Easy, easy. I am in Kancheepuram.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Three hours from Chennai. I’ll head back soon. Why don’t you come home for
dinner?’
‘Home? Your home? With your mom and dad?’
‘Yes, why not? You have t o know t hem anyway. Mom’s a lit tle low these days,
but that is OK.’
‘Why is she low? Because of us?’
‘No, she finds other reasons t o be miserable. Luckily, this time it has nothing
to do with me.’
‘Ananya, let’s go out, OK?’
‘I can’t today. My aunt is visit ing from Canada. Come at eight.’ She gave me
her address. I noted it down af ter making her spell it thrice. ‘See you in five
hours,’ she said and hung up.
I stared at the watch, hoping it would move faster. The reps left at six, and as
Citi’s great culture goes, MBAs never left until eight.
I killed time reading reports on the Indian economy. Smart people had written
them, and they made GDP forecasts for the next ten years with confidence that
his the basic fact –
how can you really tell, dude?
At seven-thirty I stood up to leave. Bala came towards me. “Leaving?’ he
asked, puzzled as if I had planned to take a half day.
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Not much to do.’
‘One tip, never leave before your boss,’ he said and winked at me. He laughed,
and I didn’t find it funny at all. I want t o see what a Tamil joke book looks like.
‘What time do you leave?’ I said, tired.
‘Soon, actually let me call it a day. Kusum will be waiting. You want to come
home for dinner?’
‘No, thanks,’ I said.
He gave me the second disappointed look.
‘I have to go somewhere, distant relatives,’ I said.
‘Oh,’ he said, his voice still a little sad.
I am sorry dude, I am not handing you the remote of my life because you are my boss,
I thought.
17
‘Swaminathan’, the name plate of Ananya’s small standalone house proclaimed in
arched letters. I pressed the doorbell even as a buzzing grinder drowned the ring.
‘Yes?’ Ananya’s father opened the door with a puzzled expression. I bet he
recognised me but feigned ignorance to rattle me. He wore a half-sleeve white
vest with a front pocket and a checked blue and white lungi.
‘Krish, sir, Ananya’s friend,’ I said. For no particular reason, fear makes me
address people as sir. I had brought a gift pack of biscuits, as my Punjabi
sensibilities had taught me t o never go to someone’s house without at least as
many calories as you would consume there.
‘Oh, come in,’ he said after I reintroduced myself.
I stepped inside and handed him the gift pack.
‘Shoes!’ he said in a stern voice when I had expected ‘thanks’.
‘What?’ I said.
He pointed at the shoe rack outside the house.
I removed my shoes and checked my socks for smells and holes. I decided to
take t hem off too, I went inside.
‘Don’t step on the rangoli,’ he warned.
I looked down. My right foot rested on a rice f lour flower pattern. ‘Sorry, I am
really sorry, sir,’ I said and bent down to repair the pattern.
‘It’s OK. It can’t be fixed now,’ he said and ushered me into t he living room.
The long rect angular room looked like what would be left if a Punjabi drawing was
robbed. The sofas were simple, with cushions t hinner than Indian Railways
sleepers had and f rom the opposite of the decadent red velvet sofas Pammi
aunty. The walls had a pale green distemper finish. There were pict ures of various
South Indian gods all around the room. The dining area had f loor seating. At one
corner, there was a daybed with a tambura (which looks like a sit ar) kept on it . An
old man sat there. I wondered if Ananya’s parents were cool enough to arrange
live music for dinner.
‘Sit,’ Ananya’s father said, pointing at the sofa.
We sat opposite each other as I faced Ananya’s dad for the first time in my life.
I strained my brain hard for a suitable topic. ‘Nice place,’ I said.
‘What is nice? No water in this area,’ uncle said as he picked up a newspaper.
I hung my head, as if to apologise for the wat er problem in Mylapore.
Ucle opened the newspaper, which blocked his face from mine. I didn’t know if
it was intentional. I kept quiet and turned to the man with the tambura. I smiled,
but he didn’t react. The house had an eerie silence. A Punjabi house is never this
silent even when people sleep at night.
I bent forward to see if uncle was reading the paper or avoiding me. He had
opened the editorial page of
The Hindu
. He read an opinion piece about AIADMK
asking the government to do an enquiry on the defense minister who had sacked
the naval chief. It was heavy-duty stuff. No one in my family, correct ion, no one in
my extended clan ever read editorial pages of newspapers, let alone articles
about AIADMK.
Uncle caught me peeking over him and grunted, ‘What?’
‘Nothing,’ I said. I didn’t know why I felt so guilty.
Uncle continued to read for five minutes. I had an opportunity to speak again
when he turned the page. ‘No one is at home, sir?’
‘Where will they go?’
‘I can’t see anyone.’
‘Cooking. Can’t you hear the grinder?’ he said.
I didn’t know if Ananya’s father was naturally like this or extra grumpy today.
Maybe he is pissed about me being here,
I thought.
‘You want water?’ he said.
‘No sir,’ I said.
‘Why? Why you don’t want water?’
I didn’t have an answer except that I felt scared and weird in this house. ‘OK,
give me water,’ I said.
‘Radha,’ uncle screamed. ‘Tanni!’
‘Is that Ananya’s grandf ather,’ I said, pointing to the old man.
‘No,’ he said.
I realised Ananya’s father answered exactly what was asked. ‘Who is he?’ I
asked slowly.
‘It’s Radha’s Carnatic music teacher who came to see her. But she is busy in
the kit chen making dinner for you. Now what to do?’
I nodded.
Ananya’s mother came in the living room. She held a tray with a glass of water
and a plate of savouries. The spiral-shaped, brown-coloured snacks resembled
fossilised snakes.
‘Hello, aunty,’ I stood up.
‘Hello, Krish,’ she said.
‘I am sorry I came at the wrong time,’ I said, looking at the teacher.
‘It’s OK. Ananya invited you. And she has a habit of not consulting me,’
Ananya’s mother said.
‘Aunty, we can all go out,’ I said.
‘It’s OK. Food is almost ready,’ she said and t urned to her husband. ‘Give me
half an hour wit h Guruji.’ She went up to Guruji and touched his f eet. The Guruji
blessed her. Ananya’s mother picked up the tambura and they left the room.
‘So, Citibank placed you in Chennai?’ uncle said, initiating conversation wit h
me for the f irst time.
‘Yes, sir’ I said. Ananya had told him the bank transferred me.
‘Why do they send North Indians here?’
‘I don’t know, sir.’
‘Useless buggers,’ he mumbled and buried himself in his newspaper again.
I cleared my throat and finally gathered the courage to ask. ‘Where’s Ananya?’
Uncle looked up in shock as if I had asked him where he kept his porn
collection. ‘She had gone for a bath. She will come after evening prayers.’
I nodded. Ananya never did any evening prayers in Ahmedabad. I heard noises
from the other room. They sounded like long wails, as if someone was being
slowly strangled. I looked puzzled and uncle looked at me.
‘Carnatic music,’ uncle said. ‘You know?’
I shook my head.
‘Then what do you know?’ he asked and sank into
The Hindu
waiting for me to
respond.
I had an urge t o run out of the house.
What the fuck am I doing here in this
psycho home?
I heard footsteps outside.
‘Sorry,’ Ananya said, coming in.
I turned to look at her. I was seeing her after two months. She wore a cream-
coloured cotton sari wit h a thin gold border. She seemed prettier than I last saw
her. I wanted to grab her and plant the biggest kiss on her lips ever. Of course,
things had to be different with Mr Hindu-addict Grumpyswami in front of me.
‘Hi Ananya, good to see you,’ I greeted her like a colleague at work. I kept my
hands close to my body.
‘What? Give me a hug,’ she said and uncle finally lost interest in
The Hindu
.
‘Sit here, Ananya,’ he said and carefully folded the newspaper like he would
read it again every day for the rest of his life.
‘Hi dad,’ Ananya said and kissed her father on the cheek. I felt jealous. ‘Oh,
mom is singing,’ she said, upon hearing her mother shriek again.
‘Yes, finally,’ Ananya’s father said. ‘Can you tell the raga?’
Ananya closed her eyes to listen. She looked beautiful but I had to look away
as uncle eyed every move of mine.
‘It’s malhar, definitely malhar,’ she said.
Uncle nodded his head in appreciation.
‘How many ragas are there?’ I asked, trying to fit in.
‘A thousand, yeah dad?’ Ananya said.
‘At least. You don’t listen to Carnatic music?’ uncle said to me.
‘Not much, but it is kind of nice,’ I said. Of course, saying I have no fucking
clue what you are talking about didn’t seem quite right.
‘Mom won two championships at the Tamil Sangam in Kolkata when dad was
posted there,’ Ananya said, her voice proud.
‘But she has stopped singing since we came to Chennai,’ uncle said and threw
up his hands.
‘Why?’ I said.
‘Various reasons,’ Ananya said and gestured at me to change the topic.
‘Your aunt is here?’ I asked.
‘Yes, Shobha athai is in the kit chen. She is dad’s elder sister.’
I prayed Shobha aunt y didn’t have a personality like her brother’s. Silence fell
in the room. I picked up a snack to eat it. Every crunch would be clearly in the
room. I had to keep the conversation going. I had read a book on making friends a
while ago. It said take an interest in people’s work and keep bringing their name
into t he conversation.
‘So, you have worked all over India, Mr Swaminathan?’ I said.
‘A few places, until I became stuck here,’ he said.
‘Stuck? I thought you like Chennai, your hometown,’ I said.
Uncle gave me a dirty look. I wondered if I had said something inappropriate.
‘I’ll get Shobha. Let’s eat dinner soon,’ uncle said and left t he room. I wanted
to ask Ananya about her father, but I wanted to grab her first.
‘Don’t,’ Ananya said as she sensed my intentions.
‘What?’
‘Don’t move. Keep a three-feet distance,’ she said.
‘Are you mad? There is no one here.’
‘Not here? My mother is singing in the next room for God’s sake.’
‘That ’s singing?’
‘Shut up,’ she giggled. ‘And I’d suggest you learn a bit of Carnatic music. No,
stop, don’t get off the sofa.’ She gave me a f lying kiss and I subsided back into
the sofa.
‘Dad is having a bad month at the bank,’ Ananya whispered. ‘He got passed
over for promotion. He deserved to head Bank of Baroda for his district but dirty
politics happened. And he hates politics.’
I didn’t mention the interest with which he read the AIADMK article. ‘Where is
your brother?’
‘He slept already. He wakes up early to st udy.’
We heard footsteps.
‘Be careful with Shobha aunty. Speak minimum,’ she said.
‘Why?’ I said as Ananya’s mother came to the living room again. She and her
guru walked towards the main door. Aunty had a disappointed expression.
‘Illa practice?’ the guru mumbled as Ananya’s mother spoke to him in Tamil.
The guru shook his head and left.
‘What?’ Ananya asked her.
‘Nothing. Where is your appa and athai? Let’s eat,’ Ananya’s mother said in a
serious tone.
Ananya’s father and aunt came to the living room. They carried more dishes
than their arms were designed for. I stood up to help. ‘Hello aunty, can I take
something!’
‘Wash your hands,’ uncle told me and pointed me to the kitchen.
We sat on the floor for dinner. Ananya’s father passed me a banana leaf. I
wondered if I had to eat it or wipe my hands wit h it .
‘Place it down, it is the plate,’ Ananya whispered.
‘Radha,’ Shobha aunty said in a stern voice as she pointed to her banana leaf.
It had specks of dirt on one side.
‘Oh, sorry, sorry,’ Radha aunty said and replaced it. It wasn’t different from
Shipra masi finding faults with my mother. Psycho relat ives are constant across
cultures.
I followed Ananya as she loaded her plate with rice, sambhar, funny-looking
vegetables and two kinds of brown powders.
‘What’s this?’ I asked.
‘Gunpowder, try it,’ she said.
I tasted it. It felt like sawdust mixed wit h chillies.
‘Yummy, no?’
I nodded at Ananya. Everyone first kept neat little lumps of dishes on their
banana leaf. Soon they mixed it into a slurry heap.
‘Mix more,’ Ananya said as I tried to copy my in-laws-to-be.
‘You are Ananya’s classmate?’ Shobha aunty spoke for the first t ime.
‘Yes, at IIM,’ I said.
‘IIT student?’
I nodded. Ananya had told me that my IIT tag was the only silver lining in my
ot herwise outcast status in their family.
‘Sushila’s cousin is also from IIT. Radha, I told you, no? Harish lives in San
Francisco.’
‘Which bat ch?’ I asked.
‘IIT Madras, not your college,’ Shobha aunty said, pissed off at being
interrupted.
I kept quiet and looked at the various vegetables, trying to recognize them. I
said hello to beans and cabbage.
‘Harish’s parents want to get him married. You have Ananya’s nakshtram?’
Shobha aunt y said.
‘No, not yet,’ Ananya’s mother said.
‘What, swami? Your wife is not interested in finding a good son-in-law?’
I couldn’t believe they were discussing all this in my presence. ‘Can you pass
the rice?’ I said, hoping to steer the conversation elsewhere.
‘Radha, you must list en to Shobha. She knows best,’ Ananya’s father said.
Indian men slam their wives f or their sisters with zero hesitation.
Ananya’s mother nodded as Shobha aunty started to discourse in Tamil.
Ananya’s dad and mother also responded in Tamil. It was irritating to watch a
regional language movie in front of me.
After five minutes I spoke again. ‘Excuse me?’
‘What?’ Ananya’s father said.
‘Can you speak in English? I can’t follow the conversation,’ I said.
Ananya looked at me, shocked. Back off, her eyes said.
‘Then learn Tamil,’ Ananya’s father said.
‘Yes sir,’ I said meekly.
‘Anyway, this doesn’t concern you,’ he added.
I nodded. I heard various technology companies’ the boys’ names. I felt like
upturning my banana leaf on Shobha aunty’s face.
I left soon af ter dinner. Ananya came outside to help me get an auto. Ananya
held my arm as we came on the desolat e street.
‘I am not talking to you,’ I said and extracted my hand from her.
‘What?’ she said.
We passed by a bungalow with coconut trees in the garden.
‘They are planning your marriage. What the hell is nakshtram?’ I said.
‘It’s the astrological chart. They are fantasizing. I am not getting married to
anyone else but you.’
She held up my hand and kissed it. I extracted it again. I hailed an auto.
Ananya would have to negotiate with him in Tamil else I’d have to pay double.
‘How am I going to win them over? It is impossible to get through. Sitting with
your father is like being called to the principal’s office.’
Ananya laughed.
‘It’s not funny.’
‘It is a little. What about my mom?’
‘I used to be scared of her pictures in campus. Forget her in real life! Her looks
alone kill me.’
‘Her pictures scared you?’
‘Yes, that is why I never wanted to make love in your room. I’d notice your
mother’s pictures and chills ran down my spine. I’d imagine her saying,
What are
you doing with my daughter?
’
Ananya laughed again. ‘If we weren’t in Mylapore, I’d have kissed you. You are
so cute,’ she said.
‘Cut it out, Ananya, what is our plan? Will you speak to your mother?’
‘Mom’s stressed out. Her Carnatic teacher refused to teach her.’
‘Why?’
‘I’ll tell you later.’
‘Can we meet tomorrow? Outside, please,’ I said.
‘Meet me at Marina beach at six,’ she said.
‘I can’t do six. My extra-caring boss Bala leaves at eight.’
‘I didn’t say evening.’
‘Six in the morning?’ I gulped.
Ananya had already turned to the auto driver.
‘Nungambakkam, twenty rupees, extra illai, OK?’ she told him.
18
The beautiful sunrise at Marina Beach compensated for the 5 a.m. wake up call.
Hundreds of people took a morning walk along the seashore which ran down
miles.
‘Do you know this is the biggest city beach in Asia?’ Ananya asked as she met
me at the police headquarters building.
‘You’ve told me,’ I said.
‘Why are you in formals?’
‘I go straight to work. Trainees are expected to be there at seven-thirty,’ I said,
removing my shoes and folding my pants up to walk along the beach.
‘To do what?’
‘To suck up to the boss, who if you do a good job will promote you to the next
level of sucking up. Welcome to corporate life,’ I said.
‘I am not facing it yet. I have to sell a thousand bottles of ketchup every week. I
am so behind my targets.’
‘You’d better ketch-up fast,’ I said.
‘Funny,’ she said and punched me. Ananya saw a man with a bicycle. He
carried a basket full of idlis. ‘Breakfast ?’ she offered.
‘Don’t they have t oast?’
‘Don’t grumble,’ she said. We took four idlis and sat on a bench facing the
water. She spoke about her mother. ‘Guruji didn’t accept mom. He felt she isn’t
dedicated enough.’
‘But isn’t she really good?’ I asked, not that I could tell from the shrill cries I
heard last night.
‘She isn’t good enough by Chennai standards. Dad used to be posted in towns
outside Tamil Nadu. Mom became a star in the Tamilian community there. Here,
she is just OK. Chennai’s Carnatic music scene is at a different level.’
I nodded as if I understood.
‘My parents came to Chennai with great enthusiasm. But now dad lost his
promot ion. Pesky relat ives visit us all the time. Amidst all this, their daughter
wants t o impose a non-Brahmin, non-Tamil, Punjabi boy on them. Of course, they
will freak out. We have to be patient. I love them, too, Krish,’ she said and paused
for breath.
A gentle breeze blew on our faces. She laid her head on my left shoulder. I
stroked her hair. The sun emerged out of the Bay of Bengal, a soft red at first,
turning into a warmer orange. I put my arm around Ananya. In my tie and formal
pants, I looked like a salesman wit h no place to take his girlfriend to make out.
‘there is only one way you can get regular access to my home,’ Ananya said
after staring at the horizon for a minute.
‘What?’
‘IIT tuitions for my brother. They’d accept anything for that,’ she said.
I let go of her and sat up straight. ‘Are you crazy? I prepared for the IIT exam
eight years ago. I can’t teach him.’
‘I’m sure you can revise some not es and help him. My parents have to get
comfortable with you. Only then can I ask them to seriously consider you.’
I dipped my idli into coconut chutney and ate it. I missed my mother’s hot
paranthas at breakfast.
‘Do you love me?’ She wiped a bit of chutney from my lips.
I kissed her. I was kissing her after two months. I didn’t release her for a
minute. I’d revise IIT chemistry for this chemistry any day.
‘Ai!’
a hoarse voice screamed behind us.
I turned around. A pot-bellied Tamilian cop, looking more villain than police,
walked fast towards us. ‘What is this?’ he said and slammed his stick on the
bench. Both of us sprang up. Ananya hid behind me.
‘Oh fuck,’ she said. ‘Get rid of him.’
The cop screamed at me in Tamil. Helpless, I asked Ananya t o translate.
‘He wants to take us to the police station. He is saying we have some nerve
doing all this outside police headquarters.’
‘Why do they have police headquarters opposite a beach?’ I asked.
‘Shut up and pay him off,’ she whispered.
I took out my wallet and took out twenty bucks.
‘Illa Illa… the cop continued to shout and grabbed my arms.
I took out a fift y. He looked at me and Ananya. ‘Warning,’ the cop said as he
took the note.
Ananya laughed after the cop left us.
‘It’s not funny,’ I said as I wore my shoes again and straightened my pants.
‘Can we meet at my chummery, please?’
‘In a while. I travel out of Chennai everyday and come back late,’ she said.
‘Weekend?’
‘I’ll try,’ she said. ‘You will feed me chicken? I’m dying to have non-veg. and
get beer, too.’
‘OK,’ I promised. My building had vegetarian-only rules, but surely they
wouldn’t not ice if I brought something readymade from outside.
We sat in our respective autos. She spoke to me from her side window. ‘And
I’ll speak to my parents about the tuitions. Twice a week at five?’
‘Five in the morning?’ Why is everyone so eager to wake up in this town!
‘That’s when everyone goes f or tuitions,’ she said and sped off.
I had to wait for two miserable weeks in Chennai until Ananya finally decided to
visit my chummery for lunch one Saturday. One weekend Ananya’s mother fell ill
and Ananya had to cook for the family, courtesy a guilt trip from her mother. The
food did not come out right, as Ananya’s culinary experience is limited to making
Maggi in my room and making papads with a clothes iron (yes, it works). This led
to another guilt trip from Shobha aunty to Ananya’s mother who blamed her for
not bringing up her daughter right. The guilt trip percolated down to Ananya, who
had to take Shobha aunty jewellery and sari shopping the next weekend.
Meanwhile, I had visited Brilliant Tutorials and bought IIT exam guides. I
couldn’t believe how t ough the course materials were. The only reason I managed
to study them in the past was because that dist racted me from my parents’ fights.
I revised chemistry to prepare for my first class.
I also went to my Sardar-ji neighbor to find out the best way to procure
chicken and beers.
“Who is coming? Punjabi friends?’ he asked.
‘Work people,’ I said, to stop him from inviting himself.
‘Be careful when you take it up in the lift,’ he said.
As he told me, I went t o the Delhi Dhabha in Nungambakkam, less than a
kilometre from my house. I triple-packed the tandoori chicken so no smell came
out. I went to the government-approved liquor shop, where they had trouble
est ablishing my age. ‘Are you over twenty-five?’
‘No, but will be soon,’ I said.
‘Then we can’t give you,’ the shopkeeper said.
‘Even if I pay ten bucks extra a bottle?’
It is amazing how money relaxes rules around the country. The shopkeeper
packed the three bottles in brown paper, and I further placed them in a plastic
bag, so one couldn’t make out the shape.
‘What’s in it?’ the liftman asked me as the bottles touched the ground noisily
when I placed the packet on the floor.
‘Lemon squash,’ I said.
‘You should have coconut wat er inst ead,’ the liftman said.
I nodded and reached my apartment. Ramanujan saw me place the bottles in
the fridge. “what’s that?’ He wore a lungi and nothing on top apart from a white
thread around his shoulders.
‘Beer,’ I said.
‘Dude, you can’t get alcohol in this building,’ he said.
‘My girlfriend is visiting me. She likes it,’ I said.
‘You have a girlfriend?’ Ramanujan repeated like I had ten wives. None of my
flatmates had a girlfriend. They were all qualified, well-paid Tamil Citibankers who
planned to be auctioned off soon by their parents.
‘Yes, from college,’ I said.
My other roommates came to the living room. None of them wore shirts. I shut
the fridge to avoid further conversation on the beverages.
‘She is visiting Chennai? Sendil said.
‘Will she stay here? She can’t stay here,’ Appalingam said.
‘She lives in Chennai,’ I said.
The boys looked at each other as t o who would ask the bell-the-cat question.
‘Tamilian?’ Ramanujan asked.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘Tamil Brahmin.’ I added the last two words to let them absorb the
shock at once.
‘Wow!’ all of them said in unison.
‘She drinks beer?’ Ramanujan said.
‘Yes,’ I said and upturned the chicken into a bowl.
‘And chicken? What kind of Brahmin is this?’ Sendil said. ‘And dude, don’t get
non-veg in this house.’
‘It’s my house, too,’ I said.
‘But rules are rules,’ he said.
People in this city loved rules, or rather loved to follow rules. Except if you are
a cop or a liquor shop attendant or an auto driver.
‘Let it be, Sendil,’ Ramanujan said.
‘Thanks,’ I said and placed the chicken in the fridge. ‘And guys, please wear
shirts when she is here.’
Ananya came to my place at two o’clock. I greeted her politely in the living
room. My flatmates exchanged shy glances with each other as she greeted them.
Sendil spoke to her in Tamil. Tamilians love to irritate non-Tamil speakers by
speaking only in Tamil in front of t hem. This is the only silent rebellion in their
ot herwise repressed, docile personality. When she finally entered my bedroom, I
grabbed her from behind.
‘Can w eat first? I haven’t had chicken for a month.’
‘I haven’t had sex for four months,’ I said, but she went out and opened the
fridge.
‘You have beer too. Superb!’ she praised and she pulled out a bottle. She
of fered it to my flatmates; they declined. We moved the food and beer to my
bedroom. I didn’t want my friends outside to witness sin as we finished a f ull
chicken and two beers.
‘And now for dessert,’ I said and came close to her.
‘If I burp, don’t stop loving me,’ she said as her lips came close to mine.
I burped. She slapped me. We kissed and kissed and kissed some more. Our
lovemaking was more intense, not only because we did it after a long time, but
also because we were doing it in this stuck-up city for the first time.
‘Mr Citibanker, there is no train to catch. Slower, gentler next-time,’ Ananya
said as we lay back. I sighed as I entered a semi-trance st ate. Ramanujan played
Tamil music outside the room.
‘What, say something? Men just want sex,’ she said and kicked my leg.
‘Yeah, t hat ’s why I’ve agreed to teach your brother at five in the morning. You
want to see my chemist ry notes?’ I sat up, wore my clothes and pulled out
tutorials from the drawer. ‘I read these for four hours last night,’ I said.
‘So sweet,’ she said and came forward to kiss my cheek. ‘Don’t worry. My
parents will soon see how wonderful you are. And then they will love you like I
do.’
‘They’ll sleep with me?’ I lay down next to her.
She elbowed me in my stomach.
‘That hurt,’ I said.
‘Good.’ She looked into my eyes. Her gaze turned soft. ‘I know the tuitions are
hard. My parents are weird people. You’ll not give up, right?’
‘I won’t give up.’ I stroked her hair.
‘This is so amazing, this intimacy. Isn’t it even better than the sex?’
‘I’m not so sure,’ I said and reached a hand to increase the fan speed.
‘We never talk. At home, my mom and dad, they hardly talk. We’ll talk about
the news, the f ood, the weather. But we never talk about our feelings. I only do
that with you,’ she said.
I kept quiet. She sat up to wear her clothes. She picked up the pillows from the
floor and placed them back on the bed. I pulled her arm and made her sit down
with me again.
‘How come you don’t ask me to run away with you?’ she asked.
‘You want me t o? What if I did ask you to elope?’
‘I wouldn’t know what to do. I don’t want to hurt them. I already have by
choosing a Punjabi mate, but I think we can win them over, I want t hem to smile
on our wedding day. That’s how I imagined my marriage since I was a child. What
about you?’
I thought for a minute. ‘I don’t want to elope,’ I said.
‘Why?’
‘It’s too easy. And that doesn’t serve the greater purpose.’
Ananya stepped off the bed and brought back the leftovers. She took the
crumbs of chicken and ate them as we talked. ‘Greater purpose?’
‘Yes, these st upid biases and discriminat ion are the reason our country is so
screwed up. It’s Tamil first, Indian later. Punjabi first, Indian later. It has t o end.’
Ananya looked at me. ‘Go on,’ she coaxed mischievously.
I continued, ‘National anthem, national currency, national teams – we won’t
marry our children outside our state. How can this intolerance be good for our
country?’
Ananya smiled. ‘Is it the chicken, is it the beer or is it t he sex? What has
charged you up so much? Flatter me and say it is the sex. C’mon say it,’ she said.
‘I’m serious Ananya. This bullshit must end.’
‘And how are we making it end?’
‘Imagine our kids.’
‘I have, several times. I want them to have my face. Only your eyes,’ she said.
‘Not that, think about this – they won’t be Tamil or Punjabi. They will be Indian.
They will be above all this nonsense. If all young people marry outside their
community, it is good for the country. That is the greater purpose.’
‘Oh, so the reason you sleep with me is for the sake of your country,’ she said.
‘Well, in some ways, yes.’ I smiled sheepishly.
She took a pillow and launched an attack on my head. And then, for the sake
of my country, we made love again.
‘Open up, Krish,’ Ramanujan’s worried voice and loud bangs on the door woke
me from my nap.
19
Ananya was sleeping next to me and my head hurt from the beer. Ramanujan
continued to slam the door.
‘What?’ I opened the door.
‘I’ve been knocking for five minutes,’ Ramanujan said. ‘Come out, the landlord
is here.’
‘Landlord?’
‘Yes, be nice to him. It’s the last chummery in Nungambakkam. I don’t want to
be kicked out.’
‘What happened?’ I asked.
‘Come out first .’
I shut the door and wore the rest of my clothes.
‘Ananya,’ I said.
‘Baby, I’m sleepy,’ she said, trying to pull me back into bed.
‘My landlord is here,’ I said. She didn’t respond even though I shook her
maniacally.
‘Your appa is outside,’ I said.
She sprang up on the bed. ‘What ?’
‘Come out. My landlord is here,’ I said.
I went to the living room. My flatmates sat on the dining table. Mr Punnu, our
sixty-year old landlord, gravely occupied the largest chair. His face had a
permanently tragic expression.
I sat next to him. No one spoke.
‘Hi guys,’ Ananya came out after five minutes. ‘You want tea? I’ll make some.’
She started to walk towards the kitchen.
‘Ananya, I will see you lat er,’ I said.
Ananya looked at me, shocked. She tuned into the mood on the dining table.
‘I’ll leave now.’ She picked up her bag.
Mr Punnu stood up after Ananya left the house. He sniffed hard. He peeped
into my room. ‘Chicken?’ he frowned.
I didn’t respond. Beer bottles lay on the bedside table.
‘Ladies?’ he said.
‘She works in HLL,’ I said, having no clue why I had to mention her corporate
stat us.
‘Chicken, beer, lady friends – what is going on here?’ he said.
Fun, I wanted to say but didn’t. Those three things are what men live for
anyway.
Everyone kept quiet. I wondered who had sneaked. My flatmates were no
friend material, but somehow I didn’t expect them to be suck schmucks. Maybe
the wat chman did it.
‘I didn’t expect this from you boys,’ Punnu said in a heavy Tamil accent.
‘It’s my fault. I brought t he chicken and beer for my girlfriend,’ I said.
‘Girlfriend?’ Punnu said as if I spoke in pure Sanskrit.
‘She is my batch-mate. A nice girl,’ I said.
Mr Punnu didn’t seem impressed.
‘She’s Tamil Brahmin,’ I said.
‘And you?’
‘Punjabi,’ I said and my head hung low a little by default.
‘How is she a nice girl if she is roaming around with you?’ Mr Punnu asked.
He had a valid point. I decided to change the topic. ‘Mr Punnu, this is not a
boarding school. We are all professionals and what we do in our own home…
Mr Punnu banged his f ist on the table. ‘This is my home,’ he pointed out.
‘Yes, but you have leased it to us. Technically, we have a right to not let you
into t he property.’
Mr Punnu looked aghast. Ramanujan had to save the sit uat ion. ‘He doesn’t
know, Mr Punnu. He is new here. We should have told him it is a veg building and
no alcohol.’
‘Not even a drop,’ Mr Punnu said. “I have not touched it all my life.’
Mr Punnu looked like he had touched neither wine nor a woman all his lif e, but
badly needed to.
‘Apologise,’ Ramanujan told me.
I glanced around. Tamils gathered around me like the LTTE. I had no choice.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
‘No ladies from now on.’ Mr Punnu wagged a finger.
‘And beer and chicken?’ I said.
“That wasn’t allowed from before anyway,’ Sendil said. Everyone around me
nodded as they felt the warm fuzzy feeling of having set rules on how to live their
life.
I wondered where I’d take Ananya the next time.
20
‘I am good at chemistry. I need help in physics,’ Manjunath, nerd-embryo and
Ananya’s younger brother, spoke with eh energy of a rooster. His eyebrows went
up and down as he spoke, in sync with the three rows of ash on his forehead.
I had come for my first class. Ananya had left for Madurai the night before for a
weeklong sales trip. My head hurt from waking up early. Ananya’s mother had
sent coffee to Manju’s room. It didn’t help.
Neither did the fact that I had only read up chemistry.
“let’s revise it anyways,’ I said and opened my sheets.
‘Hydrocarbons?’ he said as he saw my notes. ‘I’ve done this thee times.’
I offered him a problem and he solved it in two minutes. I tried a harder one,
and he did it in the same time. A tape played in the next room. It sounded like a
chorus of women marching towards the army.
‘M.S. Subbulaxmi,’ Manju said, noticing my worried expression. ‘Devotional
music.’
I nodded as I flipped through the chemist ry books to find a problem
challenging enough for the little Einstein.
‘Every Tamilian house plays it in the morning.’
I wondered if Ananya would play it in our house after we got married. My
mother would have serious trauma with that sound. The chants became stronger
with every passing minute.
‘What is IIT like?’ he asked.
I told him about my former college, filtering out all t he spicy bits t hat occurred
in my life.
‘I want to do aeronautics,’ Manju said. At his age, I didn’t even know that word.
He took out his physics textbook after an hour. He gave me a problem and I
asked for time to solve it. He nodded and read the next chapter. The tutor was
being tutored.
I passed the rest of the hour learning physics from Manju. I stood up to leave. I
reached t he living room where Ananya’s dad was making slow love to
The Hindu
.
Ananya had instructed me to spend as much time wit h her father as possible. I
wait ed for ten minutes until he finished his article.
‘Yes?’
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘I finished the class.’
‘Good,’ he said and flipped another page.
‘How’s the bank, uncle?’
He glanced up from the newspaper, surprised. ‘Which bank?’
‘Your bank.’ I cleared my throat. ‘How is your job?’
‘What?’ he said, stumped by the stupidity of t he question. ‘What is there in
job? Job is same.’
‘Yes, sure,’ I said.
I stood for another five minutes, not sure of what I should do. I couldn’t
compete wit h
The Hindu
, and a f resh one came every day.
‘I’ll leave now, uncle,’ I said.
‘OK,’ he said.
I had reached t he door when he called out, ‘Breakfast?’
‘I’ll have it in the office.’
‘Where is your office?’
‘Anna Salai,’ I said.
‘That ’s on my way. I leave at eight- thirty. I can drop you,’ he said.
I realised eight-thirty would mean I’d reach an hour later than my boss. It didn’t
work for me. But the lift also meant I could be in this house for another two hours
and be in the car alone with my father-in-law-in-courtship.
‘That ’s perfect. I have t o reach at the same time,’ I said.
‘Good,’ he said and went back to hhis paper again.
We sat for breakfast at seven-thirty. Ananya’s father went to the temple room
to pray, and came back with the customary three grey st ripes on his forehead. I
wondered if I should go pray too, but wasn’t sure how I’d explain the three stripes
in off ice along with my lat eness.
We had idlis for breakfast, and Ananya’s mother put fifty of them in front of us.
We ate quietly. Ananya had told me they never spoke much anyway. The best way
to fit in was to never talk.
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