2 States
THE STORY OF MY MARRIAGE
Love marriages around the world are simple:
Boy loves girl. Girl loves boy.
They get married.
In India, there are a few more steps:
Boy loves Girl. Girl loves Boy.
Girl's family has to love boy. Boy's family has to love girl.
Girl's Famil y has to love Boy's Family. Boy's family has to love girl's
famil y.
Girl and Boy still love each other. They get married.
Welcome to 2 States, a story about Krish and Ananya. They are from
two different states of India, deeply in love and want to get married. Of
course, their parents don’t agree. To convert their love story into a
love marriage, the couple have a tough battle in front of them. For it is
eas y to fight and rebel, but it is much harder to convince. Will they
make it? From the author of blockbusters Five Point Someone, One
Night @ the Call Center and The 3 Mistakes of My Life, comes another
witty tale about inter-community marriages in modern India.
This may be the first time in the history of books, but here goes:
Dedicated to my in-laws*
*which does not mean I am henpecked, under her thumb or not man
enough
PROLOGUE
“
Why am I referred here? I don’t have a problem,” I said.
She didn’t react. Just gestured that I remove my shoes and take the couch.
She had an office like any other doctor’s, minus the smells and cold, dangerous
inst ruments.
She waited for me to t alk more. I hesitated and spoke again.
“I’m sure people come here with big, insurmountable problems. Girlfriends
dump their boyfriends everyday. Hardly the reason to see a shrink, right? What
am I, a psycho?”
“No, I am the psycho. Psychotherapist to be precise. If you don’t mind, I prefer
that to shrink,” she said.
”Sorry,” I said.
“It’s OK,” she said and reclined on her chair. No more than t hirty, she seemed
young for a shrink, sorry, psychotherapist. Certificates from top US universities
adorned the walls like tiger heads in a hunter’s home. Yes, another South Indian
had conquered the world of academics. Dr. Neeta Iyer, Valedictorian, Vassar
College.
“I charge five hundred rupees per hour,” she said. “Stare at the walls or talk.
I’m cool either way.”
I had spent t welve minutes, or a hundred bucks, without getting anywhere. I
wondered if she would accept a partial payment and let me leave.
“Dr. Iyer…
“Neeta is fine,” she said.
“OK, Neeta, I don’t think my problem warrants this. I don’t know why Dr.
Ramachandran sent me here.”
She picked my file from her desk. “Let’s see. This is Dr. Ram’s brief to me –
patient has sleep deprivation, has cut off human contact for a week, refuses to
eat , has Google- searched on best ways to commit suicide.” She paused and
looked at me with raised eyebrows.
“I Google for all sorts of stuff ,” I mumbled, “don’t you?”
“The report says the mere mention of her name, her neighbourhood or any
association, like her favourite dish, brings out unpredictable emotions ranging
from tears to rage to frustration.”
“I had a break-up. What do you expect?” I was irritated.
“Sure, with Ananya who stays in Mylapore. What’s her favourite dish? Curd
rice?”
I sat up straight. “Don’t,” I said weakly and felt a lump in my throat. I fought
back tears. “Don’t,” I said again.
“Don’t what?” Neeta egged me on, “Minor problem, isn’t it?”
“Fuck minor. It’s killing me.” I stood agitatedly. “Do you South Indians even
know what emot ions are all about?”
“I’ll ignore t he racist comment . You can stand and talk, but if it is a long story,
take the couch. I want it all,” she said.
I broke into tears. “Why did this happen to me?” I sobbed.
She passed me a tissue.
“Where do I begin?” I said and sat gingerly on the couch.
“Where all love stories begin. From when you met her the first time,” she said.
She drew the curtains and switched on the air-conditioner. I began to talk and
get my money’s worth.
ACT 1:
Ahmedabad
1
She stood two places ahead of me in the lunch line at the IIMA mess. I checked
her out from the corner of my eye, wondering what the big fuss about t his South
Indian girl was.
Her waist-length hair rippled as she tapped the steel plate with her fingers like
a famished refugee. I noticed three black threads on the back of her fair neck.
Someone had decided to accessorize in the most academically-oriented B-school
in the country.
'Ananya Swaminathan---best girl in the fresher batch,'
seniors has already anointed
her on the dorm board. We had only twenty girls in a batch of two hundred. Good-
looking ones were rare; girls don't get selected to IIM for their looks. They get in
because they can solve mathematical problems faster than 99.99% of India's
population and crack the CAT. Most IIM girls are above shallow things like make-
up, fitting clothes, contact lenses, removal of facial hair, body odour and feminine
charm. Girls like Ananya, if and when they arrive by freak chance, become inst ant
pin-ups in out testosterone-charged, estrogen-starved campus.
I imagined Ms Swaminathan had received more male attention in the last week
than she had in her entire life. Thus, I assumed she'd be obnoxious and decided
to ignore her.
The students inched forward on auto-pilot. The bored kitchen staff couldn't
care if they were serving prisoners or future CEOs. They tossed one ladle of
yellow stuff after another into plates. Of course, Ms Best Girl needed the
spotlight.
'That's not rasam. Whatever it is, it's definitely not rasam. And what's that, the
dark yellow stuff?'
'Sambhar,' the mess worker growled.
'Eew, looks disgusting! How did you make it?' she asked.
'You want or not?' the mess worker said, more interested in wrapping up lunch
than discussing recipes.
While our lady decided, the two boys between us banged their plates on the
counter. They took the food without editorials about it and left. I came up right
behind her. I stole a sideways glance -
definitely above average. Actually, well above
average. In fact, outlier by IIMA standards.
She had perfect features, with eyes,
nose, lips and ears the right size and in the right places. That is all it takes to
make people beautiful- normal body parts - yet why does nature mess is up so
many times? Her tiny blue bindi matched her sky- blue and white slawar kameez.
She looked like Sridevi's smarter cousin, if there is such a possibility.
The mess worker dumped a yellow lump on my plate.
'Excuse me, I'm before him,' she said to the mess worker, pinning him down
with her large, confident eyes.
'What you want?' the mess worker said in a heavy South Indian accent. 'You
calling rasam not rasam. You make face when you see my sambhar. I feed
hundred people. They no complain.'
'And that is why you don't improve. Maybe they should complain,' she said.
The mess worker dropped the ladle in the sambhar vessel and threw up his
hands. 'You want complain? Go to mess manager and complain....see what
student coming to these days,' the mess worker turned to me seeking sympathy.
I almost nodded.
She looked at me. 'Can you eat this stuff?' she wanted to know. 'Try it .'
I took a spoonful of sambhar. Warm and salty, not gourmet stuff, but edible in
a no-choice kind of way. I could eat it for lunch; I had stayed in a hostel f or four
years.
However, I saw her face, now prettier with a hint of pink. I compared her to the
fif ty-year old mess worker. He wore a lungi and had visible grey hair on his chest.
When in doubt, the pretty girl is always right.
'It's disgusting,' I said.
'See,' she said with childlike glee.
The mess worker glared at me.
'But I can develop a taste for it,' I added in a lame at tempt to soot he him.
The mess worker grunted and tossed a mound of rice on my plate.
'Pick something you like,' I said to her, avoiding eye contact. The whole
campus had stared at her in the past few days. I had to appear different.
'Give me the rasgullas,' she pointed to the dessert.
'That is after you finish meal,' the mess worker said.
'Who are you? My Mot her? I am finished. Give me two rasgullas,' she insisted.
'Only one per student,' he said as he placed a katori with one sweet on her
plat e.
'Oh, come on, there are no limits on this disgusting sambhar but only one of
what is edible,' she said. The line grew behind us. The boys in line didn't mind.
They had a chance to legitimately stare at the best-looking girl of the batch.
'Give mine to her,' I said and regretted it immediately.
She'll never date you, it
is a rasgulla down the drain,
I scolded myself.
'I give t o you,' the mess worker said virtuously as he placed the dessert on my
plat e.
I passed my katori to her. She took the two rasgullas and moved out of the
line.
OK buddy, pretty girl goes her way, rasgulla-less loser goes another. Find a corner to
sit
, I said to myself .
She turned to me. She didn't ask me to sit with her, but she looked like she
wouldn't mind if I did. She pointed to a table with a little finger where we sat down
opposite each other. The entire mess stared at us, wondering what I had done to
merit sitting with her. I have made a huge sacrifice - my dessert - I wanted to tell
them.
'I'm Krish,' I said, doodling in the sambhar with my spoon.
'I'm Ananya. Yuk isn't it?' she said as I grimaced at the food's taste.
'I'm used to hostel food,' I shrugged. 'I've had worse.'
'Hard to imagine worse,' she said.
I coughed as I bit on a green chili. She had a water jug next to her. She lifted
the jug, leaned forward and poured water for me. A collective sigh ran through
the mess. We had become everyone's matinee show.
She finished her two desserts in four bites. 'I'm still hungry. I didn't even have
breakfast.'
'Hunger or tasteless food, hostel life is about whatever is easier to deal with,' I
said.
'You want to go out? I'm sure the city has decent restaurants,' she said.
'Now?' We had a class in one hour. But Ms Best Girl had asked me out, even
though for her own stomach. And as everyone knows, female classmates always
come before class.
'Don't tell me you are dying to attend the lecture,'' she said and stood up,
daring me.
I spooned in some rice.
She stamped her foot. 'Leave that disgusting st uff.'
Four hundred eyes followed us as I walked out of the mess with Ms Ananya
Swaminathan, rated the best girl by popular vote in IIMA.
‘Do you like chicken?’ The menu rested on her nose as she spoke. We had
come to Topaz, a basic, soulless but air-conditioned restaurant half a kilometer
from campus. Like all mid-range Indian restaurants, it played boring instrumental
versions of old Hindi songs and served little marinat ed onions on the table.
‘I thought Ahmedabad was vegetarian,’ I said.
‘Please, I’d die here t hen.’ She turned to the waiter and ordered half a tandoori
chicken with roomali rotis.
‘Do you have beer?’ she asked the waiter.
The waiter shook his head in horror and left.
‘We are in Gujarat, there is prohibition here,’ I said.
‘Why?’
‘Gandhiji’s birthplace,’ I said
‘But Gandhiji won us f reedom,’ she said, playing with the little onions. ‘What’s
the point of getting people free only to put restrictions on them?’
‘Point,’ I said. ‘So, you are an expert on rasam and sambhar. Are you a South
Indian?’
‘Tamilian, please be precise. In fact, Tamil Brahmin, which is way different
from Tamilians. Never forget that.’ She leaned back as the waiter served our meal.
She tore a chicken leg with her teeth.
‘And how exactly are Tamil Brahmins diff erent?’
‘Well, for one thing, no meat and no drinking,’ she said as she gestured a
cross with t he chicken leg.
‘Absolutely,’ I said.
She laughed. ‘I didn’t say I am a practising Tam Brahm. But you should know
that I am born into the purest of pure upper caste communities ever created.
What about you, commoner?’
‘I am a Punjabi, though I never lived in Punjab. I grew up in Delhi. And I have
no idea about my caste, but we do eat chicken. And I can digest bad sambhar
better than Tamil Brahmins,’ I said.
‘You are f unny,’ she said, tapping my hand. I liked the tap.
‘So where did you stay in hostel before?’ she said. ‘Please don’t say IIT, you
are doing pretty well so far.’
‘What’s wrong with IIT?’
‘Nothing, are you from there?’ She sipped water.
‘Yes, from IIT Delhi. Is that a problem?’
‘No,’ she smiled, ‘not yet.’
‘Excuse me?’ I said. Her smugness had reached irritating levels.
‘Nothing,’ she said.
We stayed quiet.
‘What’s the deal? Someone from IIT broke your heart?’
She laughed. ‘No, on the contrary. I seem to have broken some, for no fault of
my own.’
‘Care to explain?’
‘Don’t tell anyone, but in the past one week that I’ve been here, I’ve had ten
proposals. All from IITians.’
I mentally kicked myself. My guess was right; she was getting a lot of
attention. I only wished it wasn’t from my own people.
‘Proposals for what?’
‘The usual, to go out, be friends and stuff. Oh, and one guy from IIT Chennai
proposed marriage!’
‘Serious?’
‘Yes, he said this past week has been momentous for him. He joined IIMA, and
now he has found his wife in me. I may be wrong, but I think he had some
jewellery on him.’
I smacked my forehead. No, my collegemates can’t be doing this, whatever the
deprivation.
‘So, you understand my concern about you being from IIT,’ she said, picking
up a chicken breast next.
‘Oh, so it is a natural reaction. If I am from IIT, I have to propose to you within
ten minutes?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘You implied that.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s OK. I expected you to be like this. Let me guess- only child, rich parents?’
‘Wrong, wrong. I have a younger brother. And my father works in Bank of
Baroda in Chennai. Sorry, you expect ed me to be like what?’
‘Some girls cannot handle attention. Two days of popularity and every guy in
college should bow to you.’
‘That ’s not true. Didn’t I come out with you?’ She neatly transferred the bare
bones of t he chicken on to another plate.
‘Oh, that’s huge. Coming out with a commoner like me. How much is the bill?
I’ll pay my share and leave.’ I st ood up.
‘Hey,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘I’m sorry. Please sit down.’
I had lost interest in the conversation anyway. If there is nothing as attractive
as a pretty girl, there’s nothing as repulsive as a cocky chick.
I sat back and focused on the food and the irritating instrumental music for the
next ten minutes. I ignored the Brahmin who stereotyped my collegemates.
‘Are we OK now?’ she smiled hesitantly.
‘Why did you come out with me? To take your score to eleven?’
‘You really want to know?’
‘Yes.’
‘I need some friends here. And you seemed like a safe-zone guy. Like the kind
of guy who could just be friends with a girl, right?’
Absolutely not, I thought.
Why would any guy want to be only friends with a girl?
It’s like agreeing to be near a chocolate cake and never eat it. It’s like sitting in a racing
car but not driving it. Only wimps do that.
‘I’m not so sure,’ I said.
‘You can handle it . I told you about the proposals because you can see how
stupid they are.’
‘They are not stupid. They are IITians. They just don’t know how to talk to
women yet,’ I said.
‘Whatever. But you do. And I’d like t o be friends wit h you. Just friends, OK?’
She extended her hand. I gave her a limp handshake.
‘Let’s share, sixty each,’ she said as the bill arrived.
That’s right, ‘just friends’ share bills. I didn’t want to be just f riends with her.
And I didn’t want to be the eleventh martyr.
I paid my share and came back to campus. I had no interest in meeting my just
friend anytime again soon.
2
‘You OK?’ I said going up to my just friend. She remained in her seat as her
tears re-emerged. The last lecture had ended and the classroom was empty.
I hadn’t spoken much to Ananya after our lunch last week. Pretty girls behave
best when you ignore them. (Of course, they have to know you are ignoring them,
for otherwise they may not even know you exist.)
But today I had t o talk to her. She had cried in the class. We had auditorium-
style classrooms wit h semi- circular rows, so everyone could see everyone.
Students sat in alphabetical order. Ananya, like all kids doomed with names
starting with the letter A, sat in the first row on the left side. She sat between
Ankur and Aditya, both IITians who had already proposed to her without
considering the embarrassment of being reject ed and then sitting next to the
rejection for the whole year.
I sat in the t hird row, between Kanyashree, who took notes like a diligent court
transcripter, and five Mohits, who had come from different parts of India. But
neither Ankur, nor Kanyashree, nor the five Mohits had not iced Ananya’s tears.
Only I had caught her wiping her eye with a yellow dupatta that had little bells at
its ends that tinkled whenever she moved.
In the past week, I had limited my communicat ion with Ananya to cursory
greet ings every morning and a casual wave at the end of the day. During classes
we had to pay at tention to the teachers we had marks for class participation-
saying something that sounds intelligent. Most IITians never spoke while people
from non-science backgrounds spoke non-stop.
Twenty-three minutes into the microeconomics class, the professor drew an L-
shaped utility curve on the blackboard. He admired his curve for ten seconds and
then turned to the class.
‘How many economics graduates here?’ asked Prof Chatterjee, a t wo-decade
IIMA veteran.
Fifteen students out of t he seventy students in section A raised their hands,
Ananya included.
Chatt erjee turned to her. ‘You recognise the curve, Ms Swaminathan?’ He read
her name from the nameplate in front.
‘The basic marginal utility curve, sir,’ Ananya said.
‘So, Ms Swaminathan, how would you represent that curve mathematically?’
Ananya stood up, her eyes explaining clearly that she had no clue. The
remaining fourteen economics graduates lowered their hands.
‘Yes, Ms Swaminathan?’ Chatterjee said.
Ananya clutched the trinkets on her dupatta so they didn’t make a noise as
she spoke. ‘Sir, that curve shows different bundles of goods between which a
consumer is indifferent. That is, at each point on the curve, the consumer has
equal preference for one bundle over another.’
‘That ’s not my question. What is the mathematical formula?’
‘I don’t know that. In any case, this is only a concept.’
‘But do you know it?’
‘No. but I can’t think of any real life situation where a mathematical formula like
this would work,’ Ananya said.
Prof raised his hand to interrupt her. ‘Shsh….’ He gave a sinister smile.
‘Not ice, class, notice. This is the state of economics education in our country.
Top graduates don’t know the basics. And then they ask – why is India
economically backward?’
Prof emphatically dropped the chalk on his table to conclude his point. He had
solved what had dumbfounded policymakers for decades. Ananya Swaminat han
was the reason for India’s backwardness.
Ananya hung her head in shame. A few IITians brightened up. Microeconomics
was an elective course in IIT and those who had done it knew the formula. They
were itching to show off.
‘Anyone knows?’ Prof asked and Ankur raised his hand.
‘Yes, tell us. Ms Swaminathan, you should talk to your neighbours more. And
next time, don’t raise your hand if I ask for microeconomics graduates.’ Prof said.
He went to the board to write lots of Greek symbols and calculus equations.
The course started with cute little things like how many people choose between
tea and biscuits. It had moved on to scary equations that would dominate exams.
The class took mad notes. Kanyashree wrote so hard I could feel the seismic
vibrations from her pen’s nib.
I stole a glance at Ananya. As a smug Ankur saw his words inscribed on the
board, Ananya’s lef t hand’s fingers scrunched up her yellow dupatta. She moved
her left hand to her face even as she continued to write with her right. In subtle
movements, she dabbed at her tears. Maybe Ms Best Girl had a heart, I thought.
And maybe I should cut out my studied ignorance strategy and talk to her after
class.
‘You OK?’ I said again.
She nodded while continuing to wipe her tears. She fixed her gaze down.
‘I miss Topaz,’ I said to change the topic.
‘I’ve never been so humiliated,’ she said.
‘Nobody cares. All professors are assholes. That’s the universal t ruth,’ I
of fered. ‘At least where I come from.’
‘You want to see my economics degree? I’ll show you my grades.’
‘No,’ I said.
‘I came third in the entire Delhi University. These wannabe engineer profs have
turned economics from perfectly fine liberal arts subject to this Greek symbol
junkyard,’ she said as she pointed to the formulae on the board.
I kept silent.
‘You are f rom IIT. You probably love these equations,’ she said and looked up
at me. Despite her tears, she still looked pretty.
I looked at the blackboard. Yes, I did have a fondness for algebra. It’s nothing
to be ashamed of. Yet, this wasn’t the time. ‘No, I am not a big fan. Greek symbols
do take the fun out of any subject.’
‘Exactly, but these profs don’t think so. They will have these equations in the
test next week. I am going to flunk. And he is going to turn me into t his specimen
of the educated but clueless Indian student. I bet I am the staff-room discussion
right now.’
‘They are all frustrated,’ I said. ‘we are half t heir age but will earn twice as them
in two years. Wouldn’t you hate an eleven-year-old if he earned double?’
She smiled.
‘You need to hang that dupatta out to dry,’ I said. She smiled some more.
We walked out of the class. We decided to skip lunch and have t ea and
omelette at the roadside Rambhai outside campus.
‘He is going to screw me in microeconomics. He’s probably circled my name and
put a D in front of it already,’ she said, nestling the hot glass of tea in her dupatta
folds for insulation.
‘Don’t freak out. Listen, you can study with me. I don’t like these equations,
but I am good at them. That’s all we did at IIT for four years.’
She looked at me for a few seconds.
‘Hey, I have no interest in being number eleven. This is purely for study
reasons.’
She laughed. ‘Actually, the score is t hirteen now.’
‘IITians?’
‘No, this time form NIT. They are catching up.’
‘I know, we are losing our edge. Whatever, I don’t want to be number fourteen.
I thought I could teach you…..
She interrupted me, ‘I can’t learn economics from you. I am a university topper
in economics. You are an engineer.’
‘Then good luck,’ I said and stood up to pay.
‘I didn’t say that. I said you can’t teach me. But we can study together.’
I looked at her. She looked nice, and I couldn’t blame the thirteen guys for
trying.
‘My room at eight? Ever been to the girl’s dorm?’
‘There is a first time for everything,’ I said.
‘Cool, carry lots of books to make it clear what you are there for,’ Ananya
advised.
3
I reached the girl’s dorm at 8 p.m. I carried the week’s case materials, the size of
six telephone directories. I knocked at her door.
‘One second, I am changing,’ her muffled scream came from inside.
After three hundred seconds, she opened the door. She wore a red and white
tracksuit. ‘Sorry,’ she said as she tied up her hair in a bun. ‘Come in. We’d bet ter
start, there is so much to do.’
She gave me her study chair and sat on her bed. The rust-coloured bed-sheet
matched the exposed brick walls. She had made a notice board out of chart paper
and st uck f amily pictures all over.
‘See, that’s my family. That’s my dad. He is so cute,’ she said.
I looked carefully. A middle-aged man with neatly combed hair rationed his
grin. He wore a half-sleeve shirt with a dhoti in most of the pictures. He looked
like the neighbor who stops you from playing loud music. No, nothing cute about
him. I scanned the remaining pictures taken on festivals, weddings and birthdays.
In one, Ananya’s whole family stood to attention at the beach. You could almost
hear the national anthem.
‘That ’s Marina Beach in Chennai. Do you know it is the second largest city
beach in the world?’
I saw her brother, around fourteen years of age. The oiled hair, geeky face and
spectacles made him look like an IITian embryo. His lack of interest in the world
expression told me he would make it.
‘And that’s mom?’ I quizzed. Ananya nodded.
Ananya’s brother and father still seemed mild compared to her mot her. Even in
pict ures she had a glum expression that made you wonder what did you do
wrong. She reminded me of the strictest teachers I ever had in school. I
immediately felt guilt y about being in her daughter’s room. My hands tingled as I
almost expected her to jump out of the picture and slap me with a ruler.
‘Mom and I,’ Ananya said as she kneeled on the bed and sighed.
‘What?’ I looked at a wedding picture of her relatives. Given the dusky
complexion, everyone’s teeth shone ext ra white. All old women wore as much
gold as their bodies could carry and silk saris shiny as road reflectors.
‘Nothing, I wish I got along better with her,’ Ananya said. ‘Hey, you have
pict ures of your family?’
I shook my head. My family was too disorganized to ever pause and pose at
the right moment. I don’t think we even had a camera.
‘Who is there in your family?’ She sift ed through the case materials to take out
the economics notes.
‘Mom, dad and me. That ’s it,’ I said.
‘Tell me more. What do they do? Who are you close to?’
‘We met to study,’ I pointed out and pated the microeconomics booklet.
“Of course, we will. I only asked to make conversation. Don’t tell me if you
don’t want to,’ she said and batted her eyelids.
How can such scary looking parents
create something so cute?
‘OK, I’ll answer. But aft er that, we study. No gossip for an hour,’ I warned.
‘Sure, I already have my book open,’ she said and sat on the bed cross-legged.
‘OK, my mother is a housewife. I am close t o her, but not hugely close. That
reminds me, I have to call her. I’ll go to the STD booth lat er.’
‘And dad? I am super close to mine.’
‘Let’s study,’ I said and opened the books.
‘You aren’t close to your father?’
‘You want to flunk?’
‘Shsh,’ she agreed and covered her lips with a f inger. We studied for the next
two hours in silence. She would look up sometimes and do pointless things like
changing her pillow cover or re-adjusting her study lamp. I ignored all that. I had
wasted enough of my initial years at IIT. Most likely due to a CAT computation
error, I had another chance at IIMA. I wanted to make it count.
‘Wow, you can really concentrate,’ she said after an hour. ‘it’s t en. STD calls
are cheap now.’
‘Oh yes, I better go,’ I said.
‘I’ll come with you. I’ll call home too,’ she said and skipped off the bed to wear
her slippers.
‘Seri, seri, seri Amma…..Seri!’ she said, each seri increasing in pitch, volume and
frustration. She had called home. Many students had lined up to make cheap calls
at the STD booth, a five- minute walk f rom campus. Most carried their
microeconomics not es. I helped Ananya with small change after her call.
‘Is he dating her?’ I overheard a student whisper to another.
‘I don’t t hink so, she treats him like a brother,’ his friend guffawed.
I ignored the comment and went into the booth.
‘Every girl wants an IIT brother, big help in quant subjects,’ the first student
said as several people around them laughed.
I controlled my urge to snap back at them and dialed home.
‘Hello?’ my father’s voice came aft er four rings.
I kept silent. The meter started to click.
‘Hello? Hello?’ my father continued to speak.
I kept t he phone down. The printer churned out the bill.
‘Missed connection, you have to pay,’ the shopkeeper said.
I nodded and dialed again. This time my mot her picked up.
‘Mom,’ I screamed. ‘I told you to be near the phone after ten.’
‘I’m sorry. I was in the kitchen. He wanted to talk to you, so he picked up. Say
hello to him first and then ask him for me.’
‘I’m not interested.’
‘OK, leave that. How are you doing? How is the place?’
‘It’s fine. But they make you cram even more than in the previous college.’
‘How is the food?’
‘Terrible. I am in a hostel. What do you expect?’
‘I’m going to send some pickle.’
‘The city has good restaurants.’
‘They have chicken?’ she asked, her voice worried as if she had asked about
basic amenities like power and water.
‘In a few places.’
‘FMS was good enough. I don’t know why you had to leave Delhi.’
‘Mom, I am not going to make my career choices based on the availability of
chicken,’ I said and looked at the meter. I had spent eighteen bucks. “I’ll hang up
now.’
‘Tell me something more no. did you make any friends?’
‘Not really, sort of….’ I looked at Ananya’s face outside the booth. She looked
at me and smiled.
‘Who? What’s their name?’
‘An…Anant.’
‘Punjabi?’
‘Mom!’
‘I’m sorry. I just t hought you could have a f riend who likes the same food. Its
OK. We are very modern. Don’t you know?’
‘Yeah right. I’ll cat ch you later. I have a test tomorrow.’
‘Oh, really? Pray before the exam, OK?’
‘Sure, let me finish studying first.’
I hung up and paid twenty-five bucks.
‘Why did you hang up t he first time? Your dad picked, right?’ Ananya asked as
we walked back.
I stopped in my tracks. ‘How do you know?’
‘I guessed. I do it with mom when I’m angry with her. We don’t hang up; we
just st ay on the line and keep silent.’
‘And pay?’
‘Yes. Pret ty expensive way to let each other know we are upset . Only
sometimes though.’
‘I never speak to my father,’ I said.
‘Why?’ Ananya looked at me.
‘Long story. Not for tonight. Or any night. I’d like to keep it to myself.’
‘Sure,’ she said.
We walked for a moment in silence before she spoke again. ‘So your parents
have big expectations from you? Which job are you going to take? Finance?
Marketing? IT?’
‘Neither of those,’ I said. ‘Though i will take up a job for the money first.’
‘So what do you want to be? Like really?’ She looked right into my eyes.
I couldn’t lie. ‘I want to be a writer?’ I said.
I expected her to flip out and laugh. But she didn’t. She nodded and continued
to walk. ‘What kind of writer?’ she said.
‘Someone who tells stories that are fun but bring about change too. The pen’s
mightier than the sword, one of the f irst proverbs we learnt, isn’t it?’
She nodded.
‘Sounds ridiculous?’
‘No, not really,’ she said.
‘How about you? What do you want to be?’
She laughed. ‘Well, I don’t know. My mother already feels I’m too ambitious
and independent. So I am trying not to think too far. As of now, I just want to do
OK in my quiz and make my mother happy. Both are incredibly difficult though,’
she said.
We reached her room and practised numerical for the next two hours.
‘I am so glad you are here. I’d never be able to crack these,’ she said after I
solved a tricky one for her.
‘You are not using me, are you?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Like you are friends wit h me because I am from IIT? So I can help you with the
quant subjects.’
‘Are you kidding me?’ she looked shocked.
‘I don’t want to be the IIT brother,’ I said.
‘What? What ever that is, you are not. We are friends, right?’
She ext ended her hand. I looked into her eyes. No, those eyes couldn’t use
anyone.
‘Good night,’ I said and shook her hand.
‘Hey Krish,’ she said as I turned to leave.
‘What?’
‘The st uff you said, about being a writer who brings about change. It is really
cool. I mean it,’ she said.
I smiled.
‘Good night,’ she said and shut her door. A few sleepless girls wandered in the
dorm with their notes. They gave me suspicious looks.
‘I only came to study,’ I said and walked out of the dorm fast. I don’t know why I
felt the need to give an explanation.
4
She came out of the research assistant’s room with her microeconomics quiz
results. She walked past the queued up students toward me. By this time,
everyone on campus knew of her friendship, or as someone would say,
siblingship, with me. She wore denim shorts and a pink T-shirt, drawing extra
long glances from the boys from engineering colleges.
‘B-plus, people say it is a good grade,’ she said, holding up her answer sheet.
‘Your shorts are too short,’ I said.
‘Show me your grade,’ she said, snatching my paper. ‘A minus, wow, you
cracked an A-minus!’
I didn’t react. We walked back towards our dorms.
‘You cannot score more than me in economics, I don’t believe this,’ she said.
‘You are a mechanical engineer. I am a university gold medalist in the subject.’
‘Show the medal to Prof Chatterjee,’ I said in a serious tone.
‘Hey, you OK?’
I kept quiet.
‘Anyway, I owe you a treat. Your numerical saved me. Are you hungry?’
I nodded. People who live in hostels are always hungry.
‘Let’s go to Rambhai,’ she said.
‘You are not coming to Rambhai like t his,’ I said.
‘Like what?’
‘Like in these shorts,’ I said.
‘Excuse me. Is it a Delhi thing or a Punjabi thing? Controlling what women
wear?’
‘It is a common sense thing. It is outside campus. People stare,’ I said.
‘Enough people stare within campus. I’m fine, let’s go,’ she said and walked
towards the campus gates.
‘I don’t need a treat. It’s fine,’ I said, turning in the opposite direction towards
my dorm.
‘Are you serious? You are not coming?’ she called from behind.
I shook my head.
‘Up to you.’
I ignored her and continued to walk.
‘Are you going to come for the study session tonight?’
I shrugged to signify ‘whatever’.
‘Any dress code for me?’ she said.
‘You are not my girlfriend. Wear whatever. What do I care?’ I said.
We didn’t talk about the af ternoon episode when I came to her room in the
evening. She had changed into black track pants and an oversized full-sleeve
black T- shirt. She was covered up enough to go for a walk in Afghanistan. I kind
of missed her shorts, but I had brought it upon myself. I opened the marketing
case that we had to prepare for the next day.
‘Nirdosh – nicotine-free-cigarettes,’ I read out the title.
‘Who the fuck wants that? I feel like a real smoke,’ she said. I gave her a dirty
look.
‘What? Am I not allowed to use t he F words? Or is it that I expressed a desire
to smoke?’
‘What are you trying to prove?’
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