Chetan Bhagat - 2 States The Story of My Marriage Full Novel(4)

‘More chutney?’ Ananya’s mother’s question (and my shaking my head) was
the only insightful conversation we had during the meal.
Uncle reversed his Fiat from the garage. He peeked out to look at me several
times. I wasn’t sure if he wanted to avoid me or make a direct hit.
‘Sit,’ uncle said. I went around the car to sit  next to him. Sitt ing with my
girlfriend’s f ather in a car brought traumatic memories. I took deep breaths. This
is not the same situation, play cool, I said to myself several times.
Uncle drove at  a speed of ten an hour, and I wondered what reason I’d give my
boss for not  coming to office two hours ago. Autos, scooters and even some
manual-powered vehicles like rickshaws came close to overtaking us.
I wanted to talk but couldn’t think of any trouble-free topic. I opened my off ice

bag with the dubious ‘Citi never sleeps’ logo and took out my research reports to
read. Dot com stocks had lost 25% last week. The analyst s who had predicted
that t hese stocks would triple every hour now claimed the market had gone into
self-correct  mode. Self -correct – it sounded so intelligent and clever it sort of
took out the pain away from people  who had lost their life savings. It also made
you sound dumb if you’d ask why didn’t the market self-correct earlier? Or the
more basic, what the fuck do you mean by self -correct anyway?
I had two clients who had lost ten lakh each coming to visit me today. With my
IIMA degree I had to come up with a sleight of hand to make the losses disappear.
the car came to a halt near a red light.
‘You wrot e those reports?’ uncle asked.
I shook my head. ‘It’s the research group,’ I said.
‘Then what you do at the bank?’ he was more rhetorical.
‘Customer service,’ I said, not sure how anything I did was service. Asking
people to give you their money and scraping away at it wasn’t service.
 

‘Do you know how to write those reports?’ he said.
The cars behind us began to honk. The Fiat didn’t start instantly. Uncle made
two attempts in vain.
‘Illa service quality,’ he cursed at his car as he pulled the choke. I kept the
reports inside as I became ready to push the car. Fortunately, the car started at th
e third attempt.
‘I can write them, why?’ I said, answering his earlier question.
‘Nothing. Stupid joint venture my bank has done. Now they want us to submit
a business plan. And that GM has asked me.’
‘I can help,’ I screamed like a boy scout.
‘Raascal,’ he said.
‘Huh?’
‘That  GM Verma. In my thirty years at the bank I haven’t done any report. Now I
have t o make a pinpoint presentation as well.’
‘Powerpoint presentation?’ I asked.
‘Yes, that one. Intentionally rascal gave me something I don’t understand,’
uncle said.
‘I can help,’ I said. Maybe I had found a way to bond with uncle.
‘No need,’ uncle said, his voice serious. He realised he had opened up more
than he should have.
‘You get off here,’ uncle said and drove to a road corner. ‘Citibank is hardly
hundred metres.’
I stepped out of the car. I said thanks t hree times and waved him goodbye. He
didn’t respond. He put his hand on the gear-shift.
‘Don’t meet Ananya too much. We are simple people, we don’t say much. But
don’t spoil her name in our community,’ he said.
‘Uncle, but…
‘I know you are classmates and you are helping Manju. We can be grateful, we
can fed you, but we can’t let Ananya marry you.’
 

I stood at the traffic intersection. Autos blared their horns at each other as if in
angry conversat ion. It was hardly the place to convince someone about the most
important decision of your life.
‘Uncle, but … I said again.
Uncle folded his hands t o before pressing the accelerator. The car started to
move.
Fuck, how do I respond to folded hands?
I thought. Uncle drove past me. Like
a defeated insurance salesman, I lifted my bag and walked towards the bank.
 

21
‘Welcome sir, welcome to State Bank of India,’ Bala said. His tone couldn’t hide
his anger, thereby ruining the sarcasm of his lines. He sat on my desk, waiting for
the exact joyous moment when he could squash me.
‘I’m really sorry, my auto met with an accident,’ I lied.
“Your chummery servant said you left at five,’ he said.
‘You called my chummery? It’s only nine. Isn’t that the official time anyway?’
‘No, this is Citibank. Not a public sector bank,’ he said.
‘So, people who work here cannot have life,’ I mumbled.
‘What?’
‘Nothing. Ms Sreenivas is coming at ten today,’ I said.
‘And you haven’t prepared for it. Have you read the reports?’
‘Yes, I have. But the tricky part is she is down ten lakh. And that is because
she believed these reports. So no matter how well I read these reports, she won’t
trust them. Can I sit on my chair?’ I asked.
Bala stared at me, shocked by my defiance. I took my seat. ‘You told me to
push these st ocks,’ I said, ‘and now our clients are down. Ms Sreenivas is an old
lady. She will panic. I want you to be prepared.’
‘Prepared for what?’
‘That  she, and some other clients too, could move funds elsewhere.’
‘How? How can they? This is Cit ibank,’ Bala said.
‘Because even as the Citi never sleeps, we make our customers weep.’
 

Ms Sreenivas’ panic mode was entertaining enough to att ract bankers from other
groups to come to our area. First, she spoke to me in Tamil for two minutes.
When she realised I didn’t know t he language, she switched to English.
‘You, you said this will double. It’s down seventy percent-aa,’ Ms Sreenivas
said.
‘Actually madam, the market went into self-correction mode,’ I said. I now
understood the purpose of complex research terms. They deflect uncomfortable
questions that have no answer.
‘But, I’ve lost ten lakh!’ she screamed.
‘Madam, stock market goes up and down. We do have some other products
that are less risky,’ I said, capitalizing on her misery to sell more.
‘Forget it. I am done with Citibank. I told you to do a fixed deposit. You didn’t.
Now I move my account to Vysya Bank.’
My sales rep brought several snacks and cold drinks for her. Ms Sreenivas
didn’t budge.
‘Madam, but Citibank is a much better name than Vysya,’ I said.
‘Give me the account closing documents,’ Ms Sreenivas said. We had no
choice. First hour in office, strike one. The TV in the reception showed the CNBC
channel. Internet stocks had lost another five percent that day.
In the next two weeks, our most t rusting customers, hence the most gullible
ones t o whom we had peddled companies that did nothing more than make a
website, lost a total of two crore. My own customers’ losses were limited to the
two ladies, as I could never sell those companies well anyway. Bala, however,
with his empire of smart people who rip off rich people, had to answer country
headquarters in Mumbai.
‘I have seven complaints,’ the country head of the customer service group said
in a conference call.
‘Sir, it is just an overreaction to the volatility,’ Bala said.
‘Don’t quote from the research report. I’ve read it,’ t he country head said.
The call ended. Bala’s face had turned pale. The bosses had decided to visit
the Chennai branch. I first thought I imagined it, but it  was true; Bala shivered a
little at the news. Mumbai said we shouldn’t have marketed Internet stocks to
 

individual investors, let alone housewives, in the first place. Of course, they never
complained when the commission kept coming in. but now five customers had
closed their accounts and one customer had sent a letter all the way to the CEO
of  Citibank in New York.
At my weekly sales meeting, I told my sales reps not to sell Chennai customers
anything apart from fixed deposits, gold and saris.
‘Sir, we don’t sell saris,’ one of my reps clarified.
‘Sorry, I was trying to be funny. We don’t sell gold either, right?’
‘We do. Gold-linked deposit, sir,’ she said.
Yes, I didn’t even know my group’s products. Actually, I didn’t even know why
I was doing this job. I nodded and smiled. In customer service, you need to smile
more than a toothpaste model.
‘Is it true that Ms Sreenivas lost ten lakh?’ another of my lady customers
walked into the bank. She chuckled, and sat close to the sales rep to get the full
lowdown. Too bad we couldn’t give her the details due to confidentiality reasons.
We couldn’t offer returns, but at least we could have given gossip. Maybe that
would lure customers.
‘Krish, come here,’ Bala came to me like a petrified puppy at  seven in the
evening.
I had packed my ‘Citi never sleeps’ bag to go back home and sleep. We had
our bosses coming in two days. I had spent the last two nights making
presentations for them. It was t he crappiest, most thankless job in Tamil Nadu.
No matter how wonderful I made my slides, the numbers were so bad, we’d be
screamed at anyway. Last night I had reached home at three and t hen woke up
again at five to reach brother-in –law dearest. I didn’t want Bala, I wanted a pillow.
‘Bala, I … I stopped mid- sentence as he had already turned towards his cabin,
expecting me to follow him.
I went into Bala’s of fice. He shut the door softly as possible. He drew the
blinds and put t he phone off the hook. Either he wants to fire me or molest me, I
though.
 

‘How is it  going?’ he whispered, quite unnecessarily as people had already left
for the day.
‘Fine. I sent you the presentation. You approved, right?’ I said. He had given
me an OK in the afternoon. The last thing I wanted was another night out.
‘Yeah, t hat ’s fine. Listen buddy, I need a favour from you.’
Bala had never called me buddy. The room smelt coconutty and fishy. The
coconut came from Bala’s hair, the fish from his unspoken intention.
‘What favour?’ I asked without smiling.
‘See Krish, this job, my career, it is everything to me. I have given my life to
this bank.’
I nodded.
Come to the point, buddy,
I thought.
‘And you, as you will admit, aren’t into it as much as me. Don’t take it the
wrong way.’
He was hundred percent right. But when someone tells you to not take it the
wrong way, you have to take it the wrong way. Besides, I had spent the last three
nights working hard with only ATM guards for company. I deserved bet ter.
‘That  is hundred percent false,’ I said. ‘I’m dying from work. I do whatever you
want me to do. I sold that crap Internet …
‘Easy, easy,’ Bala shushed me.
‘There is nobody here. We are not planning a James Bond mission that we
have t o whisper,’ I said.
Corporate types love to pretend their life is exciting. The whispers, fist-
pumping and animated had gestures are all designed to lift our job description
from what it really is -  that of an overpaid clerk.
‘I’m not doubting your hard work. But see, in corporate life, we have t o look
after each other.’
‘What? How?’ If he didn’t come to the point in two seconds, I would slap him.
In my imagination, I already had.
‘I am your boss, so I can look after you anyway. But today you have a chance
to look after me.’
 

I kept quiet.
‘The country manager is coming. They will ask how the Internet stocks sales to
housewives came about. I have to take the heat anyway. But if you could …
‘Could what?’ I prompted, just to make the scumbag say it. He didn’t.
‘You want me t o take the blame?’ I hazarded a guess.
He gave a brief nod.
‘Wow. That’s unbelievable, Bala. I’m a trainee. Why will they believe me
anyway?’
‘You are f rom IIMA. It is conceivable you had a big say from early on.’
‘And if I say it , my career is f ucked.’
‘No, you are a trainee. I have to recommend your promotion. Consider that
done anyway. But if I am held responsible, I don’t get a promotion, ever.’
‘You are responsible,’ I stared into his eyes.
‘Please Krish,’ Bala said.
The boss-subordinate relationship had changed. Bala begged me for help. I
realised the power I could hold over him if I gave in. I could come to office like
sane people. I could leave early. I could snooze at my desk. OK, so maybe my
career at the Citi overpaid clerks’ club would get affected. So what?
I could have said yes then, but I wanted him to grovel some more. I kept quiet.
‘The country manager as it is doesn’t like me. He is North Indian. He will
forgive you but not me,’ Bala said. I wondered if he would cry. I could have
enjoyed the show longer but I also wanted to go home and rest.
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ I stood up.
‘Is that a yes?’ Bala said, his eyes expectant.
‘Good night, sir,’ I said, emphasizing the last word.
 

22
My father never calls me. I have no idea why he did that night. I have no idea why
he did that night. I wanted to sleep before the misery of tuition and office began
all over again. But at eleven that night, Ramanujan knocked on the door.
‘What?’ I called out. Since the day Ananya visited, I hardly spoke to my
flatmates.
‘There’s a call for you.’
‘Who is it?’ Even Ananya never called me this late.
‘Your father. Can you ask him not to call at this hour?’ Ramanujan yawned.
I froze at t he mention of my father. I prayed my mother was OK. Why would he
call me? ‘Hello?’
‘Am I speaking to my son?’
I found his addressing me as his son strange. We had never had a one-to-one
conversation for the last three years.
‘It’s Krish,’ I said.
‘That ’s my son only, no?’
‘If you say so,’ I said.
Silence followed as two STD pulses passed.
‘I’m listening,’ he said.
‘To what?’
‘To whatever my son has to say to me.’
‘There isn’t anything left to say. Why have you called so late?’ I said in an
angry voice.
‘You sent your mother your first salary cheque?’
‘Yes,’ I said after a pause.
‘Congratulations,’ he said.
 

‘Is mom OK? I hope you are not calling me f or some guilt trip of yours.
Because if mom is not OK … I said, separating my words with pauses.
‘Your mother is fine. She is proud of you,’ he said.
‘Anything else?’
‘How’s lif e?’
‘It’s none of your business,’ I said.
‘Is this the way to speak to your father?’ he shouted.
‘I don’t speak to you,’ I said, ‘in case you didn’t notice.’
‘And I am trying to increase communication,’ he said, his voice still loud.
I could have hung up the phone right then, but I didn’t want him to take his
anger out on my mother. I kept quiet  as he ranted about how I had let him down
as a son. He didn’t say anything he hadn’t in the last twenty years. I also knew
that once the monologue started, it would take a while to stop. I put the phone on
the table and opened the fridge. I took out an apple and a bot tle of water. I went t o
the kit chen, cut t he apple into little pieces and came back. I had t wo bites and
drank a glass of water. Squawks came from the phone receiver.
After finishing the apple, I picked up the phone.
‘You have no qualities I can be proud of. These degrees mean nothing. Just
because you send you mother money, you think you can boss around. I think a
person like you … he was saying when I put the phone down again. I picked it up
again after I finished the apple.
‘I said, are you listening?’ His voice was trembling.
‘I am,’ I said. ‘Now it is late. Your bill must also be quiet high. May I go to
sleep?’
‘You have no respect .’
‘You said that already. Now, can we sleep? Good night,’ I said.
‘Good night,’ he said and hung up. No matter how mad they are, army people
still believe in courtesies. I am sure Indian and Pakistani officers wish each other
before they blow each other’s brains off.
 

I came back to bed. I didn’t want my father’s chapter in my life again. No father
is better than a bad father. Plus right now I had to deal with another father, who
had folded his hands to keep me away from a daughter I so badly wanted to be
with. And I have Bala and loser flatmates and psycho landlord and horrible
sambhar smells everywhere in this city. A dozen random thoughts spilled out in
my brain right before going to bed. These thoughts swarm around like clumsy
fishes, and my poor little brain begged –
guys, I need some rest. Do you mind?
But
the thoughts didn’t go away. Each fish had an att ention deficit disorder. The Bala
thought showed visions of me jabbing him wit h something sharp. The Ananya’s
dad thought made me think about a dozen post-facto one liners I could have said
when uncle folded his hands –
But I love her, sir; But you should get to know me,
uncle; You realise we can run away, you
Hindu-
reading loser.
Some people are lucky. They lie down, close their eyes and like those like
those imported dolls your Dubai relatives give you, go off to sleep. I have t o shut
fif ty channels in my brain, one click at a time. One hour later, I had shut the final
thought of  how I’d admit I taught housewives to play with radioactive stocks.
 

23
‘Ready?’ Bala jollied me with coffee in the morning. Yes, M r Balakrishnan, branch
head of customer services, brought me coffee in a mug. Too bad he didn’t carry it
in a tray.
‘Doesn’t take much preparation to present yourself as stupid,’ I said and took
the coffee. I noticed the mug had become wet at  the bottom. Bala picked up a
tissue from my desk for me. I could get used to this, I thought.
We met in the conference room two hours later. Bala loaded up the
presentation. True to charact er, he had removed my name from the title slide.
Like all banking presentations in every department of every bank in India, it
started with the 1991 liberalisation and how it presents tremendous opportunity
for India.
‘As you can see, the IT space has seen tremendous volatility in the last three
months,’ Bala said, pointing t o a graph that only went down.
Our country head, Anil Mathur, had come on the first  flight to Chennai. His day
had st arted bad as he couldn’t get a business class seat last minute and had to
rub shoulders with the common people. His grumpy expression continued to
worsen during the presentation.
Anil was forty years old and seen as a young turk on his way up. Citi thrived
on and loved the start system. People introduced him as ‘This is Anil, MD. He is a
star performer.’
Again, there is nothing starry to do in a bank anyway. It is another thing Citi
invented to reduce the dullness of our job. However, when Anil entered t he room,
some Chennai bankers’ eyes lit up, much like the auto driver who saw Rajni’s
poster.
‘And that in short, has led to the circumstances we are in today,’ Bala said as
he ended his hour-long speech. I couldn’t believe he tagged his t alk this short.
Anil didn’t respond. He looked around the room. Chennai trainees avoid eye
contact anyway, especially when it comes to authority. He looked at Bala and
Bala looked at me. I nodded; I’d be the suicide mission today.
Anil’s cell-phone rang. He took it out of his pocket. His secretary had called
from Mumbai.
 

‘What do you mean wait-listed for business class? I am not  coming back like I
did this morning sitting cramped with these Madrasis.’
Apart from me and Anil, everyone in the room was offended. However, since
Anil is the boss, everybody smiled like it was a cute romantic joke.
Anil stood up with his phone. ‘And why do I have a Honda City to pick me up?
Tell them, I am eligible for BMW if they don’t have Mercedes … yes, of course, I
am.’ He said and hung up the phone.
He let out a huge sigh and rubbed his face. It is a tough life when you have to
fight for basic rights every day.
‘OK, focus, focus,’ he said to himself and everyone in the room straightened
their backs.
‘Sir, as I was saying … Bala started again. Anil had a flight back in four hours.
I guess Bala hoped if he kept  presenting, time would run out for Anil to ask tough
questions.
“Bala, you have said a lot,’ Anil said. ‘All I care about is why have you lost
seven big customers in a month. In every other market  we have grown.’
All of us studied the floor.
‘Two crore? How can retail cust omers lose two crore? They come to save their
money in the bank, not lose it,’ Anil said.  Such truisms had led him to become
the star in the jargon-filled bank.
‘So, whose big idea was it to sell these ladies net stocks?’ Anil asked.
‘Sir,’ Bala said and looked at me. Everyone turned to me. I had become guilty
by collective gaze.
‘You are?’ Anil asked.
“Krish, sir,’ I said.
‘You are f rom Chennai?’ Anil said, puzzled at  my accent that didn’t match the
rest of the table.
‘No, I’m from Delhi.’
‘Punjabi?’
I nodded.
 

Anil didn’t answer. He just laughed. The sadistic laugh of seeing a fish out of
water gasp for life. ‘What happened? HR screwed up?’ Anil said. His phone rang
again. The secretary confirmed business class and a BMW pickup at the airport.
Anil asked her to make sure it is a 5- series at least.
‘Remember the Tata Tea deal we did with BankAm? I came back with that idiot
MD from BankAm and the car company sends me a Toyota and a 5-series for him.
Can you imagine what I went through?’ Anil emphasized again. The secretary
confirmed she wouldn’t make him slum it in a car that cost less than an
apartment. Calmness spread in the room as Anil’s mood improved.
‘Where was i?’ Anil said and looked at me. He laughed again. ‘Which college
are you from?’
‘IIMA,’ I said.
‘Salute, sir,’ Anil said and mock-saluted me.
I didn’t brag about my college, you asshole,
I wanted to say. He got the name out
of  me.
‘I went to IIMC. I was on the waitlist for IIMA but they never called me. I guess I
am not as smart as you,’ Anil said.
I had no clue how to answer that quest ion. Another trainee in the room was
from IIMC and he introduced himself. They hi-fived before Anil turned to me
again.
‘But who cares, I became the country manager and many of your IIMA seniors
didn’t,’ Anil said and winked at me.
Obviously you still care, you obnoxious, insecure prick,
I said to myself  even as I
smiled. What would life be without mental dialogue.
‘So, you had the idea of selling Internet stocks to housewives?’ Anil asked
after he touched down from his gloat-flight. ‘And Bala, you didn’t stop him.’
‘Sir, I always try to encourage young talent. Plus, IIMA, I thought he’d know,’
Bala said, picking on Anil’s resentment against my bluest of the blue-blooded
institute.
‘IIMA, yeah right,’ Anil said. ‘You have cost the bank more business than you
can ever make back in five years.’
 

I wondered if I should cancel my deal with Bala. Even the personalized coffee
didn’t seem worth it.
‘What about monitoring? Bala, you didn’t monitor when the losses started?’
‘I was getting more business, sir,’ Bala said.
We had a lunch-break. I didn’t join the group. One, I had to prepare for IIT
trigonometry for the class tomorrow with brother-in-law. Two, I didn’t need any
more slamming. And three, the food was South Indian special, which I had begun
to hate by now and I was sure Anil would too.
Post-lunch, Anil wrapped up the meeting. ‘I want good customer numbers.
Either bring those customers back or win new ones, I don’t care. And please have
better food next time.’
‘We will, sir, we are working super hard,’ Bala said.
The other trainees nodded. Apart from the IIMC guy, they hadn’t spoken a
word during the meeting.
‘I can tell you this Internet debacle will lead to layoffs across the bank. And if
we see Chennai at t he bot tom, literally and figuratively, there will be layof fs.’ Anil
said and horror showed on all faces at his last  words.
‘And you, HR error,’ Anil said and t apped my shoulder. ‘You need to buck up
big time.’
The BMW came to the branch to take Anil and our anxieties away. Bala came
to my desk after we had come back to our seats. ‘Thanks, buddy. I owe you,’ he
said.
‘Big time, buddy, big time,’ I said.
 

24
I figured it must be a special occasion when I heard excessive frying sounds from
Ananya’s kitchen. I had completed two months of tuitions and Manju had become
smarter than the kids in the Complan and Bournvita ads. I could bet one month of
my after-tax, PF and HRA alary that Manju would crack IIT, medical or any
draconian entrance exam known to man. Most  of it was his own work, and my
waking up at five had lit tle to do with it.
‘What’s going on,’ I said and sneezed twice. The pungent smell of burnt
chillies flared my nostrils.
‘Special cooking for special guests,’ Manju said, while continuing to solve his
physics numerical.
‘Who?’
‘Harish, from the bay area,’ Manju said.
‘Harish who?’
Another fryer went on the st ove. This time smells of mustard, curry leaves and
onions reached us. If this was one of those prize-winning Indian novels, I’d spend
two pages on how wonderful those smells were. However, the only reaction I had
was a coughing fit and teary eyes.
‘You are rhumba sensit ive,’ Manju said and looked up at me in disgust. He
stood up and went to the door. ‘Switch on the exhaust fan, amma,’ he screamed
and shut the door.
Ananya’s mother continued to tackle the contents of the fryer. ‘OK, you go for
bath. They will come anytime,’ Ananya’s mother said and went t o max volume,
‘Ananya! Are you ready?’
‘Who is Harish?’ I asked again as Manju refused to look up from his problem.
‘The nakshatram matched no, so they are here. Ok, so g is 9.8 metres per
second squared and the root of … Manju drifted off to t he world he knew best,
leaving me alone to deal with my world, where a boy was coming to meet my
girlfriend to make her his wife.
I yanked Manju’s not ebook f rom him.
 

‘Aiyo, what?’ Manju looked at me shocked.
‘What’s the deal with Harish. Tell me now or I’ll t ell your mother you watch
porn,’ I said.
Manju looked stunned. ‘I don’t watch porn,’ he said in a scared voice.
‘Don’t lie to me,’ I said. Every boy watches porn.
‘Only once I s …saw a blue film, at my friend’s house, by mistake,’ he
stuttered.
‘How can you watch it by mistake?’
‘It belonged to my friend’s dad. Please don’t tell amma.’
His face, even his spectacles looked terrified. I closed the books. ‘Tell me all
about Harish. How did this happen?’
Manju told me about Harish, the post er boy of the perfect Tamilian groom.
Radha aunty had pitched Harish for the last t wo years. He fit  every criteria applied
by Indian parents to make him a worthwhile match for Ananya. He was Tamilian, a
Brahmin and an Iyer (and those are three separate things, and non-compliance in
any can get you disqualif ied). He had st udied in IIT Chennai and had scored a
GPA of 9.45 (yes, it was advertised to the Swamis)’
He went on to do an MS with full scholarship and now worked in Cisco
Systems, an upcoming Silicon Valley company. He never drank or ate meat or
smoked (or had fun, by extension) and had a good knowledge of Carnatic music
and Bharatnatyam. He had a full half-inch-thick moustache, his own house in the
San Francisco suburbs, a white Honda Accord and stock options that, apart from
the last t hree months, had doubled every twelve minutes. He even had a
telescope he used to see galaxies on the weekend (I told you he had no fun).
Manju was more excited at t he prospect of seeing the telescope and t hought it
reason enough for his sister to marry that guy.
‘He said you can actually see the colours on the rings of Saturn,’ Manju said,
excited.
‘You spoke to him?’
‘He called. Couple of times,’ Manju said.
‘Ananya spoke to him?’
 

‘No. he used to call when she wasn’t at home. Anyway, until the nakshatram
matches, t he boy and the girl are not  allowed to talk.’
‘Nakshatram what ?’ I asked. The list of  Tamilian hoops one needs to jump
before getting married seemed infinite.
‘Horoscope. It is a must. If t hey don’t mat ch, boy and girl’s side don’t talk. But
they have matched for akka and him.’
I thought about my own family. The only nakshatram we think about is the
division of petrol pumps when we have t o see the girl.
‘You are a science whiz kid who wants to see Saturn rings. And you accept
that people whose horoscopes don’t match shouldn’t talk?’ I said.
‘That ’s how it  is in our culture,’ Manju said, his hands itching to get to his
workbook. I gave him back his notes.
‘And he is coming now?’ I said.
‘Yes, for breakfast. And please, don’t snat ch my notebook again.’
‘I am sorry,’ I said and stood up. I wanted to have a showdown with Ananya
about this. Surely, she’d have known a bit more about his visit. But for now, I
wanted to get out.
‘Bye, Manju,’ I said as I turned to leave.
‘Krish bhaiya, can I ask you one thing?’ he said.
‘What?’ I said.
‘Can something bad happen if you watch blue films?’
I stared at him.
‘I won’t, I promise, I just wanted to know,’ he said.
‘If you just  watch them?’
‘Just watching …and,’ he said and hesitated, ‘and if you do something else
afterwards.’
‘Why don’t you ask your appa?’
‘Aiyo, what are you saying?’
 

‘You could become blind,’ I said wit h a serious face.
‘Really? He said, ‘how is that possible?’
‘Be careful,’ I winked at him and left.
‘Welcome, welcome,’ greetings had started at the entrance even bef ore I could
leave the house.
A crowd had gathered at the main door – Ananya’s dad and mom, Shobha
athai, three other Kanjeevaram-clad aunties and two random uncles in safari suits
became the welcome party. They received Harish like an ast ronaut who had
returned from the first Indian lunar mission. The only time grown-ups get excited
about young people is when young people are getting married and the old people
control the proceedings. I had come to Ananya’s house several times, and I had
received a welcome no better than the guy who came to collect  the cable bill. But
Harish had it all. Aunties looked at him like he was a cuddly two- year-old, only he
was fifty times the size and had a moustache that could scare any cuddly two-
year-old. He wore sunglasses, quite unnecessary at seven in the morning, apart
from showing off his sense of misplaced style. He had come with his parents, a
snug Tamilian family who walked into the room with their overachiever in shades.
Fortunately, he removed them when he sat on the sofa.
Ananya’s father not iced me with a confused expression.
‘Uncle, I was leaving,’ I said. ‘Sorry. I came for Manju’s tuitions.’
‘Had breakfast?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I said.
‘Then sit,’ he said. The firmness in his voice made me obey instantly. I wanted
to wriggle out of it, but a part of me wanted to see the drama unfold. Uncle’s
attention shifted to the new guest s. Maybe he had made me stay intentionally. I
perched in a corner chair like a domestic servant who is sometimes allowed to
watch TV.
The t axi driver came in to ask for his bill and Harish’s dad st epped outside to
set tle it. They couldn’t agree on the price and their argument began to heat up.
 

Harish’s dad bargained for the last five rupees even as Harish’s mother casually
mentioned anot her of their son’s achievement. ‘MIT calling him, requesting him to
do Ph.D. at their college.’
All the ladies in the room had a mini orgasm. Marble flooring is to a Punjabi
what a foreign degree is to a Tamilian.
‘But his Cisco boss said, nothing doing. You cannot leave me.’ Harish’s
mother said. Harish kept a const ant smile during the conversation.
Manju came into the room and called me.
‘What?’ I asked, dreading another physics problem.
I went into his room. Ananya sat on his bed, wearing a stunning peacock blue
sari – the same colour she wore the day I had proposed to her.
‘Go, your groom is waiting,’ I said.
‘Manju, leave t he room,’ she said.
Manju had already sat down to study again. ‘Aiyo, where should I go?’
‘Go and meet the guest s. Or help Amma in the kitchen,’ Ananya said in a no-
nonsense way.
Manju went to the living room with the physics guide.
I turned away from Ananya.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘Who the fuck invented the word sorry? How can there be just one word to
answer for anything one does. Tomorrow you could marry Mr Sunglasses
outside, and then say sorry. What am I supposed to say?’
‘Don’t overreact. I am doing it  to fob off Shobha aunt y. I still have the f inal say.
I’ll say no.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Because this is not  important. You saw the petrol pump girl, didn’t you?’
‘But I told you later. And it wasn’t a formal thing. My mother went t o visit
Pammi aunty.’
 

‘And neither is this formal. My parents said Harish is only coming for a casual
visit.’
Oh, so people match horoscopes casually?’
‘It is the f irst step. And Shobha aunty did it. Krish, listen …
‘Ananya!’ a Tamil-accented scream filled t he room.
‘I love you,’ she said, ‘and I have to go now.’ She brushed past me to the door.
‘Why are you wearing this stunning sari?’ I placed my hand on the bolt to stop
her.
‘Because my mother chose it for me. Now, can I go or do you want appa to
come here?’
‘Let’s elope,’ I said.
‘Let’s not give up,’ she stood up on her toes to kiss me. The taste of
strawberry lip-gloss lingered on m lips.
I came outside after five minutes. The hubbub over Harish had settled down a
little. The men opened their newspapers. The women gave each ot her formal
smiles like ballet dancers. The groom took out his latest Motorola Startac mobile
phone, checking messages. Ananya’s mother served her standard fossilised
snake snacks. No one spoke to each other. In a Punjabi home, if a similar silence
occurred, you could assume that something terrible has happened – like
someone has died or there is a property dispute or someone forgot  to put butter
in the black daal. But t his is Ananya’s home protocol. You meet in an excited
manner, you serve bland snacks and you open the newspaper or exchange dead
looks.
My re-entry made everyone notice me. Ananya’s mother seemed surprised.
Ananya sat next to her and faced Harish’s parents. I occupied my corner chair.
‘Manju’s tutor,’ Ananya’s mother said. Everyone looked at me, the t utor who
came to teach in a corporate suit.
‘He is Ananya akka’s classmate,’ Manju said, restoring some status to me.
‘You also went to IIMA? I have many colleagues who are your seniors,’ Harish
said.
‘Really? That’s nice,’ I said. I wanted to shove the spiral snacks up his
moustache-covered nose, but I kept a diplomatic smile.
 

Ananya’s father spoke to Harish’s father in Tamil. ‘Something something
Citibank Chennai posted somet hing. Something something Punjabi fellow.’
Everyone nodded and felt relieved after my credentials of being a Punjabi
made me a safe outsider.
‘Talk, Ananya,’ Ananya’s mother whispered to her.
‘How long are you here for?’ Ananya asked as her bangles jingled. She really
didn’t have to wear the bangles.
‘Two weeks. Then I have to go for our annual conference to Bali,’ he said.
‘Bali?’ one of Ananya’s aunts said.
‘Bali is an island in Indonesia, an archipelago. It is eight hours flying time from
here via Singapore,’ Harish’s mother said.
Everyone nodded as t hey absorbed the little nugget of knowledge before
breakfast. Ananya’s family loved knowledge, irrespective of whether they ever
used it.
We moved to the dining table, or rather the dining floor. Ananya’s mother had
already kept the banana leaves. I found them a lit tle greener than usual, perhaps
my jealousy reflected in them.
Aunties loaded up Harish’s leaf.
‘This is too much,’ Harish said, pointing to the six idlis on his leaf. ‘Does
anyone want one?’ He picked up an idli and placed it in Ananya’s leaf.
‘Wow!’ all the aunties screamed in unison.
‘See, how much care he is taking of  her already. You are so lucky, Ananya,’ an
aunt said as I almost tore a piece of banana leaf and ate it.
I saw t he bowl of sambhar in the middle. I wondered if I should pick it up and
upturn it on Harish’s head.
She can take her own idlis, idiot, why don’t you go drown
in Bali,
I thought.
Harish thought it really funny to shift everything he was served to Ananya. He
transferred parts of upma, pongal, chutney and banana chips from his leaf to
hers.
Really Harish, did anybody teach you not to stretch a bad joke too far? And all you
aunts, can you please stop sniggering so as to no encourage this moron?
 

‘We must decide the date keeping in mind the US holiday calendar,’ Shobha
aunty said and I felt she was moving way, way too fast.
‘Easy, aunty, easy,’ Ananya said.
Thanks, Ananya madam, that is so nice of you to finally impart some sense to these
people.
‘You OK?’ Manju off ered an idli to me. I had spent t wo months with him.
He could sense the turmoil in me.
‘I’m good,’ I said.
The breakfast continued. And then Ananya’s mother did something that paled
all the idli-passing and date-setting comments. She began to cry.
‘Amma?’ Ananya said as she stood up and came to her mother.
Amma shook her head. Manju looked at her but didn’t stop eating. The uncles
pretended nothing had happened.
‘What, Radha?’ Suruchi aunty said as she put a hand on Amma’s shoulder.
‘Nothing, I am so happy. I am crying for that,’ she said in such an emotional
voice even I got a lump in my throat. All the other aunts had moist eyes. Harish’s
mother hugged Ananya’s mother. I looked at Ananya. She rolled her eyes.
‘How quickly our children grow up,’ one aunt said, ignoring the small fact that
with the children, she’d grown into an old woman, too.
I’m going to get you all, I will, I swore to myself as I went to wash my hands.
 

25
‘Why don’t you tell them! This gradual st rategy is obviously not working,’ I said
as I opened the menu.
We had come t o Amethyst , a charming teahouse set in an old colonial
bungalow. It is one of the few redeeming aspects of the city. Set in a one-acre
plot, the bungalow is on two levels. Outside the bungalow there are grand
verandahs with cane furniture and pott ed plants with large leaves. Waiters bring
eclectic drinks like jamun iced tea and mint and ginger coolers along with
expensive dishes with feta cheese in them. It is a favourite haunt of stylish
Chennai ladies and couples so madly in love, they feel a hundred bucks for jamun
mixed with soda was OK.
‘I’ll have the jamun iced and chicken sandwich, and some scones and cream,
please.’ Ananya said.
‘And some water, please,’ I said to the waiter.
‘Still or sparkling, sir?’ t he waiter said.
‘Whatever you had a bath with this morning,’ Krish said.
‘Sir?’ the waiter said, taken aback, ‘tap water, sir.’
‘Same, get me that,’ I said.
‘I have told them, of  course. They don’t agree,’ Ananya said, as we reverted to
our topic.
‘Is Mr Harish history?’
‘Finally, though it will take two years to make Shobha athai OK again. She is
like – tell me one thing wrong with Harish.’
‘He can’t get a woman on his own,’ I said.
‘Shut up, Krish,’ Ananya laughed. ‘You know how I finally closed it?’
‘Did you tell him about me?’
‘Sort of.’
‘Sort of?’ I said, my voice loud. ‘I am not Mr Sort Of. I am The Guy.’
 

‘Yeah, but I can’t tell him exactly. How would he feel? My boyfriend sat with me
when he came to see me.’
‘Imagine how I felt. Anyway, what did you tell him?’
‘He asked me, rather hinted, about my virginity.’
‘He did not! I will kill that bastard,’ I said, my face red.
Ananya laughed. ‘Jealousy is rather enjoyable emotion to watch,’ she
observed.
‘Funny.’
‘He just said … wait  let me remember. Yes, he said, are you still pure or
something,’ she giggled.
‘What a loser. What is he looking for – ghee?’ I asked.
Ananya laughed uncontrollably. She held her stomach as she spoke. ‘Wait,
you’ll die if I told you my response.’
‘And that is?’
‘I told him – Harish, if there is an entrance exam for virginity, you can be sure I
won’t top it,’ Ananya said.
‘You did not! And then?’
‘And then the Cisco guy hung up the phone. No more Harish, finite. Radha
aunty said now Harish also doesn’t like me. Yipee!’
The waiter brought us our drinks. The contents looked like water after you’ve
dipped several paintbrushes in it. The jamun tea tast ed different, t hough different
doesn’t translate into nice. Amethyst is about ambience, not  nourishment.
‘Ananya, we need to bring this t o closure. I’m not  getting tract ion with your
parents. Manju maybe, but others barely acknowledge me.’
‘You will. In fact , that’s why I called you here today. You have a chance to
score with dad.’
‘I can’t. I told you he folded his hands at me.’
‘He is dying doing his presentation. No one in Bank of Baroda has ever made a
business plan. He doesn’t know computers. It is crazy.’
 

‘I offered help. He said no.’
‘He won’t say no now. I could help him but I am travelling most of the time.
And if you help him, it may work.’
‘
May
, the key word is
may
. Can be replaced just as easily with
may not
,’ I said.
‘Try,’ Ananya said and placed her hands on mine. It was probably the only
restaurant in Chennai she would try such a stunt. Here, it looked sort of OK.
‘First your brother, then your father. If nothing else, I’ll be your family tutor,’ I
said as I sipped the last few drops of my tea.
‘And my lover,’ Ananya winked.
‘Thanks. And what about your mother? How can I make her cry in happiness
like the purity-seeking Harish?’
Ananya threw up her hands. ‘Don’t ask me about mom,’ she said. ‘One, she
gives me a guilt trip about Harish everyday. And two, Chennai has put her in her
place about her Carnatic music abilities. She has stopped singing altogether. And
that makes her even more miserable, which creates her own self-guilt trip, which
is t hen transferred to me and the cycle continues. Even I can’t help her with this.
Work on dad for now.’
I nodded as Ananya paused to catch her breath.
‘Thanks for bearing this,’ she said and fed me a scone dipped in cream. I
licked cream of f her fingers. Little things like these kept me going.
‘Easy, this is a public place,’ she said.
She pulled her hand back as the waiter arrived with the bill. I paid and left him
a tip bigger than my daily lunch budget.
‘Hey, you want to go dancing?’ she asked.
‘Dancing? You have an eight o’clock curfew. How can we go dancing?’
‘Because in Chennai we go dancing in the afternoon. Let’s go, Sheraton has a
nice DJ.’
‘At three in the afternoon?’
‘Yes, everybody goes. They banned nightclubs, so we have afternoon clubs.’
 

We took an auto to the Sheraton. I am not kidding, a hundred youngsters in
party clothes waited outside in the sunny courtyard. The disco opened in ten
minutes. Everyone went inside and t he lights were switched off. The bar started
business. The DJ put on the lat est Rajni Tamil track. The crowd went crazy as
everyone apart from me registered the song.
Ananya moved her body to the music. She danced extremely well, as did most
ot hers trained in Bharatnatyam while growing up.
‘Naan onnai kadalikaren,’ she said ‘I love you’ in Tamil. I took her in my arms.
I looked around at the youngsters, doing what they loved despite everyone
from their parents to the government banning them from doing so.
Yes, if there can be afternoon discos, Punjabis can marry Tamilians. Rules,
after all, are only made so you can work around them.
‘Uncle, Ananya told me you are having trouble with your business plan.’
Uncle braked his car in shock. We never spoke in the Fiat. We had a ritual. I
read my reports, he cursed the traffic and the city roads. In twenty minutes, we
reached t he traffic signal near the Citibank where he dropped me. I thanked him,
he nodded, all without eye contact. Today, one week after my Amethyst  date, I
had made my move. Ananya had gone t o Thanjavur on work for five days, and her
mother joined her on the trip to see the temples. Ananya had told me it would be
the perfect time to offer help. Her father wouldn’t suspect I wanted to come home
for Ananya. Plus, more important, he could actually take help from me
I looked around at the youngsters, doing what they loved despite everyone
from their parents to the government banning them from doing so.
Yes, if there can be afternoon discos, Punjabis can marry Tamilians. Rules,
after all, are only made so you can work around them.
 

‘Uncle, Ananya told me you are having trouble with your business plan.’
Uncle braked his car in shock. We never spoke in the Fiat. We had a ritual. I
read my reports, he cursed the traffic and the city roads. In twenty minutes, we
reached t he traffic signal near the Citibank where he dropped me. I thanked him,
he nodded, all without eye contact. Today, one week after my Amethyst  date, I
had made my move. Ananya had gone t o Thanjavur on work for five days, and her
mother joined her on the trip to see the temples. Ananya had told me it would be
the perfect time to offer help. Her father wouldn’t suspect I wanted to come home
for Ananya. Plus, more important, he could actually take help from me and keep
face as his wife and daughter won’t be there to witness.
‘Why is she telling you all this?’ His hands clenched on the steering wheel.
‘Actually, I had helped my boss make a business plan,’ I lied.
‘Really?’ His expression softened and he looked at me.
‘MNC banks make presentations all t he time,’ I said.
Uncle released the brake as the car moved again.
‘Do you want me t o sit down with you?’ I off ered as we reached closer to the
Citibank signal.
‘You take tuitions for Manju already. Why are you helping us so much?’
I thought hard for an answer. ‘I don’t have anyone in Chennai. No old friends,
no family,’ I said.
His eyebrows went up at the last word.
‘Of course, you are also not family,’ I said and his face relaxed again. ‘But it is
nice to go to a home.’
I had reached my signal. I opened the door slowly, to allow him time to
respond.
‘If you have time, come in the evening. I will show you what I have done.’
‘Oh, OK, I will come tonight,’ I said as uncle drove of f. The Fiat left  behind a
fresh waft of carbon monoxide.
 

26
‘I think it is a great idea,’ Bala said. We sat in our priority banking group team
meeting. Mumbai had proposed a ‘raise spirits’ dinner event for our private
clients across India. Despite the economic slowdown, they had approved, they
had approved a budget for all major centres. Chennai needed it most, given the
adventure banking we had subjected our clients t o.
‘So, we need to brainstorm on which event will work best for Chennai
customers,’ Bala said.
‘An art exhibition,’ one executive said.
‘Again, we are selling something,’ another executive said. ‘The focus should
be on fun.’
‘A fashion show,’ said the earlier executive.
‘Too bold for our market,’ came the counter response.
The discussion continued for ten minutes. All ideas form movie-night to
inventing a Kollywood celebrity to calling a chef to prepare an exot ic cuisine were
discussed.
However, for some reason, none of the ideas clicked. I felt quite useless
having nothing to say. But I didn’t know what would work for Chennai customers
apart from giving them their money back.
‘Krish, what do you think?’ Bala asked, breaking my daydream of walking
hand-in-hand with Ananya in a peacock blue sari.
‘Huh?’ I said, and realised everyone had turned to me.
‘Would you like to contribute?’ Bala said. Even though he had cut me slack, on
occasion the repressed boss in him came out.
‘Music, how about music? Say a musical night?’ I suggested.
Excited murmurs ran across the room. Finally, we had an idea without any
strong negative objection. However, within music there were a dozen ideas.
‘Kutcheri, let ’s do a kutcheri,’ said one.
‘What’s that?’ I said, turning to Saraswati.
 

Saraswati was a conservative Tamilian agent who spoke only once a year and
never waxed her arms. ( I admit the latter point is irrelevant but it is hard not to
notice these things.)
‘Kutcheri is a Carnatic music concert,’ Saraswati made her point and drifted
back to being part of the wall.
‘Hey, I thought we wanted the evening to be fun,’ I said.
‘Carnatic music can be fun,’ said Ravi, another supervisor.
Yes, as much fun as wailing babies in a crowded train, I wanted to say but
didn’t. Political correct ness is a necessity in Chennai, especially when everyone
hates you for being an outsider anyway.
I turned to Bala. ‘We want to raise spirits. Isn’t Carnatic music too serious?
Why not have an evening of  popular music. Good popular music.’
‘A.R. Rahman, can we get A.R. Rahman?’ said one person.
‘Or Ilaiyaraja,’ said another.
Bala shook his head and waved his arms to say ‘no’. ‘We can’t do such big
names. The budget is not that high. And these people attract  the press. Last thing
you want is some customer telling the press about their losses and us wasting
money on such concerts. Mumbai will kill me.’
After two hours of further deliberation that took us to lunch break, we made a
few decisions about the event. The concert would be held in Fisherman’s Cove,
an upmarket resort on the city outskirts. We’d have t hree to five singers of
reasonable fame, provided we kept  to the budget of two lakh.
‘All set t hen,’ Bala said as we ended the meeting at six in the evening. I
realised I had to leave. After all, I had a big dat e with the big daddy tonight.
 

27
‘So, t his is almost done?’ I clicked through the slides. Uncle had given me a CD of
his work. I had uploaded it on my laptop. The unformatted slides had paragraphs
of  text, no bullet points and font sizes ranging from eight to seventy-two.
‘Yes, I spent three weeks on it,’ he said.
We sat at a work-table in the living room. Manju studied inside. No one else
was at home. Ananya’s father and I hunched close together to see the laptop
screen.
‘These have no figures, no charts, no specific points even … I said, trying to
be less critical but truthful as well.
‘Figures are here,’ uncle said as he opened his briefcase. ‘I still have to learn
that f eature in PowerPoint.’
He took out three thick files with dirty brown covers and two hundred sheets
each inside.
‘What’s this?’
‘Our last year business data,’ he said.
‘You can’t put it all,’ I said. ‘When is this due?’
‘That  rascal Verma wants it  in a week,’ uncle said.
The rate at which Ananya’s dad was going, he couldn’t deliver it in a year.
‘One week? This is only past performance data. Don’t you have to make a plan
for next year?’
‘I was going to do that, soon.’ He swallowed hard.
I kept my left elbow on the table and my palm on my forehead. I flipped
through the slides in reverse to reach the front.
‘What?’ he said. ‘Anything wrong in what I’ve done?’
I turned to him and gave a slight smile. ‘No, a f ew finishing touches left,’ I said.
‘So, how do we do it?’
 

‘Let’s start by you telling me what exactly you do at the bank. And then take
me through these files.’
I shut the laptop. For the next three hours I understood what a deputy district
manager does at a public sect or bank. Actually, there is a lot  of work, contrary to
my belief t hat  government bank staff did nothing. However, a lot of the work is
about reporting, approvals and maintaining certain records. It is more
beauraucracy and less business.
I yawned as he finished explaining how the staff-recruiting process works in
his Egmore district. I looked at the wall clock. It was nine-thirty.
‘Sorry, I didn’t even ask you for dinner,’ Mr Swaminathan said.
‘It’s OK, keep going. I’ll wash my face,’ I said and pulled back my chair.
I came back from the bathroom and uncle had brought two steel plates and a
bowl of lemon rice. He put the bowl in the microwave to heat the food. ‘Sorry, I
can’t give you proper dinner tonight. I told the maid to make something simple,’
he said.
“It’s f ine,’ I said as I took the plates of f him. I went to the kitchen. I picked up
the curd and wat er. I saw the spoons but decided not to take them.
‘Manju?’ I asked as I returned to the table.
‘He ate already. He wakes up at four so he has t o sleep now,’ uncle said.
We ate in silence. For the first time in their house, I felt welcome. Sure, they’d
give me breakfast and a lift to work t hree days a week. However, today was
different. Uncle refilled my plate when I finished and poured water for me. We
continued to work after dinner until he couldn’t keep his eyes open.
‘It’s eleven-thirty, I’d better go,’ I said. I shut down my laptop and stacked all
the papers toget her.
‘Yes,’ uncle said as he looked at his watch. ‘I didn’t realise this would be so
much work.’
I came to the door and outlined the agenda.
‘Here’s the plan,’ I said. ‘Tomorrow we make a struct ure, so we at least have a
tit le for all fifty slides that need to be there. The next day we will put the text. Day
after we will start on the figures and charts.’
We came out of  the house.
 

‘It’s late. I will drop you?’ uncle said.
‘No, there are autos on the main road. Good night uncle, tell Manju I will see
him day after.’
‘Thank you, Krish,’ uncle said as he waved me goodbye.
‘Anytime,’ I said.
 

28
I spent the next t hree evenings in the company of Mr Swaminathan. The Bank of
Baroda Egmore district business plan had become the focus of my lif e. I brought
some of uncle’s work to my own off ice and worked on it in the afternoon.
‘What are you working on?’ Bala said as we met near the common office
printer where I had come to collect a printout of uncle’s presentation.
‘Personal research,’ I said as I clenched he sheets in my hand and ran back to
my desk.
It is uncanny, but I could t ell Ananya’s call from the phone ring.
‘Hi hottie. How is it going?’
‘Did you know Bank of Baroda had no ATMs four years ago, but now there are
over a dozen ATMs in Egmore alone,’ I said as I opened the twelfth slide of the
presentation.
‘What?’ she said.
‘And in two years, there will be thirty,’ I said.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I am working on your dad’s presentation, in my office,’ I said and swiveled my
chair to turn away from the monitor.
‘That ’s why you are such a sweetie,’ she said.
‘I am stealing a talented MBA’s time paid for by Citibank. I could go to jail for
this,’ I said.
‘How exciting! My lover goes to jail for me,’ she chuckled. ‘Manju told me you
are there every evening until late. And today you took Manju’s morning tuitions,
too. Take care of yourself.’
‘I’m fine. I rest in the office. And the presentation should be done tonight.’
‘Cool. How’s the bonding with appa?’
 

‘Well, it is pretty business-like. But let’s just say, I saw him smile. I bit  a whole
chilli at  dinner and ran to the kitchen. When I returned he smiled for three whole
seconds and I created it.’
‘With my dada, that’s huge,’ Ananya said. ‘He didn’t smile in any of his
wedding pictures.’
‘Well, he had to marry your mom,’ I said.
‘Shut up,’ Ananya said.
The peon came to me to say Bala had tried my extension and couldn’t reach. I
told Ananya to hold
‘Well, he had to marry your mom,’ I said.
‘Shut up,’ Ananya said.
The peon came to me to say Bala had tried my extension and couldn’t reach. I
told Ananya to hold.
‘Tell him I am wit h a prospective new client. Inviting them to the concert,’ I
said. The peon nodded and left.
‘Concert?’ Ananya said.
‘It is a private client event. At Fisherman’s Cove,’ I said.
‘Fisherman’s Cove is nice. Can I come?’ she said.
‘Only if you have ten lakh to spare,’ I said.
‘Sure, my husband will send the cash,’ Ananya said.
‘Yeah, right after I execute my bank robbery. OK, now should I humour you or
make sure your father doesn’t get laughed at in five days?’ I said.
‘Daddy first,’ she said. ‘I am back in three days.’
‘How is Thanjavur?’
‘Temples, Tamilians and a temperamental mot her. Care?’ she said.
‘Maybe next time. What ’s causing t he temperamentalness?’
‘Me, me and only me,’ Ananya said and laughed, ‘as is always t he case.’
‘Really? What ’s your crime now?’
 

‘I don’t have time for her. Which is true, as I’m all over the district in meetings
the entire day. Of course, she also feels saying no to Harish is like declining the
Nobel Prize. And so, t hat ’s the dinner appetizer. Main course is a lecture on how
I’ve abused my privilege of being allowed to study further. Dessert is usually
tears. I have t o go to Pondicherry next week. No way I am taking her.’
‘You
have
to go?’
‘Just a day trip.’
‘Hey, isn’t Fisherman’s Cove on the way to Pondicherry?’ I asked.
‘Yes, why?’
‘Good, I should t ake the initiative and check out the venue. I’ll come with you
that day,’ I said. Anything to get out of office.
‘Oh, cool,’ she said.
The peon came again.
‘Yes,’ I turned to the peon after asking Ananya to hold.
‘Sir is asking which client?’ peon said.
I looked around. Outside the office window there were several hoardings. I saw
one for fireworks.
‘Standard Fireworks, Sivakasi. OK?’ I said.
The peon nodded.
‘Bye sweetie, am I disturbing you?’
‘Yeah, but what is life without being disturbed by the right people,’ I said.
‘Thank you. Love you,’ Ananya said.
‘I love you, too’ I said and hung up the phone. The peon stood in front of me,
his eyes big after the last line.
‘Why are you still here?’ I said.
‘Sorry, sir,’ t he peon said and left.
 

I lef t my office early to finish the presentation at uncle’s house. We had come t o
the end with only final formatting left. I passed a CD store in Mylapore. Some
music would be nice while I completed the presentation, I thought, I went in.
‘What you want, sir?’ the shopkeeper said.
I scanned the shelves filled with Tamil CDs in psychedelic covers resembling
crime novels. ‘What  non-Tamil CDs do you have?’ I asked.
He shook his head in disappointment. ‘Non-Tamil you go to Nungambakkam,
sir.’ But the shop attendant looked through his collection to find something.
‘OK here,’ he said as he t ook out three CDs.
The f irst CD was non-stop Hindi remixed hits. It had girls with cleavage on the
cover. I had to reject it. The second was a romantic love-songs collection that had
a heart-shaped cover. The third CD was nursery rhymes in English.
‘Give me the love songs,’ I said.
The shopkeeper made the bill as I scanned a section on Carnatic music.
‘Any good Carnatic music CDs?’ I said.
‘Good meaning what, sir?’ he said as he wrapped my red- coloured CD.
I looked at the Carnatic covers. Most  of them had middle-aged Tamilian men
and women on them. ‘Do you have any greatest hits collection in Carnatic?’ I
said.
The shopkeeper looked puzzled. I threw up my hands in despair. ‘I have no
clue. I want to get started,’ I said.
‘North Indian?’ he said.
I nodded.
‘Then why you want to learn Carnatic music?’
I didn’t answer.
The shopkeeper gave me t wo CDs. One had a woman holding a tambura on the
cover. The other had the picture of an old man. The entire t ext was in Tamil. I
flipped it around.
‘T.R. Subramanium nice,’ said an elderly lady who had just walked into the
shop and not iced my CDs.
 

‘Yeah, my all-time favourite,’ I said as I kept the CDs in my bag and walked out
of  the shop.
I reached Ananya’s place at 6.30. Uncle already sat  at the table. He wore reading
glasses and made correct ions on a printout of the presentation. He had kept hot
vadas on the table with red, green and white coloured chutneys.
‘Take one. It is a famous shop near my off ice. I brought them for you,’ uncle
said.
I looked at him as I picked up a vada. We made eye contact for the first time
ever since I had known him. I noticed that if you ignored t he wrinkly face and the
reading glasses, he had the same eyes as Ananya.
‘So today, no matter how late it gets, we finish this,’ I said as I opened the f ile.
Uncle nodded. He pulled his chair close to mine to see the screen.
‘OK, so let’s go t hrough each slide. I will format  as we go along,’ I said.
I went through the first five slides in an hour.
‘Uncle, do you mind if I put some music on? This formatting is quite tedious,’ I
said. I opened t he CD player in my laptop.
‘Play it on the stereo,’ uncle said and pointed to the hi-fi system kept in the
living room display cabinet. I too out the CDs from my off ice bag.
Uncle walked up with me to connect the system. He fiddled with the wires as I
noticed a one-litre unopened bottle of Chivas Regal whisky kept next to the
stereo syst em.
I took my chances and asked him. ‘You like whisky?’
‘No, just a little peg sometimes when I have a cold. Harish gave me this big
bottle. It will last  me years,’ he said.
I kept quiet.
‘You know Harish? The boy who came to see Ananya.’
 

I nodded.
‘Really good boy,’ he said.
Uncle switched the stereo on. I gave him the heart shaped CD in my bag.
Uncle turned it around in his hands a few times.
‘That ’s all the Mylapore shop had,’ I said in a sheepish voice.
‘What are the others?’
I showed him the other two CDs.
‘T.R. Subramanium and M. S. Sheela? Who did you get this for?’
‘For myself.’
‘You understand Carnatic music?’
‘No, but I want to learn. I’ve heard it  is the purest form of music,’ I said.
Uncle shook his head. I wondered if my reason had not come across as real.
He put the CDs back in my bag. ‘Sometimes, I wish I had never encouraged
Radha in Carnatic music. It has only given her pain.’
I nodded, not sure of how I should respond. Uncle was talking personal for the
first time. It is amazing how much closeness two men with a laptop in a closed
room can achieve in five days.
We sat back at the table as I worked on the sixth slide. Mandy Moore’s
romantic track filled the room.
I wanna be with you
If only for the night
The lyrics were a little odd for a work date between a fifty-year-old Tamilian
and a twenty-four-year-old Punjabi boy, but better than the silence. I enjoyed
putting the t extboxes, tables, charts and lists in their right place and making each
slide look slick. Uncle read each point and checked the figures. The song
continued.
To be one who is in your arms
Who holds you tight
 

The CD played itself over three t imes before I reached the halfway mark. We
paused for dinner at ten. Uncle went to the kitchen and came back with tomato
rice in two plates.
‘You must be bored of South Indian food?’ he said.
‘No, I am used to it now. Feels like home food,’ I said.
‘Good,’ he said. He went to t he display cabinet.
I had made it  to the category of ‘good’ though still not ‘really good’ like
Harish, I thought.
‘The presentation is under control now. You want a drink?’ uncle said.
‘Sure,’ I said.
Uncle took out t wo glasses from the crockery rack in the display cabinet . He
told me to get a spoon and ice form the kitchen. He opened the bottle.
‘Five spoons for me is enough,’ he said as he made his drink. ‘How about
you?’
‘We don’t use spoon to measure alcohol,’ I said. I was a litt le agitated. One
week of working my ass off and still Harish was the ‘really good’ boy. Fuck you,
Harish, I am going to have your Chivas Regal. I poured the golden coloured liquid
four fingers thick.
‘What are you doing?’ he exclaimed.
‘Making myself a real drink. Cheers,’ I said and lifted my glass.
‘Actually, Radha stops me from having more,’ uncle said and took the bottle
from me. He tilted it and made his drink level with mine.
‘Cheers,’ he said, ‘and thank you. You IITians are very smart. What a
presentation you have made.’
‘You are welcome,’ I said.
We finished our dinner and first drink by ten-thirty. I brought t he whisky bottle
next to the laptop. I poured a second drink for myself and offered it t o uncle. He
didn’t decline. The song changed to Last Christmas.
 

Uncle went to the stereo and increased the volume. ‘I gave you my heart,’
uncle sang in sync with the song and snapped his finger. He came back and sat
down.
I had witnessed an amazing sight. A Tamil Brahmin had set himself free
probably for the first time. If I didn’t have the presentat ion to make, I’d have loved
to observe him more. All I remember is that in the next two hours we reached the
last slide and the one-third mark on the whisky bot tle.
‘And thank you,’ I said as I read the last slide. Here we go, it is done.’
I saved the file.
‘Save it twice,’ uncle said.
I saved it again and checked the time. It was 1 a.m. In three hours, Manju
would wake up.
‘All ready to present it?’ I asked.
‘Present? Me? No, no, Verma will present this. My job was to complet e this and
it’s done.’
‘Uncle,’ I said my voice f irmed by the whisky, ‘you have to present. What’s the
point of slaving over this for weeks if you don’t get to present.’
‘I have never operated that projector,’ uncle said.
‘There’s nothing to it. You IT will set it up. And you press the forward button to
move t o the next slide.’
‘I don’t know.’ He turned quiet.
I closed my laptop and shook my head. ‘This is unbelievable. The presentation
is in such good shape. Your country manager will be there. And all you want t o
do is sit  in a corner. Verma will take all the credit.’
‘Really?’ he said.
‘That ’s what all bosses do, without exception,’ I said.
‘Bloody North Indian fellow,’ uncle said.
I stood up to leave.
‘Sleepy?’ he asked.
 

‘Not as much as you. You sleep at ten, right?’ I said.
‘This has woken me up,’ uncle said, pointing me to his drink. ‘Want anot her
one?’
‘Uncle, I have t o find an auto. It’s late.’
‘Why don’t you just stay here?’ he said.
‘Excuse me?’ I said.
‘Yes. I’ll give you a set of nightclothes. Mine should fit you,’ he said.
I had past-lif e trauma of wearing my girlfriend’s father’s clothes. This can’t be
a good idea, I thought.
Before I could respond, uncle had poured us another round of drinks.
“Change the music if you want,’ he said.
I rifled through Ananya’s tapes in the drawer. I found a Pink Floyd album and
couldn’t resist. The alcohol demanded Floyd.
The long, trippy opening note of
Shine On You Crazy Diamond
played in the
room.
Uncle tapped a foot gently to the slow beats. I wondered if he would be able to
handle so much alcohol. I longed to smoke.
No, don’t think about smoking
, my
mind advised.
Don’t think about being with Ananya. Think about the worst-case
emergency plan. What if uncle threw up or fainted? How do you call an ambulance in
Chennai? How would you explain it to Ananya’s mother?
However, uncle seemed to be having a good time. He sat on the sofa, and put
his legs on the table. ‘One thing Verma told me I will never forget,’ he said.
I nodded.
Verma said, ‘Swaminathan, do you know why they make you deputy GM and
sent me to become GM?”
‘Why?’ I said, too drunk to show restraint.
‘He said it was because South Indians are top class number two officers, but
horrible in number one positions.’ Uncle shook his head as he took a big sip.
Even in his drunkenness, I could see his pain. I didn’t know what to say.
‘Do you agree?’ he asked.
 

‘Oh, I don’t know. My boss is South Indian,’ I said.
‘Yes, but you have just started. Maybe he is right. We hate the limelight. I know
I should present this, but I don’t want to.’
‘Why?’
‘Because knowledge is not for showing off. If I do good work, people should
notice me. I cannot go sell myself  like that shameless Verma.’
I nodded, more to tell him I listened than in agreement. There is no better
source of wisdom than two drunk men.
‘Right?’
‘Depends.’ I said.
‘On what?’
‘Did you feel bad when they didn’t make you GM?’ I said.
Uncle looked at me for a few seconds. He leaned forward from the sofa to
come near me. ‘Let me tell you one thing. What is your name?’ he said.
Obviously, I was not anywhere close to get ting close to him. ‘Krish,’ I said.
‘Of course, sorry, this whisky … Anyway, Krish, I had offers. Ten years back I
had offers f rom multinational banks. But I st ayed loyal to my bank. And I was
patient to get my turn to be GM. Now, I have f ive years to retire and they send this
rascal North Indian.’
‘You did feel bad,’ I said.
‘I still feel horrible. I haven’t even told this to my wife. I am drinking too much,’
he said.
‘It’s OK. The point is, if you feel horrible then you need to do what it takes to
get to be number one. And….’ I stopped myself .
‘What? Say it,’ he said.
‘And if you don’t have marketing skills, then better admit that than take a moral
high ground about knowledge. You’ve done good work, let the world know. What
the hell is cheap or shameless about that?’
Uncle didn’t respond.
 

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, composing myself.
‘No, you are right. I am useless,’ he said, his voice quivering. I became worried
he’d cry.
‘I didn’t say that. We made this, right?’ I pointed to my laptop.
‘You think I should present? Will I be able t o?’ he asked.
‘You will kick ass,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘Sorry, I said you need ice?’
He shook his head.
‘You’ll be fine. Tell Verma you will present t his. Don’t give him a copy.’
‘I’ll fight with him?’
‘Yes, if you call it that,’ I said. ‘And make sure from now on, people know about
the work you do. Look at Bala, my boss. He copies the country manager on
everything. Bala briefed the country manager about the food menu for this stupid
local concert we are having next month. You def initely have to get noticed, you
don’t have to work. That’s how corporat es work, everyone knows it.’
Uncle nodded and fell deep in thought. I checked the time: 2 a.m. I couldn’t
control a yawn.
‘OK, we should go to bed,’ uncle said and stood up. ‘Wait.’ He came back with
a lungi and a vest. ‘Here, will this do?’
You got to be kidding me, I wanted to say, but said, ‘Perfect.’
Uncle showed me t he guestroom. I sat down on the bed with the nightclothes
in my lap.
‘What do you want to be? MD at Citibank?’ uncle asked me as he reached the
door to leave my room.
‘A writer,’ I said.
‘Excuse me,’ he said and his tired body became alert again.
‘MD, country manager, I don’t care, It’s not me,’ I said.
 

“Will you leave the bank?’
‘Not immediately. I’ll save for a couple of years first.’
‘And after that? What about your parents? Are  they OK with this?’
‘We’ll see. You should sleep, uncle. You have a presentation to make
tomorrow,’ I said.
Uncle switched off t he main light and left. I went to the bat hroom and
struggled with my lungi. Finally, I used a belt  to tie it around my waist and lay
down in bed. My back was resting af ter eighteen hours; I let out a sigh of relief.
Uncle knocked on my door. He came inside and switched on the light again.
I sat up on the bed in one jerk. ‘What?’
‘Water,’ uncle said as he left a bott le next  to my bed. ‘Drink up, or you will have
a headache in the office tomorrow.’
‘Thanks,’ I said.
‘You OK with that lungi? You need help?’
‘No, I am fine,’ I said and clutched my belt and modesty close to myself.
‘Good night,’ uncle said as he swit ched off the light again.
‘Good night, sir,’ I said and cursed myself for the next  ten minutes f or calling
him sir.
 

29
‘Three lakh!’ Bala flipped during the concert steering committee meet ing. Yes,
one of the great value additions from Bala is to make everything sound important.
He creat ed the CSC, or the Concert Steering Committ ee. It sounded so important,
I could almost put it in my resume.
But right now, we had a problem. Everyone kept silent as the person in charge
of  the singers gave her report. ‘You want three celebrity singers, sir,’ said
Madhavi, a fat agent with spectacles who looked like a cross between a school
prefect and an ICU nurse.
‘But how can they get paid so much?’ Bala said. Somehow, Bala felt only he
deserved a job t hat paid far in excess of the work involved.
‘They come with a band, sir, and back-up singers,’ Madhavi said.
Everyone in the room nodded.
Bala shook his head. ‘Why do we need back-up singers? The main ones will
crash or something?’
Nobody laughed.
‘Back-up means chorus, sir,’ Madhavi said.
Bala remained unimpressed.
‘Chorus are those people who say aa aa aa in love songs, sir,’ said Renuka,
another agent.
‘I know what chorus is,’ Bala said as he banged his fist on the table. ‘But this
is t oo much.’
‘We can cut the food,’ said one agent. He got more dirty looks than an eve-
teaser in a bus. He retracted his suggestion.
‘Why don’t we get some lesser known singers?’ I asked.
‘But t his is a Citibank event. If we get B-grade singers and tomorrow HSBC
does an event with A-grade singers, we are screwed,’ Bala said.
‘Sir, the venue….’ One agent who had never spoken in a meeting in his entire
career was shot down in mid-sentence.
 

‘Has to be five- star,’ Bala said.
‘Who is the top singer of the three?’ I said.
‘Hariharan,’ said one agent.
‘No, it is S.P. Balasubramanium,’ said another.
War broke out between the normally peaceful Tamilians. When it came to
music, they could kill.
‘No match, Hari is no match for SP,’ Madhavi shouted emot ionally.
‘Suchitra? You forgot Suchitra?’ another agent said.
Bala stood up. Like all corporate meetings worldwide, even this one had ended
without a conclusion. ‘All I am saying is, we can’t afford to pay this much. The
venue, food and advertising are already costing four lakh,’ Bala said.
‘Advertising?’ I asked.
‘We are giving a half-page ad in
The Hindu
,’ Bala said.
The agents closed their files to leave.
‘Isn’t it an invitation-only event?’ I said.
‘Exactly, the ad will say so. Only our cust omers will have the invites. However,
the ad will ensure their friends and relatives f eel jealous.’
‘That ’s the Citi advantage,’ I said.
‘Exactly.’ Bala patted my back.
‘So, dad’s happy, huh?’ I quizzed Ananya inside the auto.
‘You bet. Dad only talks about the presentation at dinner every day. And now
he’s in Delhi, to make the same presentation in head office. Can you believe it?’
Ananya said.
‘Wow!’ I said as we reached our dest ination.
 

We had come t o Ratna Stores in T. Nagar to buy steel plates for my chummery.
I needed four, this place had four million of them. Seriously, every wall, roof,
corner, shelf and rack over two floors was covered wit h shiny steel utensils. If
direct sunlight fell in the store, you could burn like an ant under a magnifying
glass. I wondered how the store kept track of its inventory.
‘How do you ever choose?’ I said to Ananya as we neared the plates section.
Ananya demonstrated the desired widt h with her hands to one of the
attendants.
‘Seriously, thanks for helping dad. I think he likes you now,’ she said.
‘Not as much as he likes Harish. I drank his whisky though.’
‘What?’ Ananya said.
I told Ananya about our drinks session.
‘You wore his what to bed?’ she said, shocked at t he end of my story.
‘Lungi,’ I said as I paid at the cashier’s counter. ‘What’s so surprising? It is
quite comfortable.’
Ananya raised her eyebrows.
‘I did it for you.’ I looked into her eyes.
She moved forward and even though one could see our reflection in five
hundred frying pans around us, she kissed me. All the Tamilian housewives in
the store turned to us in shock.
‘Ananya,’ a lady’s voice came from behind us.
Ananya turned around. ‘Fuck, Chitra aunty,’ Ananya said, lif ting a large steel
tray to hide her face. It was too late as the woman had started to come towards
us.
‘Chitra who?’ I said.
‘Chitra aunty lives in my lane. She sings Carnat ic music, with my mother,’
Ananya said from behind the tray.
‘I bought Carnatic music CDs, too,’ I said.
‘What?’ she said.
 

‘Never mind, hello aunty,’ I said as Chitra aunty came next to us.
‘Krish,’ Ananya said. ‘Colleague.’
‘Really, what  kind of colleague?’ Chitra aunty asked bossily.
‘I have to go,’ I said and lifted my plates. ‘We need these before dinner.’
Ananya called me lat e at night, after I had eaten in the new steel plates.
‘All OK?’ I said.
‘Sort of,’ Ananya said. ‘She is going to tell my mother. They have this rivalry
anyway. Guruji accepted her but not my mother.’
‘And then?’
‘Nothing, I’ll tell my mother she is exaggerating. Am I mad enough to smooch
someone in Rat na Stores?’ she said.
‘You are,’ I laughed.
‘Yes, but only you know t hat .’
‘I don’t want to ruin what I’ve built with your dad,’ I said.
‘It’s mom you have to worry about now. Manju and Dad are OK.’
‘How?’
‘I don’t know. I told her you are coming over for dinner tomorrow.’
‘Why?’
‘The stated reason is to thank you for helping dad. We can tell her about our
visit to Ratna Stores before Chitra aunty. Of course, we’ll skip a f ew bits.’
‘You shouldn’t have kissed me there. Why did you do it?’
‘Because I couldn’t help it, you are irresistible sometimes,’ Ananya said.
My heart stopped for a second at Ananya’s response. Alright Mrs
Swaminathan, if your daughter can’t resist me, there is no way you can either.
 

30
‘Excellent presentation, that is what the board t old Dad in Delhi. Now t hey’ve
asked all zonal of fices to make similar ones,’ Ananya said in an excited voice.
We sat on the floor for dinner. Ananya’s mom kept quiet as she stirred a bowl
of  rasam. She offered it to me without a word.
‘You OK, mom?’ Ananya said.
‘Did you go to Rat na Stores with him?’ Ananya’s mother said, pointing to me.
‘Oh shit, Chitra aunty had to tell you the next morning,’ Ananya said, her hand
busy mixing the rice and daal.
‘Akka, don’t use bad words at the dinner table,’ Manju said.
‘Manju, you eat. I am talking to mom here,’ Ananya said.
‘He’s right. We don’t talk like that in this house. We don’t do the things you do
either,’ Ananya’s mother said as she vented some of  the anger on the rice in her
leaf. She mashed and smashed it with all the vegetables extra hard.
‘What have I done, mom? Krish wanted steel plates. How would he know
where to go? I took him to Ratna Stores.’
‘And you do cheap things in the store?’ Ananya’s mother said.
‘What cheap things, mom?’ Manju said.
‘Manju, can you leave the room? Go read you physics book,’ Ananya bade.
‘But I’ve already revised physics today,’ Manju said.
‘Then study maths or chemistry, f or God’s sake. Go.’ Ananya’s stern glance
did the trick. Manju picked up his banana leaf and took it to his room.
‘Something something cheap something….’ Ananya’s mother said as Ananya
interrupted her.
‘Mom, Krish doesn’t understand Tamil. Please, speak in English,’ Ananya said.
Ananya’s mother gathered herself and spoke again. ‘Why are you sending
your brother away, when you are ready to be cheap in public?’
 

‘I didn’t do anything cheap.’
‘Chitra is lying?’
‘I gave him a little kiss.’
‘Kissing!’ Ananya’s mother said as if Ananya had mentioned us snorting
drugs.
‘Mom, st op hyperventilating. He is my boyfriend. You understand?’
‘You are my daughter, do you understand? You are spoiling our name in the
community, do you understand? I brought you up, educated you, made sacrifices
for you, do you understand?’
I don’t know if mother and daughter understood anything, but I understood it
was time for me to go. I stood up.
‘Where are you going?’ Ananya demanded of me.
‘To wash my hands,’ I said, showing her my curd-filled hands as proof.
‘Even
my
hands are messy. Stay with me,’ Ananya ordered.
‘You don’t know what I have t o bear because of you,’ Ananya’s mother said. In
one movement she stood up, gathered her leaf and composure and left the room.
Ananya let out a huge sigh.
‘I liked the rasam, nice and tangy,’ I said.
‘You said you owe me big time,’ I said. I sat in Bala’s office. He kept both his
elbows on the desk and ran all ten fingers through his oily hair.
‘But how can i?’ Bala said.
‘You said you are over budget. I have a singer for you, free.’
I played with the paperweight in his off ice. Alone with him, I behaved his equal.
‘Who?’ he said.
 

‘Radha Swaminathan, upcoming singer.’
‘Really? Never heard of her,’ Bala said.
‘She is st ill in the underground scene. She has trained in Carnatic music.’
‘But t his is a popular concert. We’ll have dancers to complement the singers.’
‘Bala, popular music is cakewalk for Carnatic singers. You know that.’
‘Is she good? Have you heard her sing?’
‘Sort of.’
‘Sort of?’
‘Yes, I have. It’ll be fine. Plus you have Hariharan and S.P., can’t go too wrong.’
Bala stood up and walked towards his window.
‘Is she hot?’ Bala said, ‘Like good- looking?’
‘She is my girlfriend’s mother. I find the daughter pretty.’
‘What?’
‘I have to do this Bala. I am hitting all- time low wit h her. If I don’t do something
drast ic, I can kiss my girl goodbye f orever. They’ve got a Cisco guy lined up, pure
as fresh coconut oil.’
‘Your girlfriend is Tamilian?’
Yes, Brahmin, so you can deal with it for once.’
‘Iyenger or….’
‘Iyer, does it matter?’
‘No,’ Bala said and came back to his seat. ‘Now I know why you came to
Chennai.’
‘Apart from the fact that I was dying to work with a f inancial wizard like you,’ I
said.
‘What?’
‘Nothing, now, are you doing it?’
‘What?’
 

‘Finalising the singers, Hariharan, S.P. and the new talent Radha.’
‘What will the agents say? We have a committee.’
‘Everyone in the committee works for you. They are your drones.’
‘But still,’ Bala said, in deep thought.
‘You decide,’ I sighed. ‘I have work. I haven’t cleaned up my mailbox in ages. I
still have those emails of yours asking me to push those Internet st ocks, I should
delete them, right?’
Bala stared at me as I turned to leave. ‘Look, it is not personal,’ I said, ‘but this
is about my future kids.’
 

31
‘Aunt y, may I come in?’ I said.
Ananya’s mother looked at me through the mesh door with sleepy eyes. She
wore a nightie; I had disturbed her afternoon nap.
I had told my agents I would be out for a late lunch. Before coming to their
house, I stopped at Grand Sweets and packed two kilos of  Mysore pak.
Aunty opened the door. I came inside. She went inside to change her clothes. I
flipped through The Hindu util she returned.
‘Uncle’s back?’ I asked.
‘He came last  night.’ She yawned. ‘But he is in office now.’
‘Sorry to wake you up,’ I said and passed her the box of sweets.
‘What’s this?’
‘I wanted to apologise for the dinner that night.’
Aunty kept quiet and looked at the coffee table.
‘I am sorry about the Ratna Stores incident. I assure you, nothing cheap
happened,’ I said.
‘Chitra is a loudmouth,’ she responded. ‘She would have t old the whole of
Mylapore by now.’
‘I can understand. We have people like that in Punjabis as well. People who
love to interfere in other people’s lives.’
Aunty ignored me. She went inside to keep the sweets in the fridge. She came
back with a glass of water and their family dish of hard, brittle spirals that didn’t
tast e of anything.
I took one. My tooth hurt as I tried to bite it. I took t he spiral out of my mouth
and faked I had taken a bite by pretending to chew. We had an awkward minute of
silence.
‘Aunt y, I wnted to show you this,’ I said and opened my bag. I took out the
Carnatic music CDs and gave them to her.
 

‘T.S. Subramanium? Whose is it?
‘Mine.’
‘What?’
‘I’m trying to develop a taste. I’m learning , but it’s hard. There’s the swara, the
raga, the shruti.’
‘You know about shruti?’
‘Only the basics. I am not an expert like you.’
She returned my CDs and gave a wry smile. ‘In Chennai I am a nobody. Even
Chitra is bet ter than me. Though people say she knows the corporator of
Chennai, who asked Guruji to take her on. The corporator is in charge of the
kutcheri venues, so Guruji had to oblige her. Can you imagine how shallow she
is?’
‘There have ot be other gurus,’ I said.
‘I was ready for an advanced one. Anyway, I am sorry I overreacted that day.’
‘No, no, you don’t haave to spologise. I came ot apologise. And for a little
request.’
‘Request? What are you requesting me? You young people do whatever you
want, anyway.’
‘Nothis isn’t about Ananya and me. This is about our Citibank concert.’
Over the next half an hour I explained the upcoming event. I told her about the
Fisherman’s Cove venue, the who’s who of Chennai that we expected to be
present, the popular music concert for two hours divided between three singers,
and that I wanted her to be one of  them.
‘Me?’ she echoed, shocked.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘I’ve never sung popular music,’ she said.
‘You have a trained voice. Switch on MTV and see the latest chartbusters.
Three Kollywood, three Bollywood. You are done.’
‘Why me?’ she asked, still bewildered.
 

‘Actually, we are desperate. We need three singers and we found only two. My
boss gave me the job of finding the third singer. So, my appraisal depends on
you.’
‘Who are the other two singers?’
‘They are a bit known. So, the third one has to be f resh to balance things out.’
‘Who?’
‘hariharan and S.P. Balasubramanium,’ I said.
Aunty’s mouth fell open. She stood up and left the room. I followed her into the
kitchen. ‘Aunty, it is no big deal. It isn’t a public concert.’
Aunty answerd by placinga frying pan on the stove and poring oil in it. Once
the oil heated uo, she tossed in mustard seeds and curry leaves. A pungent smell
filled the kitchen. I coughed twice.
‘See, this is what  I do all day. I cook, I don’t perform. I am an amateur. I can’t
even sit in front of Hariharan and S.P., let alone share the same stage.’
‘It’s fun night, not a compet ition. They sing aft er you.’
She tossed chopped onions in the pan. My eyes burned along with my throat.
“aunty, have you ever performed on st age before?’
‘No. OK, yes, a couple of times in the Tamil Sangam events where Ananya’s
father was posted. But his, five-star hotel, high-society, Hariharan….You’ve got
Hariharan, why do you need me?’
‘Only professionals will make it too commercial. We want to give our clients a
family feel. A casual vibe will be nice,’ I said.
Aunty shook her head. I continued to convince her until she had prepared the
evening dinner of tomato rasam, lemon rice and fried bhindi. I had followed the
recipe and could now make rasam from scratch. However, I still didn’t have her
on board.
‘Why are you doing this? I accept ed you apology, didn’t i?’
‘that’s not why I am doing it.’
‘Then why?’ She covered the dishes with plat es.
‘I am doing this because I think you are a good singer.’
 

‘How do you know t hat?’
‘Because Ananya told me. She also said you’ve trained all your life. And I
believe her.’
She looked at me.
‘Don’t tell me the idea doesn’t excite you. Not even a little?’ I said as we came
back to the living room.
‘of course, it is a huge honour, but I can’t.’
‘Don’t say you can’t. C’mon, we will keep it a surprise. We won’t tell uncle. We
won’t even tell Ananya if you want.
We sat down on the sofa. I noticed the whisky bottle, the level was the same as
I had left it.
‘OK, here is the deal. You give a tentative yes now. You prepare the songs
when Ananya and uncle are not at home. If on the day of the concert, you want t o
back out, let me know the night before and I will manage. If not, give it a shot.
Deal?’
‘I will chicken out at the end,’ she promised.
‘I’ll take the chance. Please,’ I said.
She took ten seconds, but she gave a brief nod at the end.
I sprang up the sofa in excitement. ‘Cool, your practice st arts now,’ I said and
picked up the remote and put on MTV.
‘What are these songs?’ she said as the screen showed two hundred South
Indian dancers dancing on the Great Wall of China.
‘I’ll let you figure it out. And now, I better go to work,’ I said, ‘The Citi never
sleeps, but the Citi shouldn’t bunk office, too.’
I fist -pumped as I left Ananya’s house.
 

32
People close to you have the power to disturb you the most. I should have t orn
my father’s letter. I ended up reading it thrice.
Son,
I am omitting the ‘Dear’ as I am not sure I can address you as that anymore. I knew you
are on the wrong path the day you lost respect for your father. I am sure you remember
that day. You have broken all contact with me since.
I have learnt you are involved with a girl in Chennai. I don’t know the details. I can
only deduce so much from  your mother’s conversations with her useless relatives.
We should choose the girl for you, not you. For you are on the path to becoming a
man of low character. Such are the values given to you by your mother and her siblings
that you may not even know how disgraceful your actions are.
That you chose to hide your actions from me only reinforces that at some level you
are ashamed of them as well.
Unfortunately,
Your father
I changed my sleeping posit ion for the tenth time. I wanted to sleep, but felt
more alert t han anytime in office.
Forget it, he only wants to provoke you,
I said to
myself again.
Go to sleep, now!
– I scolded myself . The funny thing about sleep is
you can’t instruct it to happen. Your mind knows the facts and repeats them to
you –
it is late, only five hours when you have to wake up again, you need rest.
Your
mind also has a million options on what it can think about; stars in the clear
moonless sky, the beautiful flowers at the Nungambakkam flower shop, the smell
of  incense in Ananya’s house, your best birthday party. There are positive
thoughts somewhere in people’s heads all the time. But somehow, even one
negative thought will crowd them out. Maybe it is an evolutionary mechanism so
we can focus on the problem at  hand rather than rejoice in all t hings wonderful.
But it makes life a bitch, as good memories have t o make space for the next pain
 

in the neck item. And what does one gain by losing sleep? I hope our genes
mutate ASAP so we can evolve out of this.
Memories of that day my father referred to kept coming back.
What drama is he
going to do when I tell him about my marriage plans?
I thought.
Go to sleep, idiot, only
four hours to wake up,
my mind scolded me.
My brain refused to relax. I sprang out of the bed at two and called home.
‘Hello?’ my mother said in a sleepy voice.
‘Sorry, it is me.’
‘Krish? Everything OK?’ she sounded panicked.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘What happened?’
‘Dad sent me a letter. I’m quite disturbed.’
‘Oh, really? What did it say?’
‘Not important. He knows about Ananya.’
‘Your friend, no? yes, so what?’
‘Mom, she is not just a friend. I want to marry her.’
‘Oh Krish, don’t start this so lat e at night. A girlfriend is fine, do whatever you
want in Chennai. But why are you forcing her on us?’
‘I am not imposing. I am telling you about my choice of  life partner,’ I said, my
voice loud.
‘Stop screaming.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘If you have the guts, shout at your father.’
‘I don’t speak to him at all. You know I don’t care.’
‘Then why is that let ter bothering you?’
I kept silent.
‘Hello?’ my mother said after five seconds.
 

‘I’m here,’ I said, my voice soft.
‘Are you OK?’
I held back my tears as I spoke. ‘I’m lonely, mom. I don’t need this f orm dad.’
‘Tear the letter and throw it.’
‘I am batt ling Ananya’s parents here anyway. This is such a strange city, I am
welcome nowhere. And now you think I am imposing on you,’ I said and couldn’t
control myself. I held the phone tight and cried.
‘Stop Krish, don’t,’ my mother said.
I composed myself and used my left leg to open the fridge. I took out a bottle
of  water and drank it. ‘What do I do?’ I said after I regained composure.
‘Come back. Why don’t you apply for a transfer back to Delhi?’
‘I only came here six months ago.’
‘Say you have family issues. Tell them I am sick.’
‘Mom, please.’
‘Leave your job if you have to. We’ll find another one. There is a Canara Bank
right across our house.’
‘Mom, I’m in Citibank. It is an MNC.’
‘Fine, we will look for a multinat ional. Swear on me you will ask for a transfer.
Don’t be trapped in the city with horrible black people.’
‘Mom, they are not all bad.’
‘I don’t care. Apply for a transfer or I will send a letter to your boss. I will say I
am an old woman and you have to consider my plea on humanitarian grounds.’
‘Mom, swear on me you will never do anything like that,’ I said and smiled at
her choice of words inspired by Indian government offices.
‘Then you do it.’
‘I will, mom. I have to finish a few things first. I am almost there,’ I said and
regained my composure.
‘OK, you fine now?’ she said.
 

‘Yes, I am good.’
‘Good. And don’t take any nonsense from these Madrasis, give it back to them.
They get scared fast.’
‘OK, mom.’
‘And don’t get serious about that girl.’
Already too late for that, mom, I thought. ‘Good night, mom,’ I said.
‘I love you. Good night,’ she said and hung up.
I came back to my bed and tossed the letter in the bin. I felt light after speaking
to my mother and drifted off to sleep in five minutes. What would the world be
without mothers?

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