Chetan Bhagat - 2 States The Story of My Marriage Full Novel(6)

Ask what’s the matter. Something is wrong,’ Shipra masi said.
‘Who will ask?’ Rajji mama said. ‘They are not saying anything.’
Kamla aunty wore a worried expression. Ten minutes passed.
‘What’s going on?’ Ananya said.
I shrugged. Shipra masi told the younger cousins to move back. She folded
her hands and went to Duke’s father. He looked the other way.
Ananya and I stepped back a few metres. We could see the elders but not hear
them.
My mother and her two brothers folded their hands in front of Duke’s parents.
Like a landless farmer, they waited for the feudal lords to respond. A few minutes
later, one of Duke’s aunts spoke to my mother.
My mother nodded as she listened carefully. After Duke’s aunt finished, my
mother came back to huddle with her siblings.

‘This is too much drama. I have t o know what’s going on,’ Ananya said.
I pulled my mother aside.
‘It’s the Santro,’ my mother said.
‘What? It doesn’t start?’
‘Be serious, Krish.’
‘Sorry, what happened?’
‘Some misunderstanding has occurred. When Rajji gave t he Hyundai keys,
Duke’s parents thought it was Hyundai Accent. But it was a Hyundai Santro.
Accent costs five lakh, Santro only three lakh.’
 

‘I thought it was a gift,’ Ananya said.
If my mother found Ananya’s entry into the family conversation odd, she was
too preoccupied to dwell on it.
‘Yeah, wasn’t it a surprise?’ I said.
‘What do you think this is Krish? A birthday party? Everyone knows the
surprise. Duke’s parents had already announced the Accent to their family. They
are feeling insulted and cheated.’
It is amazing how people can feel insulted even after being welcomed by
elephants.
‘Now what?’ I said.
‘Nothing, they are saying no wedding until Rajji changes the car.’
‘Can he?’ I said.
‘He is already broke doing this wedding. But what choice does he have? He
has promised them he will.’
‘Then why are they sitting there with sullen faces?’ I said.
‘They want a guarantee. Duke’s fat her wants the difference in cash right now.’
‘Now?’ I said.
Ananya’s eyebrows went up and stayed there as she didn’t know how to react.
Shipra masi called my mother again and the elders held animat ed discussions.
‘Is this for real? I am so pissed off,’ Ananya said.
‘I am as stunned by it as you,’ I said.
We went to the ladies bar. I ordered two mockt ail daiquiris.
‘What are they discussing? Why don’t they call the police?’ Ananya said.
‘Ananya,’ I said, ‘are you st upid?’ I handed her a glass.
‘No, I want to send some criminals to jai. Is t hat  stupid?’
‘Yeah, if you care about Minti’s reputation. Plus, what about all they’ve spent?’
I pointed to the various stalls.
 

‘Oh, and nothing about the little fact that your sister is going to marry into a
family of total jerks.’
‘This kind of  stuff happens. The elders will resolve it,’ I said.
‘We should be with the family at this time,’ Ananya said as she kept her glass
down.
We moved back to Drama Venue. Rajji mama had placed his pink turban at
Duke’s parents’ feet. They ignored him. He off ered a cheque, Duke’s parents
refused it. Rajji mama called his friends for cash. No one could come up with
such a large amount at such a short notice. Meanwhile, new guests were arriving
at the party. With them, Rajji mama his his stress and smiled and hugged all of
them. Meanwhile, the ladies came up with a bizarre plan.
‘Quick, Kavita, take your jewellery off,’ Shipra masi said and removed her own
necklace. My mother struggled to remove her bangles. Kamla and Rajni mami
took off their jewellery sets as well.
Shipra masi put all the ornaments in a plastic bag and gave it to Rajji mama.
‘Give this to them. Tell t hem to keep it until the car is replaced,’ she said.
Rajji mama fell on Shipra masi’s f eet.
‘Are you mad? You are my little brother. Minti is our daughter,’ Shipra masi
said. All her siblings broke into tears. Duke’s father, still sofa-bound kept looking
at us from the corner of his eye.
‘Now go,’ Shipra masi said.
‘I’ll check with them first,’ Rajji mama said. He went up to Duke’s father.
‘I can’t believe this,’ Ananya said.
‘Shsh, everything will be normal soon,’ I said.
Rajji mama returned after meeting Duke’s parents.
‘Shipra didi, they’ve agreed to keep the extra jewellery as security,’ Rajji mama
said.
Rajji mama collected the bag from Shipra masi.
‘Uncle, wait,’ Ananya said.
All eyes turned to her. This isn’t your business, I wanted to tell Ananya.
 

‘May I suggest  something,’ Ananya said, ‘before you give it  to them, Rajji
mama.’
‘What?’ my mother said to Ananya, surprised.
‘Aunty, you elders have had so many meetings to resolve this. Can  the
younger cousins talk to Duke?’ Ananya said.
“Ananya, t his mat ter concerns grown-ups,’ I said.
‘It’s Duke’s marriage. We should have a word with him,’ Ananya said.
‘When the jewellery is ready, then why?’ Kamla mami said.
‘Please uncle, Shipra masi, please. What’s the harm?’ Ananya said.
Shipra masi sighed her consent.
Tinki, Nikki, Rohan, Kittu, Bittu and us sat in a separate group of chairs ten
metres away from the grown-ups. Ananya walked up to Duke’s side of the family
and identified a twenty-year-old boy. ‘Are you Duke’s cousin?’
‘Yes, myself Pranjal,’ he said.
‘Good, can you collect all Duke’s cousins and bring them to Minti’s cousins
over there,’ Ananya said, pointing to our group.
‘What’s going on?’ Duke’s father said.
‘Uncle, the younger people want to have a meeting. C’mon, Pranjal, round
them up fast ,’ Ananya said.
‘Who is this girl?’ Duke’s mother said.
‘I’m their family friend,’ Ananya said and turned to the groom, ‘Duke, can you
join us?’
Duke gave Ananya a puzzled look. Ananya continued to stare at Duke until he
became uncomfortable and stood up. She asked him to follow her.
‘Krish, call Minti here,’ Ananya said.
‘Minti?’ I squeaked.
‘I’ll get her,’ Tinki said and ran inside.
 

48
We made a circle of a dozen younger cousins along with Minti and Duke. The
elders gave us a suspicious looks from far, keen to know what was going on but
Ananya made sure all younger cousins had their backs to the elders.
‘We shouldn’t have allowed this,’ Duke’s mother said.
‘Of courseji, t wo minutesji,’ Rajji mama said, agreeing to everything Duke’s
parents said.
‘Hello everyone,’ Ananya st ood up to address the cousins. I sat next to her.
Everyone returned a meek ‘hi’ in response.
‘Do you think what is happening here is right?’ Ananya said.
Duke and his cousins looked down, avoiding eye contact. My cousins huddled
next to Minti, t rying to keep her calm.
Rajji mama and Kamla mami gave helpless looks to Dike’s parents as all of
them wanted to peek into Ananya’s conference. Shipra masi walked over to the
younger set.
‘What are you doing?’ Shipra masi said to Ananya, ‘Minti’s life will be ruined if
they leave.’
‘I think her life would be ruined if they stay. Aunty, please give us some
privacy. You make sure Duke’s parents st ay put,’ Ananya said.
As Shipra masi left, Ananya turned to Duke, ‘Yes, you. Stand up if you can.’
Duke stood up. He was six inches taller than Ananya and twice her weight. Of
course, these anatomical facts didn’t register with my mad girlfriend.
‘What do you do, Duke?’ Ananya asked.
‘I am a software engineer,’ he said.
‘How much do you make?’ Ananya said.
Duke kept quiet.
‘Tell me,’ Ananya said in a loud voice.
 

‘Ten thousand a month,’ he said, in a heavy Punjabi accent.
‘Great, I make twenty-five thousand. Still, can you tell me what have you done
to deserve a wedding like this? What have you done to deserve a car to be gifted
to you?’
‘I, I am the b … boy’s side,’ Duke stammered.
‘So? Have you seen Minti?’ Ananya said.
Duke nodded.
‘You are having an arranged marriage. That is why you are get ting a girl like
her. If you had to woo her, can you even in your dreams have a girlfriend like
her?’
Duke kept quiet as he shifted his largeness from one leg to the other.
‘What?’ Ananya said.
‘This is too much,’ Duke said.
‘I am too much,’ Ananya agreed and gave Duke a Bharatnatyam-style glare.
She spoke again.
‘Do you know what Minti’s parents had to go through to do this wedding for
you? That  car cost two and half years of your salary, Mr Duke! These two parties
have t hrown him into debt . Now you want an Accent? It won’t be your Accent, it
will be what you managed to wrench out of a helpless father, who didn’t want a
drama at his daughter’s wedding to turn into a scandal.’
It was too many words for Duke to process at one go. He was stunned, like the
rest of the cousins, more by Ananya’s confidence and f luent English than what
she was saying.
‘Sit down,’ Ananya said. Duke complied instantly. Ananya t urned to everyone.
‘Listen, all brothers and sist ers of Duke, there isn’t going to be any Accent. The
elders have shown their true colours, now it is down to Duke and all of you. If he
wants t o take Minti with respect, he should say so. If he doesn’t, then he is just a
schmuck and we don’t want the wedding.’
‘Ananya beta….’ Rajji mama came to us as the youngsters’ meeting had gone
for too long.
‘Almost done, uncle,’ Ananya said. ‘Five minutes, Duke. Make up your mind.’
 

Everyone fell silent as Ananya Swaminathan, brand manager HLL, MBA, rated
best girl by popular vote at  IIMA and rated best  girlfriend by my own vote, forced
the younger generation in Duke’s family to think.
 

49
The cousins fell silent as seconds t icked past. Duke wanted to say something,
but he noticed his parents’ sour faces from far and kept quiet. He huddled with
his own cousins as they exchanged whispers wit h each other. He stood up again
and spoke to Ananya after four minutes.
‘Excuse me, madam,’ Duke said.
‘I’m Ananya. What?’
‘Can we go to the grown-ups? I want to talk to my mother.’
‘About what?’ Ananya said and blocked him.
‘Why are you so dominating? Let me go.’
‘Let’s all go,’ Ananya said.
All the cousins stood up from their chairs. We walked up to the grown-ups.
Duke went to his mother.
‘Mummy, I want to marry Minti.’
Duke’s mother gave her son a shocked look.
‘But t hey have betrayed us, beta,’ Duke’s f ather said.
Rajji mama dived towards t heir feet again. Ananya st opped him.
‘Daddy, I have kept quiet for so long, no? everything you have decided. Now
whatever it is, don’t spoil my marriage.’
‘Beta, but hey promised us,’ Duke’s mother said.
‘Mummy, enough! And why this drama of  keeping their jewellery? What do you
think? I can’t buy my own car?’
‘Five minutes are over,’ Ananya said, ‘should we pack up or….’
‘What kind of a girl are you? You are not even giving me time to convince,’
Duke said to Ananya.
One of Duke’s uncles stood up. ‘Let’s start-ji. We can’t spoil our children’s
happy day. We are already late for the jaimala ceremony.’
 

‘Are they OK?’ Rajji mama said, looking at  Duke’s parents.
‘Don’t worry, misunderstandings happen. We don’t have to spoil a lifelong
relationship,’ Duke’s uncle said as he signaled for all others to stand up.
‘Everyone , please enjoy the snacks,’ Duke said. It was enough cue for his
relatives to jump at the waiters. It is cruel to keep Punjabis away from their food
at a wedding, especially when most of them had no stake in the car anyway.
Our side of the family hugged Duke’s parents. They didn’t hug back, but at
least they didn’t push us away. Rajji mama brought a box of mithai and fed
Duke’s parents a piece each in their mouths. The sugar rush improved their
expression. The DJ started the music. The wedding was back on.
One girl stood back until everyone vacated their sofas and went to the stage. It
was the South Indian girl who had come with me all the way form Chennai.
‘What did she say to him?’ Shipra masi asked me. She took her bag back and
redistributed the ornaments. I shrugged my shoulders.
‘Very wise girl,’ Kamla aunty gave Ananya a hug. ‘Thank you, beta. You kept
our izzat.’
‘But t ell me one t hing, you earn twenty-f ive t housand?’ Rajni aunty asked the
question everyone wanted to ask.
My mother came and gave Ananya a smiling nod. Even though my mother
didn’t say anything, I knew it meant a lot.
‘She’s not that bad,’ Shipra masi told my mother during jaimala.
‘You’ve scored girl, you know you have,’ I said to Ananya as we tossed flower
petals on Duke and Minti.
 

50
‘So, mom,’ I said, ‘as I was saying.’ We were in the kitchen.
‘You’ve said that four times. Do you actually have something to say!’ my
mother said. She removed boiling tea from the stove.
‘Ananya leaves tomorrow,’ I said.
‘OK,’ she said. She passed me a cup of tea.
‘I called her home to meet us before she left.’
‘And,’ my mother said.
‘We’d like to know your decision,’ I said.
‘It’s your decision,’ she said.
‘OK, your opinion, which is important for me and to make my decision.’
‘Uff, you and your MBA terms,’ my mother said.
Ananya came home in the af ternoon. My mother cut a melon as we sat  at the
dining table.
‘So mom, the unthinkable happened. Your relatives like Ananya. Now, do I
have your permission to marry her?’
‘You don’t need my permission,’ my mother said, passing me melon slices.
‘Not permission, approval. Do we have your approval?’ I said.
She gave a few slices of fruit to Ananya.
‘Is that a yes?’ I said.
‘Kamla aunty and Rajji mama are quite fond of her,’ my mother said.
‘Do
you
like me, aunty? Tell me if you are not convinced,’ Ananya said.
‘Of course, I do, beta,’ my mother said, her hand on Ananya’s head. ‘But there
are other people too, your side of the family.’
‘My family likes Krish a lot!’
 

‘Yes, but what about the families liking each other? You two may be happy, but
we adults have to get along with the adults from your side. You remember
Sabarmati Ashram?’
‘Be patient, mom. Over time, the families will get close,’ I said.
Ananya brought up the topic of my father one last time before she left. ‘Krish’s
dad won’t agree?’ Ananya said.
My mother gave a wry smile. ‘He won’t let us watch TV, forget Krish Choosing
his bride. It’s f ine, my siblings are enough. Otherwise, it will never happen,’ my
mother said.
Ananya nodded. My mother went to her room and returned with two gold
bangles.
‘No aunty,’ Ananya said, even as my mother shoved it  down her wrists and
kissed her head.
Happiness floated like rose petals in the air and I imagined fist pumping my
hand three times
~
‘So what’s the next step? The wedding date?’
Ananya and I were on our long-distance call from our respective offices.
‘You know your mother is right, there is a gap here,’ Ananya said.
‘What gap?’ I said.
‘My parents like you. Your mother likes me. What about t hem liking each
ot her? Remember the Ahmedabad disaster?’ Ananya said.
‘Yeah but,’ I said. ‘Oh man, I thought we were done.’
‘No, the two families have to unite. Trust me, it will be worth is. We should
make them meet,’ I said.
‘Where? I’ll come to Chennai with my mother?’ I said.
 

‘No, let’s go to a neutral venue without relatives.’
‘Good point. Let me organise somet hing,’ I ended the call.
I went back to work. I didn’t have a fixed division or boss in Citibank Delhi yet.
I floated between departments, pretending to be useful. I had a temporary stint in
the credit cards division. I had to come up with a credit  card promotion plan,
something I had no interest or expertise in. I opened the existing brochure of
of fers for our credit card customers. We had a special deal on a package to Goa.
I picked up the phone and called Ananya again. ‘Goa,’ I said. ‘Let’s all go to
Goa. Nothing like the sea, sun and sand to make the two families bond. Plus, it
will be fun for us, too. What say, next month?’
‘It won’t be cheap,’ she said.
‘Isn’t love the best investment?’ I said and fumbled through my cards to call
the travel agent.
 

ACT 5:
Goa
 

51
‘I am telling you now only. I don’t like her mother – arrogant woman,’ my mom
said as we waited at the taxi stand. My mother and I landed at the Dabolim Airport
in Goa two hours bef ore Ananya and her parents did. I had t ried to time t he flights
as close as possible.
‘It’s not arrogance. They are quiet people,’ I said.
‘Don’t be under their spell,’ my mother said.
‘I’m not. OK, here they come, remember to smile,’ I said.
Ananya’s parents came face to face with my mother for the second time.
‘Hello Kavita-ji,’ Ananya’s father said. They exchanged greet ings, not warm
and cuddly like Delhi airports, but not completely ice-cold either.
I had hired a Qualis. I helped the driver load Ananya’s bags into the car. My
mother gave me a puzzled look.
‘What?’ I said.
She shook her head.
I sat in front. Ananya’s family took the middle seat.
‘Oh, I’ll sit at the back,’ my mother said.
‘OK,’ Ananya’s mother said.
I realised the faux pas. ‘No, mom, I will take the backseat,’ I said. My mother
declined as she had already taken her place.
‘Park Hyatt,’ I said. The driver turned the car towards South Goa. My mother
took out a plastic packet f rom her bag.
‘Here, for you,’ my mother said and passes a sari to Ananya’s mother.
Ananya’s mother turned around and took the packet. ‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘It’s tussar silk,’ my mother said, ‘I bought it from the Assam emporium.’
 

‘Silk is very popular in the South also, we have Kanjeevaram saris,’ Ananya’s
mother said and she kept the sari in her bag.
We didn’t speak much until we reached the resort.
Hotel staff  received us with a garland of flowers and a fruit-punch welcome
drink. None of us had ever stayed in a five-star hotel.
‘Isn’t this expensive?’ my mother said.
‘They gave me a deal. I promised I’ll get Citibank to do their annual conference
here,’ I said.
‘Welcome, Mr Krish, we have t wo garden view rooms booked for you,’ the
receptionist said. ‘And I have some good news. One of the rooms, we are offering
an upgrade to a larger, sea-view room.’
‘Wow,’ Ananya said, ‘I’ve never stayed in a sea-view room.’
Of course, Ananya and I weren’t staying together. I was to share a room with
my mother while Ananya would be with her parents. And since they were three of
them, I made the choice.
‘Ananya, your family can take the larger room. Mom and I will take the other
one,’ I said.
The bell-boys carried the luggage to our room. ‘Nice place, no?’ I said to my
mother as we passed a flower garden.
My mother didn’t respond.
‘Everything OK?’ I said.
My mother gave a brief nod. She kept  quiet until we had reached the room.
‘They are very rude people,’ my mother said.
‘Who? The hotel staff?’ I said as I opened the curtains to see the garden view.
‘Shut up, these people you want to make your in-laws. Are they in-laws? They
are making their son-in-law pick up luggage?’
‘Huh? When?’ I asked.
‘At the airport. You don’t even realise you have become their servant?’
‘I….’ I said, searching for a response, ‘I wanted to help.’
 

‘Nonsense, and why did they take the sea-view room? We are the boy’s side.’
‘They are more people. Besides, do you care? Isn’t the garden pretty?’
‘Whatever, have you not iced their biggest blunder?’ she said.
‘What?’
‘They didn’t get  anything. I gave t heir daughter two bangles. They should have
some shame.’
In Punjabi terms, Ananya’s parents had committed a cognizable offence. You
don’t meet the boy’s side empty-handed. Ever.
‘And I gave her a silk sari for two thousand bucks. She didn’t even appreciate
it.’
‘She did.’
‘No, she was bragging about her South saris,’ my mother said.
This is one of the huge downsides of  getting married. A guy has to get
involved in discussion about saris and gold.
‘Mom, we have come here to get to know them. Don’t pre-judge, please. And
now, get ready for dinner.’
‘You will take their side only. You are trapped.’ She muttered. ‘Stupid boy,
doesn’t know his own value.’
 

52
Few things bring out t he diff erences between Punjabis and Tamilians than  buffet
meals. Tamilians see it like any other meal. They will load up on white rice first,
followed by daal and curds and anything that has litt le dots of mustard, coconut
or curry leaves.
For Punjabis, food t riggers an emot ional response, like say music. And the
array of dishes available in a buff et is akin to the Philharmonic orchestra. The
idea is you load as many calories as possible onto one plate, as most party
cat erers charged based on the number of plates used. Also, like my mother
explained since childhood, never take a dish that is easily prepared at home or
whose ingredients are cheap. So, no yellow daal, boring gobi aloo or green salad.
The focus is on the chicken, dishes with dry fruits in them and exotic desserts.
‘You can take more than one plate here, mom,’ I said as she tossed three
servings of butter chicken for me.
‘Really? No extra charge?’ she said.
We returned to our table. ‘You are having rice?’ my mother said as she saw the
ot hers’ plates.
They nodded as they ate with spoons. Their fingers itched to feel the squishy
text ure of rice mixed with curd and daal. Ananya had made them curb their primal
instincts to prevent shocking my mother.
‘Chicken is too good. Did you try?’ my mother said and lifted up a piece to
of fer them.
‘We are vegetarian,’ Ananya’s mother said coldly, even as the chicken leg
hung mid-air.
‘Oh,’ mother said.
‘It’s OK, aunty, I will try it.’ Ananya said.
We ate in much silence with only our chewing making a sound.
‘Amma, something something,’ Ananya whispered in Tamil, egging her on to
talk.
‘Your husband didn’t come?’ Ananya’s mother said.
 

‘No, he is not well. Doctor has told him not to travel by air,’ my mother said.
‘There is a train to Goa form Delhi,’ Ananya’s father supplied. Ananya gave her
father a glance, making him return to his food.
‘We don’t travel by train,’ my mother said, lying of course. I have no idea why.
She continued, ‘Actually, Punjabis are quite large-hearted people. We like to
live well. When we meet people, we give them nice gift s.’
‘Mom, do you want dessert? There is mango ice-cream,’ I said.
She ignored me. ‘Yeah, we never meet anyone empty- handed. Oh and meeting
the boy’s side empty-handed is unthinkable,’ my mother said as I gently stamped
her foot.
‘OK, I’ve booked a car for sightseeing tomorrow. Please be in the coffee shop
by seven,’ I said.
‘Illa sightseeing,’ Ananya’s mother mumbled.
‘Sure, we’ll be there,’ Ananya said.
Ananya and I met for a walk post-dinner at Park Hyatt’s private beach.
‘My parents are upset,’ Ananya said, ‘your mother should learn to talk.’
The waves splashed the shore as many tourist couples walked hand-in-hand in
front of us. I bet they weren’t discussing t he mood swings of their future in-laws.
‘Your parents should know how to behave,’ I said.
There we were, at one of the most romantic locations in India, having our first
marital discord. In an Indian love marriage, by the time everyone gets on board,
one wonders if there is any love left .
‘How can they behave better?’ she said.
‘I will tell you. But you must do exactly as I said,’ I said.
‘If it is reasonable,’ said my sensible girlfriend.
‘Step one, buy my mother an expensive gift.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, step two, when we go out in Goa tomorrow, always offer to pay.’
 

‘Everywhere?’
‘Yes, at restaurants, to taxis or anywhere else. And when you offer, she will
say no. but insist, if needed, snatch her purse to prevent her from paying. In
Punjabi, this is considered OK, even af fectionate.’
Ananya’s jaw went slack.
‘Step three, never let me do any work when everyone’s around. For example, at
the breakfast table, tell your mother to bring toast for me.’
She snorted.
‘That ’s what my mom expects. Do it,’ I said.
Her face looked defiant.
‘I beg you,’ I said.
‘Anything else?’ she said.
‘Yes, step four is to make love to me on the beach.’
‘Nice try, pretty Punjabi boy. But sorry, nothing’s happening until we cross the
finish line now.’
‘Ananya, c’mon,’ I coaxed.
‘We have to fix the f amily sit uat ion. I’m too tense to think of anything else,’
Ananya said.
‘OK, if tomorrow goes well, then can we do it on the beach? We will call it
Operation Beach Passion.’
‘We’ll see. Beach Passion,’ she smiled and smacked my head. ‘Let’s go back,
my dad is waiting for me.’
 

The day tour of Goa went off without fireworks, mainly due to the presence of  a
friendly Goan tour guide. We went to Bom Jesus Basilica, the oldest church in
Goa.
‘Light a candle with someone you love,’ the guide said. I had to choose
between Ananya and my mother. Given the sensitivity of the trip, I went with the
latter.
We also visit ed Dona Paula, the climax location for the movie
Ek Duje Ke Liye.
“Famous movie shot here. North Indian boy, South Indian girl. Difficult to get
along, so they die,’ the guide said.
‘What else could have happened?’ my mother smirked. I let it pass.
Ananya’s parents stayed back in Panjim for shopping.
 

53
We met Ananya’s parents at dinner. All buffet meals at Park Hyatt were paid for as
part of the package. They came to the coffee shop with three brown bags.
‘Kavita-ji, this is for you,’ Ananya’s father passed the bags to my mother.
‘No, no, what is the need?’ my mother simpered as she took the gifts.
The f irst bag had three saris. The second bag had four shirts for me. The third
bag contained sweets, savoury snacks and Goan cashews.
I cruised the buff et counters with Ananya.
‘Enough or does she want more?’ Ananya said.
‘It’s cool. This is exactly what works,’ I reassured her.
All of us sat at the table and ate in silence. I always found it scary to eat with
Ananya’s family, who ate their meals as if in mourning. If I found the lack of
conversation awkward, my mother hated it. She shifted in her seat  several t imes.
The only sound was cutlery clanging on the plates.
My mother spoke after five minutes. ‘See, how t imes have changed. Our kids
decide, and we have to meet each ot her.’
‘Yes, initially we had a big shock. But Krish lived in Chennai for six months.
Once we knew him, we were ok,’ Ananya’s mother said in her naturally stern
voice.
‘What OK? You must be jumping with joy inside. Where would you find such a
qualified boy like him?’ my mother said. I prayed Ananya’s mother wouldn’t bite
at the bait. Of course, she did.
‘Actually, we do get qualified boys. Tamils value educat ion a lot. All her uncles
are engineers or doctors. Ananya had many matches from the USA.’
‘Yeah, but t hey must be all dark boys. Were there any as fair as Krish? Looks-
wise you cannot match Punjabis,’ my mother said, without any apparent
viciousness in her voice. I almost choked on the spaghetti in my mouth.
‘Mom, they changed dessert today,’ I coughed, ‘do you like bread pudding?’
 

‘And my brothers are also doing well,’ my mother said. ‘Ask Ananya what a
wedding she has attended. They gave a Santro to the groom. You may have
landed my son, but it doesn’t mean he has no value.’
Ananya imitated a st unned goldfish while I shook my head to deny
responsibility for that statement.
‘We haven’t trapped anyone,’ Ananya’s mother said finally. ‘He used to keep
coming to our house. W are decent people so we couldn’t say no.’
‘Mom,’ Ananya said.
‘Why should I be quiet and get falsely accused? We haven’t t rapped anyone.
Aren’t we suffering? We all know Krish’s father is against this. Our relatives will
ask. Still we are accepting it,’ Ananya’s mother said.
‘What are you accepting? You don’t even deserve my boy,’ my mother said,
her voice nice and loud.
‘Please don’t shout. We are educated people,’ Ananya’s father said.
Are you saying we are not educat ed?’ my mother challenged.
‘He meant “we” as in all of us, right, uncle? We are all educated,’ I hastily put
in.
‘Will you continue to take their side and clap while your mother gets
humiliated?’ my mother asked.
‘No mom,’ I said, wondering if I had t aken sides. ‘I won’t.’
Ananya’s family spoke t o each other in Tamil. Uncle looked especially
dist ressed as he took short, jerky breaths.
‘My father is not well. We will go back to our room,’ Ananya said.
I looked at him in alarm.
“Krish, we will see you later,’ Ananya added.
‘Mom,’ I said in protest after they lef t.
‘What? Is t here bread pudding? Let’s get some,’ she said.
 

My mother and I came back to our room. She pretended nothing had happened.
‘How does this remote work? I want to watch my serial,’ she said.
‘Mom, you could have behaved bet ter there,’ I said.
My mother didn’t answer in words. She responded in nuclear weapons. Tears
rolled down her cheeks.
‘Oh please,’ I said.
My mother didn’t respond. She swit ched to her favourite soap where a son
was throwing his old parents out of his house. She cried along with the TV
parents, correlating their situation to hers. Yeah right, she was staying in Park
Hyatt and ate four kinds of ice-cream and bread pudding for dessert. But, of
course, all sons are villains playing into the hands of their wives.
‘We can’t have a conversation if you watch this stupid serial,’ I said.
‘This is not stupid. This is hundred percent reality,’ she retorted.
I switched off the TV. My mother folded her hands. ‘Please have mercy on me,’
she said, ‘don’t subject me to this.’
The doorbell rang. I opened the door. Ananya stood there, her face equally
wreathed in ears. When estrogen attacks you on all sides, there is not much you
can do.
‘What happened?’ I said.
‘Dad’s chest  is hurting,’ Ananya said, fighting back her sobs.
‘Should I call a doctor?’ I said.
‘No, he is fine now. But something else can help.’
‘What?’ I said.
‘Is your mom inside? Can I talk to her?’ she said.
‘Sure,’ I stepped back.
Ananya came in and told my mother who was sitt ing on the bed. ‘Aunt y, I think
you should apologise to my parents.’
‘Yes it is always my fault,’ my mother mocked, looking at me for support.
 

‘Aunty, please don’t generalize. We spent four hours in Panjim today buying
gifts for you. My parents did whatever Krish asked us to do.’
‘What?’ my mother said.
Aunt y, you have insulted them. They have not trapped anyone. They were
dead against Krish to begin wit h. And now they have accepted him, they’d like
some dignity.’
‘I am not…..’ my mother started to talk.
‘OK, enough,’ I said.
Both the women turned to me.
‘Get your parents here,’ I said, ‘let’s talk this straight. Everyone has hurt
everyone.’
‘No Krish, today my parents didn’t do anything,’ Ananya said.
My mother went into the bathroom.
‘Ananya, try and understand,’ I whispered. ‘You push my mother into a corner,
it will get worse. Let’s make it a mutual apology.’ I walked Ananya to the door.
‘I don’t like this,’ Ananya said at the door.
‘Bring everyone here, please,’ I said.
I came back into the room. My mother had washed her face.
‘I’ve called all of them here. Let’s have a frank talk,’ I said.
She kept quiet.
‘What’s up, mom? Say something,’ I said. I wanted my mother to vent out
before Ananya arrived with her parents.
‘You saw Ananya? Have you seen any girl talk to her mother-in-law like that?’
my mother demanded.
‘She is a little feminist type, I admit,’ I said.
‘She is telling me to apologise. Can you imagine Minti talking to Duke’s mot her
like that?’
 

‘She is different. She is confident, independent and intelligent. But she is
caring and sensitive too.’
‘She is too intelligent to be a good daughter-in-law.’
I had no clue how to respond to that, but I had to calm her. ‘She isn’t that
intelligent, mom,’ I assured her. ‘She did economics, but I beat her in that
subject.’
‘We don’t have bahus in Punjabis like that, no matter how high-profile. We
keep them straight,’ my mother said.
‘So we will too,’ I said to pacify her.
‘She is out of control.’
‘Mom, she is here wit h her parents here. But I am marrying only her; once she
comes to our house, we can control her. You only say, no, that South Indians are
docile and scared,’ I said whatever my mother needed to hear.
‘I don’t want my daughter-in-law to raise her voice or answer me back. She has
to be under my thumb.’
‘Fine, make her toe the line.’  I said, ‘but be normal now.’
‘I heard that,’ Ananya said, her face red. Ananya stood there with her parents.
Damn, I hadn’t shut t he door after Ananya left.
‘Ananya? I didn’t realise you were here,’ I said.
‘And I didn’t realise what I was doing. So, I will be taught to toe the line after
marriage. Well done, Krish, it ’s not just your mother, it is you as well,’ Ananya
said.
‘Ananya, I….’ Both women stared at me with tear-ready eyes, ready to shoot
their ultimate emotional laser weapons.
Ananya’s father tapped his wife’s shoulders, signaling departure.
‘I told my parents your mother will apologise. But you guys are making bigger
plans,’ Ananya said and walked out of the room with her parents.
I ran out and caught up with Ananya. “Wait, where are you going?’
‘We’re done,’ she said, her words firm despite the wobbly voice.
‘What do you mean?’
 

‘It’s over,’ Ananya clarified, ‘between you and me.’
‘Are you breaking up with me? What? Ananya, are you crazy? I was
manipulat ing her so she’d calm down.’
‘I hate manipulations, Krish, and I hate manipulators even more,’ Ananya said
and broke into tears.
Ananya’s father came towards us and held Ananya’s hand. ‘It’s not about
communities. It’s about t he kind of people we want to be with,’ he said.
I stood alone in the corridor as Ananya’s family walked away and the ground
tilted around my feet.
Needless to say, Operation Beach Passion was not  executed that night.
 

The Final Act:
Delhi & Chennai & Delhi & Chennai
 

54
I turned workaholic after Goa, spending fourteen maniacal hours a day in the
of fice. I even bought the company laptop home to slog more. I achieved twice my
work targets, I didn't socialise, I didn't see movies and I stopped going to
restaurants.
‘You have a great future,’ Rannvijay, my new boss, told me.
When Citibank sees a great f uture in you, it means you have no life at present.
‘Thanks, Rannvijay,’ I said.
‘Though you could do wit h a shave. What's with the new look? Growing a
beard? And you look weak.... Take care of  your health.’
I had tried to call Ananya several times after my return. Her parents would not
pass her the phone if I called home. In her office, the receptionist would tell me
she was in a meeting. When I did reach her, she'd make an excuse and not
converse. Ananya had a cell-phone now, but she stopped taking any calls from
Delhi. One day I had a visitor in office from Citibank Mumbai. I requested him for
his phone to make a call.
‘Hello,’ Ananya picked up the phone.
’Hi, don’t hang up. It’s me, ‘ I said.
’Krish, please...whose phone is this?’
’A colleague f rom the Mumbai office. Listen, I am sorry, for the tenth time. Your
receptionist will have a count of my earlier attempts.’
‘Krish, this isn’t about an apology.’
‘Then stop sulking.’
‘I am not sulking; I am doing what maximises everyone’s happiness in the long
term.’
I scratched my head to respond to her corporate-vision type answer. ‘What
about you and me?’
‘For my own sake, I can’t let make my parents feel small.’
‘Don’t you miss me?’ I said.
 

She kept silent. I checked the phone; I had spent four minutes on the call. My
colleague gave me puzzled looks as to why I had to use his phone.
‘Ananya? I said, do you miss me?’
‘What’s the point? Say, I forgive you, what will change? Will your mother
change? Will her bias towards me, towards South Indians, towards the girl’s
change?’
‘She is good at heart, Ananya. Believe me she is, ‘ I said.
‘Oh really, why don’t you have her apologise to my parents then?’ she said.
It was my turn to stay silent.
‘See,’ she said.
‘She is sensit ive about everything right now.’
‘No, she has a chip on her shoulder about being from the groom’s side.’
I let out a sigh. ‘Ananya, what  happened to our plans to elope? Run away wit h
me,’ I said.
‘And go where? To my caring, nurturing mother-in-law?’ Ananya said, ‘No, I
want to marry where my parents are treated as equals.’
‘You should have been born as a boy,’ I said.
‘That ’s so sexist, I would have hung up if  I didn’t care for you.’
‘Do you care or not ? Don’t you love me? Isn’t our love above everything?’
‘Don’t ask impractical questions,’ she said, her voice heavy.
‘Can I do anything? Anything?’ I said desperately.
‘Don’t call me again. Help me get over this,’ She said.
‘I love you,’ I said.
‘Bye, Krish.’
 

I came home and sat down in front of t he TV. For dysfunctional families,
television is the biggest boon. Without this elect ronic glue, millions of Indian
families will fall apart.
The music channels showed songs of everlasting love. The couples seemed
insanely happy. Perhaps, they were all from the same state, religion, caste and
culture and their parents were completely in sync with each other. Otherwise,
how can you fall in Love in India? Some grown-ups in your house are bound to
get pissed off.
My mother didn’t talk about Goa or show any signs of remorse. She did feel a
little guilty about my low mood; her penance consisted of cooking paneer dishes
everyday.
‘I’ve made paneer bhurji. You’ll have paranthas with it?’ she said.
I didn’t respond. She took my lack of protest f or a yes. She returned wit h
dinner with twenty minutes. ‘You want white butter?’ my mother asked.
I shook my head.
‘Too much work in of fice? There is a Canara Bank near our house. Should I
talk to the manager for a job?’
‘No, office is OK,’ I said.
I tried to eat, but couldn’t. I had not eaten anything for three days. I hid the
paranthas in my laptop bag when she wasn’t looking.
‘Shipra masi had recommended another girl. They have bungalow in Shalimar
Bagh. Would you like to see her?’ she said.
I stared at my mother.
‘What?’ she said.
‘I’ll marry her. No need to see her. Fine?’ I said.
‘Krish, don’t say like that. When have I forced you?’
 

‘What is the point of  me seeing these girls? What am I supposed to check out
in one hour? Her complexion? Figure – fat or slim? Is the marble in her home
real? None of this matters when you have t o spend your life with the person, so
might as well save time. The parents should do the meeting. Whoever massages
your ego more, say yes.’
‘What happened to you? These multinationals are sucking your blood,’ my
mother said.
‘Can you apologize to Ananya’s parents?’ I said.
My mother didn’t respond. She stood up from the sofa and went into the
kitchen.
I followed her ‘Why can’t you do it?’ I said.
She didn’t answer me. She dabbed at dishwashing detergent with a sponge
and scrubbed the utensils. She addressed an imaginary audience:
‘First a useless husband, now a useless son. I had thought, after my son’s
marriage. I will get respect. I said yes to his choice of girl, but at least behave like
the girl’s side. Now he wants me to fall at their feet. What is so great about t his
girl? Shipra is right, everyone is selfish.’
‘Stop it, mom, I am not telling you to grovel. You can apologize over the
phone.’
‘Apologize for what? Is it wrong to expect what is due to me? Didn’t I look after
your grandmother until she died?’
‘Didn’t Ananya help set Duke’s family right? Didn’t you say yes t hen?’
‘I was wrong. I hadn’t met her parents then. I’ve never met such a dry breed of
people. Look at how they eat dinner, like it is a punishment. Ananya’s mother –
does she ever laugh? Dark from outside, dark from inside.’
The doorbell rang. My father had come back from another of his lacklusture
business ventures. I switched off the TV and opened the door. I had told him the
partial truth about Goa. I had said there was an office conference t here and that I
 

was taking mom along. I had become quiet after my return and didn’t even bother
to fight with him anymore. He came inside and noticed the silence between my
mother and me. There were several evenings these days at home when no one
spoke to anyone.
‘Have you decided to stop talking to your mother, too?’ my father asked as he
sat  on the sofa and removed his shoes.
It’s none of your business, would have been my usual response. But I had
fought enough with the world. Anot her argument wouldn’t have yielded anything.
‘We’ll be fine,’ I said. I wished my mother would bring his dinner soon.
‘Are you not  enjoying your job?’ my father said.
‘The job is good. They said I’ve a great future,’ I said. I don’t know why I said
the last line. Somehow, I felt the need to tell my father I was doing well.
‘Why are you upset with your mother?’ he said.
Ok, it was enough. ‘It’s none of your business,’ I said.
‘Are you telling me my own family is not my business?’ he said.
‘Dad, enough. I am too tired to argue.’
My mother brought him dinner and I went back to my room. I took out
Ananya’s pictures. I tossed and turned in bed wondering what to do next. When
you can’t sleep, your mind comes up with weird schemes. I couldn’t do it over the
phone. I had to go in person to do it.
I woke up at four and took a shower.
‘You are going to of fice now?’ my mother said as she heard me get ready.
‘I have a presentation, I’ll be back late,’ I said.
I took an auto to the airport. I plonked a month’s salary to take my cross-
country joyride.
‘Same day ret urn trip to Chennai please.’ I said at the Indian Airlines counter.
 

55
Chennai seemed embarrassingly familiar on my second trip. I could throw in
Tamil terms and negotiate with autos. I knew the main roads. I reached Ananya’s
of fice at eleven.
‘Hi, I’m Krish,’ I said to the receptionist .
‘Oh, that Krish,’ she said and called Ananya.
Ananya came out. I opened my arms to embrace her, but she shook hands.
‘I came for the day,’ I said, as we sat in the HLL cafeteria.
‘You shouldn’t have,’ she said. ‘What ’s with the unshaven look? And why do
you seem so weak? Are you sick?’
‘I want to meet your parents,’ I said.
‘There is no use. No matter how charming you are, they don’t trust you
anymore,’ Ananya said.
‘Do you trust me?’
‘Irrelevant,’ she said.
‘I’ll go to your place,’ I said.
‘Don’t, Harish’s parents are in town. They will visit my parents today.’
I took a deep breath to keep my temper in control. ‘At least spend the day with
me,’ I said.
‘I can’t. I have work. Besides, it is not good for my parents’ reputation.’
Blood rushed up my face. ‘What reputation? What about Ahmedabad? What
about when you’d lie to them to meet me in Chennai? What about Rat na Stores?’
My voice was as loud as my body was tired.
She stood up. ‘Please don’t create a scene at my workplace.’
 

‘Please don’t play with my life.’
‘I’m not doing anything! Be strong, move on,’ she said. ‘It’s not easy for me. So
please, let me be.’
She went back to her office, leaving me still sitting there burning wit h fatigue
and fury. I hadn’t shaved for ten days. Other girls in the cafeteria stayed away
from me. I resembled a Kollywood villain who could rape anyone anywhere
anytime. My flight didn’t leave until the evening. I had half a day and no money to
spend. Like a total loser, I decided to go to Citibank and visit Bala.
‘Krish!’ Bala said, shocked at my presence and appearance.
‘Hi, how is the champion of the South?’
‘I’m fine, but you look fucked,’ he said,
‘I am,’ I said and slumped in front of him.
Bala ordered coffee for both of us. He pulled his chair forward, eager to hear
gossip from the other office.
‘Is Citi Delhi screwing you? Don’t tell me you want to come back.’
‘Fuck off Bala, you think Citibank can get  the better of me?’ I said.
‘Someone clearly has. Boy, your eyes. Do you have conjunctivitis?’
I shook my head. He touched my arm.
‘Dude you have high fever. Do you want to see a doc?’
‘I want a drink. Can you get me a drink?’ I said.
‘Now? It is not even lunchtime.’
My stomach roiled and I retched. Thankfully, nothing came out and Bala’s
of fice could maintain its pre-me conditions.
‘You are sick. My cousin is a doctor, I’ll call him. He works in City Hospital on
 

the next street.’
‘What do girls think? We can’t live without them?’ I muttered. I couldn’t believe
I was venting out t o Bala. But I needed someone, anyone.
Bala dropped me at t he clinic run by his cousin, Dr Ramachandran or Dr Ram.
Dr Ram had returned from the US two years ago after being a general surgeon,
working on cancer research and collect ing several top degrees. He told me to go
to the examination bed as he collected his instruments.
‘I’ll see you later then,’ Bala said.
‘You South Indians have too much brain but t oo little heart,’ I said to Bala as he
left.
‘I heard that,’ Dr Ram said as he came to me. He put a cold stethoscope on my
chest.
‘So, this is a situation involving a girl? Dr Ram asked.
‘What girl?’
‘When did you eat  last?’ he said.
‘I don’t remember,’ I said.
‘What’s that smell?’ the doc said. He sniffed his way to my laptop bag. Stale
paranthas st ank up the room. ‘What’s this?’
‘Last night’s dinner,’ I said. ‘Oh my laptop, I hope it is OK.’
I opened my laptop and swit ched the power on. It worked fine.
‘Can I see it ?’ Dr Ram said, pointing to my computer.
‘Yes sure, are you looking to buy one?’ I said.
He didn’t respond. He spent f ive minutes at  my computer and gave it back to
me.
‘What?’
‘You should rest and eat food for sure. But you also need to see a psychiatrist.’
 

‘What? Why?’ I said. Sure, I am bit of psycho, but I didn’t want t o make it
of ficial.
‘What is the name of the girl?’ Dr Ram said.
‘What girl? I don’t like girls.’
‘Bala said she is Tamilian. Ananya Swaminathan who stays in Mylapore, right?’
he said.
‘I don’t like Tamilians,’ I screamed. ‘And don’t mention her name or
neighborhood.’
‘Good, because the psychiatrist I am referring you to is a Tamilian girl. Dr Iyer
is upstairs. Please go now.’
‘Doctor, I have to catch a flight. I am fine.’
I pushed myself off the bed. My legs felt as if the blood had drained from them.
I couldn’t balance. I fell on the floor.
Dr Ram helped me back up.
‘What problem do I have?’  I said, worried for the first time about my illness.
He handed me the specialist referral letter as he spoke again.
‘There’s no precise medical term. But some would refer to it as the early signs
of  a nervous breakdown.’
 

56
‘So, t hat ’s it, I’ve t old you everything.’ I said.
Dr Neet a Iyer broke into laughter as I finished my story.
‘This is insane. You find comedy in my t ragedy?’ I was miffed.
She didn’t stop laughing.
‘I’m paying you to treat me,’ I said and checked the time. ‘And I had to leave for
the airport in twenty minutes.’
It dawned on me that I had spoken to her for four hours. I had no money for
this extravagance.
‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘you reminded me of my first boyfriend. He was North Indian.
‘You didn’t marry him?’
‘He didn’t want to commit,’ she shook her head.
‘Oh, sorry,’ I said.
‘It’s OK. I’m over it.’
‘Of course you are, you are a therapist. You should be able to cure yourself, if
nothing else.’
She walked to the window. ‘Ah Krish, it doesn’t work like that. A broken heart
is t he hardest to repair.’
I sighed. ‘Do you accept Citibank credit cards?’ I opened my wallet.
‘It’s fine, send me a cheque later,’ she said. ‘You should have eloped.’
‘We thought we will win our parents over. Where’s the joy of getting married if
your parents won’t smile on your wedding day?’ I said.
She came to me and patted my shoulder.
‘You have to leave. So, what do I do now? Do you want pills?’ she said.
 

‘You mean anti-depressants? Aren’t they bad for you?’
‘Yeah but depends on how bad you feel right now. I don’t want you googling
for suicide recipes.’
‘I won’t,’ I said, ‘I’ll probably wit her away anyway. Is there another option apart
from pills?’
‘There’s therapy, sessions like this. It t akes a few months though. I can try and
find a therapist for you in Delhi.’
‘No, if my Punjabi family finds out, I’m done. They’ll say I am mental or
something.’
‘You’re not. But you know, there is one thing you can try yourself.’
‘What?’
‘When you told me your st ory, why did you mention that episode wit h Guruji?’
‘At the Aurobindo Ashram?’
‘Yes, it didn’t really have a connect ion with Ananya or her parents. But you
remember everyt hing he said.’
‘Yes about forgiveness.’
‘Yes, maybe it had some significance,’ she said.
I kept quiet. The clock in her room told me it was time for my return journey. I
took her leave.
‘Airport, vegamaa,’ I said as I hailed an auto.
 

57
I knew I had to eat, my brain knew this, but my body wouldn’t hear of it. The day
after returning from Chennai, I only had soup at office; at home I pretended I’d
already had dinner. My mother asked me when I wanted to shave. She wanted to
schedule a meeting with a new girl. I told her I had decided to keep a beard for the
rest of my lif e. She made a face and left the room.
My father came home at ten. He looked extra tired. His normally tucked in shirt
was out, and his hair wasn’t neatly combed as usual. He sat in front of me.
‘I’ve eaten dinner’ he told my mother.
‘I don’t know why I even cook,’ my mother grumbled as she left t he room.
‘You came back late last night,’ my father said to me. I had reached home only
at the midnight f rom the airport.
‘I had to work late,’ I said.
‘Everything OK?’ he said.
I nodded.
‘I had a really bad day,’ my father said. ‘My pension papers are stuck in
government offices. Bloody lazy buggers.’
I nodded without paying attention. My thoughts were all over the place, but
none in his department. I felt immense longing and loathing for Ananya at the
same time. I felt resentment t owards my mot her. My own problems, at least in my
mind, were far bigger than some retirement files stuck in a government office.
‘Now they have asked me to submit three different letters. I have to get them
typed tomorrow,’ my father said.
When my father had to suffer, he forgot his own vocat ion – of making others
suffer. He hadn’t shouted once since he had come home.
 

‘Do you know a place where I can get letters typed? You have a computer, no?’
my father said.
‘Yes, I do,’ I said.
My father continued to look at me expectantly.
‘OK, I’ll t ype them now and get a printout from office tomorrow,’ I said. I
anyway wanted more work to distract  myself. I opened my laptop.
‘Thank you,’ he said, words we did not know lived inside of him.
I wrote his three applications in the next thirty minutes.
‘How’s your friend? He said to me.
‘Which friend?’ I said.
‘The girl who came from Chennai t o attend the wedding,’ he said.
The mention of Ananya was enough to stir up my emotions. I felt like someone
had punched me back in the stomach. Maybe I should take those anti-depression
pills, I thought.
‘I don’t know. Must be fine,’ I said after a minute’s pause.
‘You are not in touch with her?’
‘Everyone had busy lives, dad,’ I dismissed. ‘Your letters are done. I’ll get a
printout tomorrow.’ I shut down my computer.
‘It is good that we talk sometimes,’ my father said.
‘Good night, dad’ I said and left for my room.
I lay in bed and that is when the depression hit me full force. Dr Iyer was right,
no pill could be as bad for me as I felt right now. I lay motionless. I felt like I’d
never be able to get out of bed again. I thought of every person in my life. One by
one, I convinced myself how each of them hated me. If I were gone tomorrow,
they’d all be happier. And considering how crappy I felt, there was no reason for
me to stick around anyway. I had no one I could talk to about my situation, except
five hundred bucks an hour. I hated money, I hated Citibank, I hat ed my job and I
 

hated all human beings on earth.
Calm down, Krish, this is going to pass,
I told myself. This was the sensible me
talking.
No baby, this time you are so fucked. This is how you will feel for the rest of
your life,
the freaked-out me said.
That’s nonsense. Whatever crap happens in life, tone
gets used to it. You aren’t the first guy facing a break-up,
sensible-me said.
Yes, but
nobody loves the way I do. So, nobody feels as hurt as I do,
freaked-out me said. Yeah,
right, sensible-me said and yawned, c
an we sleep? You know you need to.
Are you crazy? How can you sleep when we can stay up all night and worry about this
the freaked-out me said.
The world’s most sensible person and the biggest idiot bot h stay within us.
The worst part is, you can’t even tell who is who.
 

58
‘Where’s dad?’ I asked my mother, ‘He hasn’t t old me how many copies he
wants.’
Though I sat for breakfast before going to office, I drank only a glass of milk.
Solids were still indigestible. I wanted to rush to work and occupy my mind
before it sank into its black-hole hell again.
‘Morning walk,’ my mother said.
‘Why doesn’t he keep a mobile?’ I said as I wore my shoes to leave for office.
‘Get four copies of each, worst case,’ my mother said.
It wasn’t a big deal. However, it didn’t take a lot to piss me off these days.
‘Like I have nothing better to do in office,’ I said.
‘All you grumpy people in the house, please leave,’ my mother said and folded
her hands. ‘I don’t know when you will forget her.’
‘I don’t know when you’ll end your drama,’ I said.
‘This girl….’ my mother started.
‘Bye,’ I said hurriedly and sprinted out of the house.
I came lat e at night. I had st uck to juice and milk all day.
‘Again no dinner? Where are you eating these days, and look at you, so weak.
And please shave,’ my mother said.
‘Is dad back?’ I said, ‘Here are his papers.’
I took out the printouts and kept t hem on the table. My mother shook her head
and told me that he hadn’t come all day.
‘Please, give these to him,’ I said.
I went to my room and lay down in bed. Scared of black-hole land, I kept  the
 

lights on. I read the newspaper, paying extra attention to each article to keep my
mind busy. An item girl with her picture in a bikini said she wanted to be taken
seriously. I found her request quite reasonable.
My father ret urned at midnight.
‘You think this is a hotel?’ I said as I opened t he door. I hadn’t fought with him
for weeks, so it was about time anyway.
My father didn’t respond.
‘Here are your printouts. I didn’t know how many copies you’d need.’
‘Thanks,’ my father said.
‘Where do you go so late? Your real estate agency work can’t take this long,’ I
said.
‘I am not answerable to you,’ my father said.
‘And that is why we are an officially fucked-up family,’ I said.
I came back to my room. I slammed the door shut as I prepared for another
night with the devils in my head. I promised myself t o call Dr Iyer in the morning
and get a prescription for those happy drugs. Fuck the side effects, I couldn’t
take t he mind monsters anymore.
I fell semi-asleep at three in the night. Persistent rings woke me up. I checked
my wat ch; 5 a.m. Who the hell was calling at this hour?
I woke up groggy wit h a headache already in place. I reached the living room. I
picked up the phone, ready to scream at the milkman or whoever else felt it was
OK to call now.
‘Hello,’ a female voice said.
‘Ananya?’ I said. I knew that voice too well.
‘Thanks sweetie, thank you so much,’ Ananya said. Had she dialed the right
number?
‘What?’ I said, still not fully in my senses.
 

‘You fixed everything. Thank you so much,’ she said, her voice super-excited.
‘What did I do?’ I blinked sleepily.
‘Don’t pretend! You should have at least told me.’
‘Told you what?’
‘That  your dad is coming up to Chennai,’ Ananya said.
‘What?’ I said and woke up in an instant.
‘Stop behaving like a dumbo. He spent seven hours with my parents yesterday.
He assured them that I would be treat ed like a daughter and apologised for any
past misgivings.’
‘
My
dad?’ I tried for clarification.
‘Yeah, my parents feel so much better after meeting him. In fact , they asked me
if I have a date in mind. Can you imagine?’ Ananya spoke so fast, it was hard to
cat ch her words.
‘Huh, really?’ I said.
‘Oh wake up properly and call me. I love you, baby. Sorry about the day before,
I’d been so disturbed.’
‘Me too,’ I said.
‘What? You too love me or you too are disturbed.’
‘Both,’ I said, ‘but wait, my dad came to your house?’
‘You seriously didn’t know.’
‘No,’ I said.
‘Wow,’ she said, ‘please thank him from my side.’
I went to my parents’ room. They were still asleep. I don’t know why, but I did a
totally sappy thing. I slid right into the middle and put an arm around them both.
In a minute, I was fast asleep.
I woke up five hours later, at  ten. My parents were not  in the room. I sprang out
 

of  bed, panicking at how late I was for office. I came outside.
‘Where’s dad?’  I said as I saw my mother.
‘In the balcony,’ my mother said.
My father sat on a chair, digging up mud in one of the flower pots. He saw me
but kept quiet. I wondered what I should say to him. I picked up anot her spade
and st arted digging with him.
‘Dad, you went to Chennai?’
‘News travels fast,’ he said. He didn’t look up from the flower pot.
‘Why? I mean, how come?’
‘My son needed help,’ my father said as he pulled out t he weeds from the soil.
His voice had been plain, yet I felt a lump in my throat.
He placed a sapling in the pot and put freshly dug mud around it. I came and
sat  next to him and pressed the soil with my thumb.
‘How did you know?’ I said.
His eyes met mine, he said, ‘Because I am your fat her. A bad father, but I am
still your father.’
He continued, ‘And even though you feel I have let you down in the past, I felt I
should do my bit this time. A life partner is important. Ananya is a nice girl. You
shouldn’t lose her.’
‘Thanks, dad,’ I said, fighting back tears.
‘You’re welcome,’ he said. He gave me a hug. ‘I’m not perfect. But don’t deprive
me of my son in my final years,’ he said.
I hugged him back. Tears slipped out as I let go of any self-control. The world
celebrates children and t heir mother, but we need fathers too.
I closed my eyes. I remembered Guruji. I stood on top of a green mountain,
watching a beautiful sunrise. As I held my father, the heavy cloak fell off, making
me feel light again.
 

‘I won’t come for the wedding though,’ my father said.
‘Why?’ I said surprised.
‘Your mother won’t go without her relatives. I don’t know what I will do there if
they are there.’
‘You won’t come for your own son’s wedding?’ I said.
‘Ananya is coming to our home only,’ my father said.
I felt  too much gratitude towards him at that moment to be mad at him.
‘You have to come. I’m late for work, but I’ll convince you lat er,’ I said.
 

59
‘Like I said, much simpler for us if you get your relatives to Chennai,’ Ananya
said.
‘How do I get them all? I can’t afford so many air tickets,’ I said.
We were on our countless pre-nuptial calls.
‘They won’t fly down themselves?’ Ananya said.
‘Are you crazy? We have to take care of the baraat, until they reach you, of
course.’
‘Only you understand these Punjabi customs,’ Ananya said.
‘You’d better too,’ I said.
‘It’s a Tamil style wedding,’ Ananya said.
‘What?’ I said.
‘Yeah, what else do you expect in Chennai? Anyway, won’t your relatives like
to see something different?’
‘Actually, no,’ I said.
‘We’ll see, and you can take the train to Chennai. The Rajdhani Express takes
twenty-eight hours.’
‘That ’s a long ride with relatives,’ I said.
‘You’ve waited so long for this, what’s another day?’ Ananya said and ended
the call.
 

‘You really won’t come? I have your tickets.’
My father kept silent. My mother sat next to me at the dining table.
‘Why does it  have t o be a choice? Why can’t mom get her relatives and you
come as well?’  I said. Why can’t we be a normal family for once? I thought. I
guess there are no normal families in the world. Everyone is a psycho, and the
average of all psychos is what we call normal.
‘He feels they have insulted him in the past,’ my mother said.
‘And he hasn’t insulted them?’ I said, ‘Anyway, what does it have to do with my
wedding? Dad, say something.’
‘You have my blessings. Don’t expect my presence,’ my father said.
‘His drama never ends,’ my mother said. ‘He himself went to Chennai and said
yes to Madrasis. This wouldn’t even have happened otherwise. Now when
everyone in my family is waiting for the wedding, he stops t hem. Why? Because
he can’t see them happy. Most of all, he doesn’t want to see me happy.’ She then
broke into tears.
‘Is that the case, dad?’
‘No, I’ve given you a choice,’ he said.
‘Which son will not  want his father to come?’ my mother said, ‘This is not a
choice. This is blackmail.’
‘Whatever you want t o call it. If this wedding is happening because of me, then
I should get to choose the guests.’
‘No dad,’ I said, ‘Mom has equal rights, too. Unfortunately, I belong to both of
you.’
‘So, you decide’ my father said.
My mother and dad looked at me. I paced up and down the room for ten
minutes.
‘Dad, mom’s family has to come. You do what you have to do,’ I said and left the
 

room.
Rajji mama had arranged a two-man dholak band at the Hazrat Nizamuddin
stat ion. I helped locate the thirty-seven II-tier AC berths reserved for my relatives
in the Rajdhani Express compartment. Two of my mother’s cousins had decided
to join at the last minute and we had to accommodate them as well. My mother
made up a wonderful story about my father’s viral fever that would be malaria.
Everyone knew t he realit y, and apart from the awkwardness of fibbing to
Ananya’s parents again, people were relieved, as my dad equaled to no fun.
‘You can’t t alk half the things when your husband is here,’ as Shipra masi told
my mother.
I stood inside the bogie, matching everyone’s ticket to their berth. Rajji mama
dragged me out. ‘You have to dance a little, no? This is that baraat leaving,’ he
said.
At four in the afternoon, hundreds of bored passengers on the platform
watched the free entertainment provided by our family. The dholak men jogged
along the train and argued with mama over the payment. They couldn’t squeeze
much out of him as the train has picked up speed.
I came inside my compartment, which the ladies had turned into a sari shop.
The entire lower berths were filled with the dresses everyone planned to wear for
each of t he functions.
‘This is beautiful,’ my seventy-year-old dist ant aunt said as she f ondled a
magenta sari with real gold-work. Women never get too old for admiring saris.
My younger cousins had taken over the next compartment. The girls had their
make-up kits open. They discussed sharing the mascaras. I see why whole
families get excited about a wedding; there’s something in it for everyone.
I came outside to stand at the compartment door. The train whizzed past Agra,
Gwalior and Jhansi over the next few hours. I still had a day to go as the train
traversed through this huge country, cutting through states I had battled for the
last year. These states make up our nation. These states also divide our nation.
 

And in some cases, these stat es play havoc in our love lives.
I came inside when the train reached Bhopal at dinnertime. My relat ives
couldn’t contain their excitement t hat  Rajdhani Express offered free meals.
‘Take non-veg, the Madrasis won’t give you any,’ Shipra masi advised
everyone.
‘OK aunty, for the next three days, t here are no Madrasis, only Tamilians,’ I
said.
Shipra masi separated the foil from her chicken. ‘Yes, yes, I know. Tamil Nadu
is a state. But we are going to Madras only, no? Why does the ticket  say
Chennai?’
‘It’s the same. Like Delhi and Dilli,’ Kamla mami said as she slurped her
chicken sweet corn soup.
‘Is it true their chief minister is an ex-film heroine?’ my mother ’s cousin said.
‘Yes-ji,’ another aunt said, ‘these South Indian women are quite clever.’
‘God has given them a brain, nothing else,’ came another loose comment and I
considered jumping off the train.
 

60
Ananya’s father checked my clan into twenty rooms at the Sangeetha Residency
in Mylapore. The rooms were basic, but clean and air-conditioned. ‘What
happened to your father? We just met him,’ he asked.
‘It’s a viral fever that could become malaria,’ I said.
‘Is that possible?’
‘It happens in Delhi. Anyway, what’s the schedule?’ I regulated the
conversation.
‘We have a puja tomorrow afternoon and another one in the evening. The
wedding muhurtam will be in the morning day af ter tomorrow,’ he said.
‘Uncle, what about a DJ? There is no party?’ I was aghast for my kith and kin.
‘We have a reception party day af ter evening. Have your fun there,’ he said and
turned to my mother, ‘Kavita jee, Shipra jee, can I talk t o you for a second?’
My mother, Shipra masi and Ananya’s father stepped away from me and other
relatives. They spoke for five minutes. My mother rejoined me. Shipra masi went
to the reception to collect her keys.
‘What?’ I said as we climbed up the st eps towards our hotel rooms.
‘Nothing,’ my mother said.
‘It’s my marriage. I deserve t o know.’
‘They asked me if I wanted a special gift,’ my mother said. Perhaps, Ananya
had recounted Minti’s wedding to her parents.
‘And? What did you say?’ I said, eyeing my mother with suspicision.
‘Don’t talk to me in that  voice,’ my mother said.
‘What exactly did you say, mom?’ I said, my tone worse, ‘what? Did you send
him to buy a car or split  ACs or what ?’
 

‘That ’s what you think of me. Don’t you?’ my mother said as we reached the
first floor. She paused to catch her breath.
Shipra masi’s expensive sandals could be heard four seconds before she
arrived the first floor.
‘See this stupid sist er of mine. She said no to any big gifts,’ Shipra masi said
to me.
‘You did?’ I said to my mother.
My mother looked at me.
‘You will never understand how much I love you,’ my mother said.
I hung my head in shame. M y mother smacked the back of my head. I deserved
a slap.
Shipra masi waved her hands as she spoke.
‘You and your mother, bot h the same – impractical. She tells him, “I sent my
son to do one MBA, I am getting two MBAs in return. Ananya is the best gift,”
Shipra masi said, ‘OK, she earns a lot, but Kavita, why say no if someone is ready
to give. Why not grab it.’
‘Because we are not that kind of people, Shipra masi,’ I said and gave my
mother a hug, ‘she is all talk. But she can never behave like Duke’s mot her.
Never,’ I said.
I came into my hotel room where ten cousins, six aunts and f our uncles sat on my
bed. I sat on the floor as space was at a premium. We had twenty rooms to
choose f rom, but my relatives would rather be cramped together than miss out on
juicy gossip session.
The younger cousins battled for the TV remote. I repeated the schedule to my
aunts.
‘They are big bores. How can they do puja the whole day?’ Kamla mami said.
‘They don’t even have sangeet?’ my mother said.
 

‘I think t hey are trying to save money,’ Shipra masi said.
‘What language will t he pujas be in? Madrasi? Another aunt said.
‘Tamil, maybe Sanskrit,’ I said.
‘I am not coming,’ my mother said.
I glared at my mother.
‘Where do we eat?’ an aunt expressed everyone’s concern.
‘The meals are in the dining hall at the wedding venue. Let’s go to bed, we
have t o wake up early,’ I said.
We had planned to meet in the hotel lobby at seven-thirty in the morning. We
only left at nine.
‘What is the address?’ Rajji mama said.
I took out the piece of paper Ananya’s dad had given me.
‘I can’t read this,’ Rajji mama said.
I took the paper back. It said:
Arulmigu Kapaleeswarar Karpagambal Thirumana Mandapam
16, Venkatesa Agraharam Street, Mylapore, Chennai
After three attempts of reading it, I had a headache. I counted the letters, my
wedding venue had fifty alphabets in it. Delhi never gets t his complicated. One of
my older cousins had her wedding in Batra Banquets, another one in Bawa Hall.
We struggled for twenty minutes on the streets of Mylapore before we reached
the venue. Fortunately, the locals had abbreviated the name of the place to AKKT
Mandapam. From actors to political parties to wedding halls, Tamilians love to
keep complicated names f irst and then make acronyms for the same.
‘What do you mean breakfast  is finished?’ Shipra masi said.
‘Illa, illa,’ a pot -bellied, dark-complexioned, hirsute chef said and shook his hand.
He wore a lungi and a chef ’s cap. If he wore the cap no prevent hair in the food,
 

he needed a body sheath, given his hairy arms and chest.
‘Orunimishum,’ I said ‘what happened?’
‘Your son speaks Tamil?’ Shipra masi said to my mother.
My mother rolled her eyes.
‘No, I don’t. It’s a common word for wait a second,’ I said.
‘Now he belongs to them. They’ll make him do anything,’ my mother lamented
loudly.
‘Mom, please. Let me resolve this,’ I said.
‘What will you resolve? They will make us cook food also,’ my mother said.
‘Everybody, please sit in the dining hall,’ I said then turned to the chef. ‘Can’t
you make something?’
‘Who will make tif fin then? We have to serve it  at eleven,’ the chef said.
I checked my watch. It was nine-thirty. My family would have medical
emergencies if kept hungry for that long.
‘We want something now,’ I said, ‘anything quick.’
‘What about tiffin?’ the chef said.
‘We don’t want tiffin. We’ll only come back for lunch later.’
‘Girl’s side wants tiffin. They came for breakfast at 6.30,’ the chef said.
Rajji mama came up to me. ‘Bribe him,’ he whispered.
I thought about t he ethics of bribing at my own wedding to feed myself.
‘Wokay, I go now, I am busy,’ the chef said and mumbled to himself, ‘pundai
maganey, thaayoli koodhi.’
‘Anna, wait,’ I said.
The chef looked at me in amazement. How can a person with a heavy Delhi
accent toss in a Tamil word or two?
 

I kept a hundred-rupee note in my hand and shook hands with him. Perplexed,
he examined the currency.
‘We are giving you out of happiness,’ my uncle said.
‘I can make upma fast ,’ the chef said.
‘What is upma?’ my uncle said.
‘Salty halwa. No, not upma. Can you make dosas?’ I said.
‘For dosa one by one making no staff now. Then lunch also delayed,’ the chef
said mournfully.
We settled on idlis. There would be no sambhar. However, t he chef  had drum
full of coconut chutney, enough to pave roads with.
My family sat in the dining hall as servers placed banana leaves in front of
them.
‘We have to eat leaves?’ Shipra masi said, ‘ What are we? Cows?’
‘It’s the plate,’ I said, ‘and there is no cutlery.’
‘They have hardly any expense in weddings, how lucky,’ Kamla aunty said.
Forty of us consumed at least two hundred idlis.
Ananya’s father came when we had finished. ‘There wasn’t breakfast? I am
sorry,’ he said.
‘It’s fine,’ I said, ‘We came late.’
‘Hello, Kavita-ji,’ Ananya’s father said with folded hands, as per Ananya’s
instructions. He took the bucket of idli f rom the servers and served one to my
mother.
‘Hello,’ my mother responded, a hint of pride in her voice as her sibilings saw
her being served by the girl’s fat her. This is what grown-ups live for anyway,
considering they have so little fun otherwise.
‘How’s Krish’s father feeling now?’ Ananya’s father said next.
 

‘He’s better, he had soup last night and porridge in the morning. He is taking
rest now. He sends his regards,’ my mother said.
Ananya’s father nodded in concern.
‘What are the ceremonies today, uncle?’ I asked for my relatives benefit.
‘First we have the
Vrutham,
the wedding invitation prayers. We also have
Nischayathartham
, t he formal engagement ceremony where we set the auspicious
time for the wedding and give gift s to close relat ives,’ Ananya’s father said.
My aunts only paid attention to the last four words.
We came to the main hall, the center of action for the next two days. Every
ceremony of my wedding took place in this room. In the middle of t he hall, there
was fire urn, not too different f rom Punjabi weddings. However, in our weddings
people only came around the fire after eating their dinner and dessert. Here,
everyone lived around the fire. I sat down on the floor. Four priests started the
mantras. Close relatives sat on the floor while distant and arthritic ones sat on
chairs in the back rows. The priests at  the
Vrutham
chanted so loud, it scared
some of my little cousins into crying and made it impossible to talk. My aunts
behind me shifted their positions several times.
‘Should we do a city tour later?’ Kamla aunty said.
‘What is there to see in Chennai? If you want to see Madrasis, there are
enough in this room,’ Shipra masi said.
I saw Ananya’s relat ives. I recognized few aunts. The younger cousins had
come down from abroad. They sat in traditional Tamil attire, clutching their
mineral water bottles.
‘Ananya didi,’ Minti said as Ananya came inside. She wore a maroon
Kanjeevaram sari with a mustard yellow-gold border. Her tightly braided hair
made her look like a cute schoolgirl. Her face had make up, and Ananya looked
prettier than any girl on any Tamil film poster every made. Her eyes looked deep,
due to kaajal around it. For a few seconds I couldn’t recognize her as my Ananya.
 

Was t his the same girl I met in the mess line fighting for sambhar?
Our eyes met briefly. She gave me a little smile, enquiring on how she looked.
I nodded, yes she looked more beautiful than she ever had.
The prayers continued for anot her hour. Smoke filled the room. The priests
kept adding twigs and spoonfuls of  ghee to the fire. Ananya and I exchanged
glances and smiled several times.
Was it really happening? Was I finally getting
married, with consent from everyone I shared my DNA with?
The priest asked for my father. My mother told him he was unwell.
I thought of dad again.
Why are adults so stuck up?
‘What’s your grandparents’ village?’ Ananya’s dad asked me. There priests
required it for the
Nischayathartham
ceremony.
I had no idea. I turned to my mother. She turned to my aunts. My aunts debated
what answer to give them.
‘Lahore,’ my mother said, after their discussion.
‘Lahore in Pakistan?’ Ananya’s father said.
He seemed worried; I was scared he’d change his mind again.
‘My grandparents had come to Delhi after the partition,’ I explained to him.
He nodded.
‘Uncle, when is the marriage done? Like it is irreversible and no one can object
to it afterwards?’
‘What do you mean?’ he said.
‘Nothing,’ I said as t he priest called me to make a donation.
I gave him a hundred-rupee note. He declined it with full fervor.
‘Don’t give him directly, put it in the
thamboolam
,’ Ananya’s father said,
referring to the puja plates.
I placed the money in the plate. I decorat ed it with a banana, paan leaves and
 

betel nut. I offered it again and the priest accepted it. He announced the wedding
details -   the non-abbreviated name of the venue, the lagnam, the star and
tomorrow’s date.
‘Six-thirty muhurtam,’ the priest said.
‘In the morning?’ Rajji mama said, shocked.
Ananya’s relatives congratulated each other on the formal setting of  the time.
My relatives were aghast .
‘This is a wedding or a torture? It’s like catching an early morning flight,’
Kamla aunty said.
Fortunat ely, Ananya’s mot her calmed the ladies by bringing in ten bags full of
gifts.
‘Mrs Kamla,’ she announced, reading out f rom the first bag. Each gift had the
receiver’s name, relationship with me and a code word for what was inside.
‘Me,’ Kamla aunty said and raised her hand like a child marking attendance in
class. There’s something about presents that  turns everyone into kids.
‘We’ll open them in our hotel,’ Shipra masi said after the end of the prize
dist ribution ceremony.
‘And now, we will have lunch,’ Ananya’s father said, inviting us all to the dining
hall to a meal of rice, sambhar, rasam, veget ables, curd and payasam.
‘We’re trapped. No paneer here,’ Kamla aunty said as we moved to the paneer-
less dining hall.
 

61
‘So what’s the plan for tonight?’ Rajji mama said after we came back to the hotel.
‘There is dinner at the dining hall at eight,’ I said.
‘Please, I can’t have any more rice,’ Shipra masi said. The ladies had opened
their Kanjeevaram sari gifts. I had told Ananya to leave the price tags on. My
relatives praised Ananya a little more as they noticed each sari cost three
thousand bucks.
‘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 organize a party. Minti’s daddy, come let’s go,’ Kamla aunty said and they
went out.
‘And you go 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 Punjabis can.
I can’t really call the party Rajji mama organized 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 f or 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 wit h a bucketful.
‘You have a music syst em?’ Rajji mama asked the waiter. The waiter agreed to
borrow one from his f riend 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 t he Tamil words also,’ Rajji
mama said.
The men took Room 301, my room. The women went t o 302, while the teenage
and young cousins were in 303. The under-thirteens stayed in 304, watching
cartoon channels on cableTV. 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 wit h 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 realized 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 muhurtham. I need to be there at five with all of
them. There 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 wit h 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 f loor. I left him there to change. My mother was in 301, t rying 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 f ine. 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 mot her?’
 

‘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 t ime in twenty years.
‘I love you, son,’ he said, his eyes closed.
I choked up. The words meant as much as to me as when Ananya had said
them the first t ime.
‘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 face 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 t o 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 had lit the fire. Chants have begun,’ Ananya’s f ather 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 relat ive…
‘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-colored 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 t o 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 like cartoon characters, I had t hought she’d find it
cute. Of course, I couldn’t give this reason to my future father-in-law.
‘How was I to know it will be on display?’ I said.
Ananya’s dad had worried expression.
‘Why, what’s wrong?’ I said.
‘You have to wear this veshti,’ Ananya’s dad said and gave to me a translucent
cream-colored lungi. It resembled the bathing dress worn by Mandakini in
Ram
Teri Ganga Maili.
‘I have to wear this? How?’ I held it up. The early morning rays came right
through it.
‘Come, I’ll show you,’ Ananya’s dad said, and horror of horrors, tucked half his
 

hand into my underwear. I wondered if a groom can sue his father-in-law for
molestation.
‘Please, let me try first,’ I said. Of course, out of nervousness I couldn’t focus. The
veshti kept slipping and I stood there in my Mickey Mouse underwear, almost in
tears.
‘Allow me, it will take only a minute,’ Ananya’s fat her said gently, like a doctor
convincing a kid for an inject ion.
I closed my eyes.
This is the absolute last, last humiliation I will go through to get the
love of  my life,
I thought. A few hours more and this will be over. Uncle’s hand
came close for comfort as he tried to ensure a snug fit . Some say this ceremony
is designed to ensure that the groom has his equipment in place. Well, he surely
did a good job finding out.
‘Are we done?’ I said as uncle adjusted the final pleats.
I saw myself in the mirror. My first topless meeting with the world was about to
take place. Little Mickey Mouses were grinning through my Translucent veshti.
OK, it is only for a little while more, I told myself.
‘See, now all your wedding pictures will have Mickey Mouse,’ uncle said,
confirming that my humiliation would continue for the rest of my life.
‘Do you want to change your underwear? You can wear mine. Should we
exchange? He asked.
I looked at him, wondering if he  actually said what he just said. ‘Let’s go. I
have t o get married.’
We came outside and my cousins burst into laughter when they saw me.
‘Mickey Mouse,’ my five-year-old cousin screamed, ensuring that all guests
would now f reely spot it.
Ananya sat in a gorgeous nine-yard dark silk sari. She wore diamond and gold
necklaces. She looked like an accessible goddess.
‘What’s with the underwear?’ she whispered to me.
 

‘I bought it for you …. I mean us,’ I said.
‘Excuse me?’ she said as the priest scolded us for talking and asked to focus
on the prayers. Someone tied a scarf over my eyes so I couldn’t see anything for
ten minutes as prayers continued. It could be the punishment for talking to the
bride during the wedding, but no one explained why. Prayers continued even after
the scarf was removed.
‘OK, now you go for Kashi Yatra,’ the priest  said after an hour. He gave me an
umbrella and a copy of the Gita.
‘What’s that?’ I said.
Ananya’s father gave me the details. I had to stand up and announce I wasn’t
interested in the wedding and was going to Kashi, or Varanasi, to become a
sadhu. I didn’t know why they gave me an umbrella, but I had to open it and place
it over my head as I walked out. Ananya’s father would come after me and
convince me that I should marry his daughter instead.
I decided to do an extra good job with this ceremony, especially as I had
messed up with the veshti. I stood up, gave Ananya’s parents a disgusted look
and sprinted out of the hall. Ananya’s father followed me but I walked way faster
than him. I came to the main road outside the hall. I walked on to the street. An
auti saw me and came near me.
‘Where, where? He said, his engine still sputtering in first gear.
‘Kashi,’ I said.
‘Kashi where?’ he said.
‘Varanasi, in U.P.,’ I said.
‘Central Station? Seventy rupees, sir,’ he said.
I turned over and saw Ananya’s dad twenty metres behind me. Well, you only
get married once, so I decided to do the best Kashi Yatra ceremony ever.
I sat inside the auto. The auto sped off.
 

‘Hey,’ Ananya’s dad screamed at f ull volume.
‘Who’s that?’ the auto driver said.
‘Nothing,’ I said, ‘stop.’
I came out of the auto, Ananya’s father came running to me.
‘What are you doing?’ he said, panting after the jog.
‘Going to Kashi,’ I said and smiled, ‘you didn’t tell me when to stop.’
He grabbed my arm tight. ‘Come inside,’ he said, dragging me towards t he
mandapam.
‘Hey, aren’t you supposed to convince me?’ I said.
We had some more Tamil ceremonies. We had
Maalai Maatral
, which involved
an exchange of garlands like the Punjabi jaimala. However, Ananya’s relatives
lifted her high, making it difficult for me to reach her head. My own relatives took
a while t o realise t hat it was only a game and almost got into a fight with one of
Ananya’s uncles. After that, we had
Oonjal
where Ananya and I sat on a swing as
her relatives fed us small pieces of banana soaked in milk. Finally, we came back
to sit around the fire. Ananya sat on her father’s lap for the final
kanyadaan
.
‘Yes,’ I whispered t o myself, ‘it ’s almost over.’
Ananya and I held a coconut dipped in turmeric. Ananya’s mother poured
water over it. Ananya couldn’t hold back her tears, sitting in her father’s lap. I tied
a gold necklace with a flat rectangular pendant around her neck, called the taali,
in the
Mangalyadharanam.
The priests told us to stand up for the
Saptapathi,
or the seven sacred steps.
Ananya’s sari and my veshti were connected in a knot and held hands. I had felt
her touch after months.
‘Are you OK?’ I said as she sniffed.
‘You are not a girl, you won’t understand,’ Ananya said, and t hus began a
lifet ime of ‘you won’t understand’ statements married men have t o endure
 

everyday.
I placed my feet under Ananya’s feet and helped her take seven steps around
fire. I slipped silver rings onto her toes.
Everyone clapped as I came back up.
‘What?’ I said.
‘It’s over, now go around the room and take blessings from everyone,’ the head
priest said.
I looked at Mr Swami and his wife. They were no longer Ananya’s parents. They
were my in-laws. I had done it. The two states had become one.
‘Do namaskaram,’ the priest instructed us. Ananya and I lay fully flat on the
ground in front of every elder relative to bless us. It is the only wedding ritual in
the world that involves a workout.
‘My blessings are always with you,’ my father said as he stopped us from lying
down fully in front of him.
‘God bless you,’ Shipra masi said as I lay down in front of her, ‘But I’m sleepy.
Let’s go back to the hotel.’
 

63
‘He has a speech?’ I said. Ananya and I sat on regal chairs at the venue of our
reception. At least this function felt familiar to my relatives as they saw f ood stalls
in the open garden. We were at the Madras Boat Club. Coloured lights twined
around the trees; t he lakeside venue was a welcome change from the
unpronounceable smoke-filled mandapam.
‘Yeah, he wanted to do a powerpoint, but I stopped him. He even came to the
hotel to show the speech to you.’
‘When?’ I said, ‘I was there only.’
‘Sleeping all day,’ Ananya said. ‘He only heard snores.’
‘You didn’t sleep?’ I said.
‘No way, we have so many out of town guests. I haven’t slept for the last two
days.’
‘So, how do you manage to look so beautiful?’ I said.
She blushed. It matched her clot hes. She wore a pink lehnga with heavy gold
and silver embroidery for the evening, a surprise for my relatives and a bit of
shock for her own aunts. However, it was too late and Ananya was already
married – to me. Screw you, Pure Harish, I thought, though I cursed myself for
thinking of him at all.
‘Congratulations,’ some random person came to the stage to meet us and we
smiled for pictures for the hundredth time.
Dinner did have North Indian choices, but the flavours were a bit off.
‘They’ve made gobi aaloo with coconut oil,’ Minti complained.
‘We are all going back tomorrow,’ I said. ‘You’ll have your paranthas soon. Now
don’t make a face and eat ice-cream.’
‘When are we cutting the cake?’ one of my younger cousins said, pointing to
 

the eggless cake kept in the middle of the garden. Next to the cake, there was a
dais with chairs around it.
A waiter rang a hand-bell, announcing the speech and cake-cutting ceremony.
Relat ives came around and sat on chairs. The Tamilians and Punjabis looked at
each other. People had not come to attend the wedding, they had come to a live
human museum of the other community.
‘But when will the DJ start?’ my cousin said.
‘Patience,’ I said.
Ananya and I stood next to the cake. Ananya took the mike to speak first.
‘Thank you everyone for coming here. I am so grateful to all of you that you
decided to share our happiness. Yes, ours is quite a different wedding, and it has
taken us a while to get here, making it all the more special. I’d like my amazing
father to share a few words with you.’
Ananay clapped and the rest of the crowd applauded as well.
My father and mother sat together with a smile on their face. At least for
tonight, they’d decided to get  along.
‘Hello, everyone,’ Ananya’s dad said, ‘I’d like someone from the boy’s side later
to say a few words as well.’
He looked at my father. My father folded his hands to say no.
‘I’ll talk,’ Rajji mama said and raised his hand. He had obviously found the Boat
Club bar.
‘Welcome everyone,’ Ananya’s f ather started, ‘I never liked giving speeches.
However, in the last year, helped by my son-in-law, I’ve gained the confidence to
talk in public.’
Everyone turned to look at me. OK, making office presentations is one thing,
confessionals in frfont of your community auite another. I hoped he knew what he
was doing.
‘I know the number one topic all of you have discussed in this party – why is
 

Swami marrying his daughter to a North Indian fellow? I know it, as we would
have done the same.
Sniggers ran through the crowd.
‘In fact, when Ananya first told us about Krish, we were quite upset. As all
Tamilians know, we are so proud of  our own culture. We also thought our
daughter is one in million, she will get the best of boys in our own communit y.
Why must she go for a Punjabi boy?’
Everyone who wore a Kanjeevaram sari int the crowd nodded. The Punjabis
kept a straight face.
‘We did our best to discourage her. We didn’t trat Krish well even though he
moved to Chennai for us. We even showed her Tamil boys. But you know kids of
today, they do what they want to do.’
This time all gave understanding nods.
‘So why do parents object  to this?’ he said and adjusted his glasses. ‘It is not
only about anot her communit y. It is the fact your daughter has found a boy
herself. We as parents feel disobeyed, left out and disappointed. We bring our
children up from babies to adults, how can they ignore us like this? All our
frustration comes out in anger. How much we hate love marriages, isn’t it?’
Ananya’s aunts smiled.
‘But we forget that t his has happened because your child had love to give to
someone in this world. Is that such a bad thing? Where did the child learn to
love? From us, after all, the person they loved first is you.’
Ananya clasped my arm and clenched it tight. The crowd listend with full
attention.
‘Actually, the choice is simple. When your child decided to love a new person,
you can eit her see it as a chance to hate some people – t he person they choose
and their families. Which is what we did for a while. However, you can also see it
as a chance t o love some more people. And since when did loving more people
 

become a bad t hing?’
He paused to have a glass of water and continued. ‘Yes, the Tamilian in me is a
little disappointed. But the Indian in me is quite happy. And more then anything,
the human being in me is happy. After all, we’ve decided to use this opportunity
to create more loved ones for ourselves.’
When he kept the mike down, Ananya hugged him hard. The crowd burst into
applause. Ananya and I cut t he cake through the resounding claps. We fed each
ot her and our respect ive in-laws a piece. The cameraman gathered both sets of
parents for a picture.
‘Ananya, see, both our parents. They are smiling,’ I said.
Rajji mama stood up and came to the mike for his speech.
‘Stop Minti’s daddy, he has had six pegs,’ Kamla aunty said.
Rajji mama took the mike and raised his hands. ‘ladies and gentleman,’ he
said.
I went up to him.
‘Rajji mama, enough. You are too cool to make boring speeches,’ I whispered
in his ear.
‘Really? We should answer them, no?’ he said.
‘It’s not a competition,’ I said.
He said into the mike, ‘Ladies and gentlemen of Tamil Nadu, t hank you very
much. Now we invite you to some Punjabi-style dancing with the DJ at the
backside.’
My cousins flew off their chairs and surged towards the dance floor.
The song collect ion was a mixture of Tamil and Hindi film music. They had one
Punjabi music CD, which Rajji mama had instructed to play in a loop. My family
dominated the dance floor, but Ananya urged her aunts and uncles to join in as
well. I guess they were my family too now.
 

Rajji mama avoided a bad fall while trying a particularly difficult Bhangra-break
dance fusion step to impress my new relatives. My cousins pushed me and
Ananya t ogether for a close dance. I held Ananya t o me as we moved on the
dance floor.
‘Ananya,’ I whispered in her ear.
‘What?’ she said softly.
‘I love you and your father and your mot her and your brother and your
relatives,’ I said.
‘I love you and your clan, too,’ she said.
We kissed as Tamils and Punjabis danced around us.
‘So, the self-imposed exile is over now? You said we’ll only do it when we
cross the finish line,’ I said.
‘Is that all you men think about?’ she said.
‘Only for the sake of uniting the nation,’ I said.
 

Epilogue
A couple of years later
‘Do I have to be here?’ I asked Ananya who lay in the delivery room. A curtain spread
mid-way across the bed separated her lower and upper body. The doctors had given her
a half-body anesthetic, which enabled her to stay awake during C-section. A team of
specialists hid behind the curtain cutting up her stomach.
‘He has a knife,’ I said, peeping at the doctors. My head felt dizzy.
‘Don’t freak me out. Talk about something else,’ she said. ‘How’s the book going?’
‘Well, the fif th publisher rejected it yesterday,’ I said and stood up again to take a
peek. ‘At least I can go to the sixth one now … wow, there is blood.’
‘Sit down if you can’t handle the sight, and stop being so scared. I can’t feel a thing
because of the epidural,’ she said. The doctor had recommended a caesarian without
general anesthesia.
‘If only you could see.’ I said, ‘wow, I see a leg. It’s like Aliens 3.’
‘Shut up,’ she said.
‘Hey, it’s a boy,’ I said.
‘Does he look like me?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen the face yet. I’ve only seen the you-know-what.’
The doctor took out the whole baby.
‘Thank you, doctor, thank you so much,’ I said emotionally and moved to shake his
hand.
‘Wait,’ the doctor said through his masked face.
‘What?’ Ananya said.
‘I don’t know,’ said. ‘Oh wait, there’s another leg. Wow, there’s another boy.’
‘Twins?’ she said in disbelief, looking ready to faint.
 

‘Yes,’ the doctor said. ‘Congratulations.’
The nurse cleaned up the two babies and gave them to me.
‘Be careful,’ she said as I took one in each arm.
‘You are from two different states, right? So, what will be their state?’ the nurse said
and chuckled.
‘They’ll be from a state called India,’ I said.
THE END