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

‘I’m upset about paying peak hour rates. Now listen, I’ve fended off my aunts
with great difficulty. It’s only my mom. You have a plan, right?’
She skipped ahead of me. ‘Let’s make it a great first meeting of the families.
We should do something fun toget her.’
‘Like shoot each other?’
‘Shut up. It’ll be f ine. They’d love it that my boyfriend is f rom IIT.’
‘They won’t ask my grades, right?’
‘They might. But who cares, you will be in Citibank. Listen, we organize an
outing for them?’
‘I am not so sure if our families would like to spend so much time together.’
‘Of course, they would. You leave it to me. Your mom will love me more than
you after this,’ she said as we reached the campus gates.

‘Microsoft Word, Power Point, Email, I don’t know, just started. Looks quite hi-
fi.’
‘Sure, it does sound like a challenging programme,’ I said, and instantly felt
guilty for my sarcasm.
‘My friends are doing it, so I joined. If it is too difficult, I’ll stop. You know all
these things, no?’
‘Sort of,’ I said.
My mother and Pammi aunty had st opped talking the moment Dolly and I
began a conversation. Dolly and I became quiet as we noticed them staring at us.
‘It’s OK. Keep talking,’ my mother beamed and looked at Pammi-ji. Both of
them gave each other a sly grin. They winked at each other and then folded their
hands and looked up to thank God.
Dolly looked at my mother and smiled. ‘Aunty-ji tea?’ she asked.
‘No ji, we don’t make our daughters work,’ my mother said. The work in this
case being screaming at the servant.
‘Raju, get tea,’ Dolly exerted herself  and earned affectionate glances from my
mother.
Why
couldn’t my mother give Ananya one, just one, glance like that?
‘Son, tea?’ Pammi aunty offered me. I shook my head. ‘You young people have
coffee, I know. Should we get coffee? Or wait , what is that new place at the
District Centre, Dolly? Where they sell that expensive coffee? Barsaat?’
‘Barista, mom.’ Dolly switched to a more anglicized accent when asked to
describe something trendy.
‘Yes, that. Take his there in the Honda. See ji, we are quite modern actually,’
she said to my mother.
‘Modern is good ji. We are also not old-fashioned. Go Krish, enjoy,’ my mother
said. Of course, hat ing Tamilians is not old-fashioned at all.
I stood up to partly enjoy myself with Dolly, but mainly to get  away from here
and ride in the new Honda.
 

‘Come here, Dolly,’ Pammi-ji said and did the unthinkable. She slid a hand into
her bosom ATM and pulled out a wad of  notes. I wondered if Pammi aunty’s
cleavage also contained credit cards.
Dolly took the wad and put it in her golden handbag without counting it. She
screamed at the servants to scream at the driver to scream at the security guard
to open the gate so the Honda could be taken out.
We reached the District Centre, a ghetto of salwar-kameez shops, beauty parlours
and STD booths. Dolly insisted on going to her favourite clothes boutique. I
watched her choose clothes for half an hour. I wondered if it would be
appropriat e to call Ananya form one of the STD booths. I dropped the idea and
hung around the shop, watching Punjabi mothers and daughters buy salwar
kameezes by the dozen. The daughters were all thin and the mothers were all fat.
The boutique specialised in these extreme sizes.
‘Healthy figure range is there,’ one salesman said as he pointed a mother to
the right direction.
Dolly finished her shopping and paid for three new suits with her wad of notes.
‘You like these?’ she asked, opening her bag.
‘Nice,’ I said as we entered Barista. The air-conditioning and soothing music
were a respite f rom the blazing forty-degree sun outside.
‘One cold coffee with ice-cream,’ Dolly said. ‘What do you want?’
I ordered the same and we sat on the couch, sitting as far apart as possible.
We mutely stared at the music channel on the television in front of us.
‘I’ve never spoken to an IITian before,’ she said after some time.
‘You are not missing much,’ I said.
She shifted in her seat. Her clothes bag fell down. She lifted it back up.
‘Sorry, I get nervous in front of hi-fi people,’ she said.
‘Don’t be,’ I said. ‘Enjoy your coffee.’
‘You have a girlfriend, no? South Indian?’
 

‘What?’ I jumped off  my seat. ‘Who told you?’
‘Kittu told me,’ she said.
Kittu was my first cousin and Shipra masi’s daughter. Kittu’s father was
Pammi aunty’s cousin. In some sense, Dolly was my third or fourth cousin,
though we weren’t related by blood.
‘Kittu? How did she know?’
‘Shipra masi must have told her. And your mother must have told Shipra masi.’
‘And now the whole clan knows,’ I guessed.
‘Sort of.’
‘What else do you know about her?’
‘Nothing,’ Dolly said as her eyes shifted around.
‘Tell me.’
‘Oh, some stuff. That she is very aggressive and clever and has you totally
under control. But South Indian girls are like that, no?’
‘Do you know any South Indian girls?’
‘No,’ Dolly said as she twirled her straw. ‘Sorry, I didn’t want to tell you. You
guys serious or is it just time-pass?’
I tried to curb my anger. ‘What about you? You have a boyfriend?’
‘No, no. Never,’ she swore.
‘Not even time-pass?’
She looked at me. I smiled to show friendliness.
‘Just one colony guy. Don’t tell my mom, please. Or your mother, or even
Kittu.’
‘I won.’
‘He sent me a teddy bear on Valentine’s day.’
‘Cute,’ I said.
‘Have you kissed anyone?’ she asked. ‘Like this South Indian girl.’
 

I thought hard about how I should answer her question without saying the
truth, that I loved with Ananya in one tiny hostel room for two years.
‘No,’ I said.
‘OK, because this guy is insisting I kiss him. But I don’t want to get pregnant.’
‘How did you meet him?’
‘It’s a very sweet story. He called a wrong number at my home one day. And
we started talking. I’ve only met him once.’
‘You are seeing someone who called a wrong number?’
‘He’s not my boyfriend yet. But you know I have a didi in Ludhiana who
married a guy who called her as a wrong number. They have two kids now.’
‘Wow,’ I said. I wondered if I should gulp my coff ee down so we could leave
sooner.
‘Do you like me?’ Dolly asked.
‘What?’
‘You know why we have been sent here, right? For match-making.’
‘Dolly, I can’t marry anyone but Ananya.’
‘Oh, that’s her name. Nice name.’
‘Thanks, and she is nice, t oo. And I am involved. I am sorry my mother
dragged me into this.’
‘But you said you haven’t even kissed her.’
‘I lied. We lived toget her for two years. But please don’t tell anyone this.’
‘Lived together?’ Her eyebrows peaked. ‘Like
together
? You mean, you have
done everything?’
‘That ’s not important. I only told you so you don’t feel bad about my lack of
interest in you.’
‘Two years? She didn’t get pregnant?’
‘Dolly, stop. Thanks for the coffee.’
‘I can make you forget  her,’ Dolly said as she opened out her waist length hair.
 

‘What?’
‘I know what guys want.’
‘You don’t. And try to stay away from wrong numbers.’
We left Barista and drove back in her spacious Honda. I realised this Honda
could be mine if only I didn’t believe in stupid things like love.
‘What should I tell my mother? Dolly asked.
‘Say you didn’t like me.’
‘Why? She’ll ask.’
‘It’s easy to slam an IITian down. Say I am a geek, boring, lecherous,
whatever,’ I said.
‘She doesn’t understand all that,’ Dolly said.
‘OK, tell her Krish has no plans to continue in the bank. He’ll quit in a few
years to be a writer.’
‘Writer?’
‘Yes.’
‘You are t oo hi-fi for me,’ she said as we reached her house.
 

14
‘I can’t believe you said no to Dolly,’ my mother said. ‘There has to be a reason,
no?’
She had brought up t he topic for the t wentieth time three days later. My father
didn’t come home until late so my mother had taken the risk and invited her sister
home for lunch. Some Indian men cannot stand any happiness in their wives’
lives, which includes her meeting her siblings.
‘Pammi is buying one more house in the next lane. She told me it is for her
daughter,’ Shipra masi said, rubbing salt into my mother’s wounds. My mother
hung her head low.
‘You are making the same mistake again. You chose an army person for your
own marriage. You said they are sacrificing people. We have seen how much. You
have spent your whole life in misery and poverty.’
My mother nodded as she accepted her elder sister’s observation. Shipra masi
had married rich. Her husband, a sanitary-fittings businessman, had struck gold
building toilets. My mother had valued stupid things like virtue, education and
nature of profession, and suffered. And according to Shipra masi, I planned to do
the same.
‘How much will that Madrasin earn?’ Shipra masi inquired. ‘Dolly would have
filled your house. When was the last time you bought anything new? Look, even
your dining table shakes.’
Shipra masi banged on the dining table and its legs wobbled. I pressed the top
with my palm to neutralize her jerks.
‘I say, meet Pammi once again and close it,’ Shipra masi suggested. ‘What are
you thinking?’ she said after a minute. ‘Do you know Pammi bought the phone,
the one you can walk around with everywhere?’
‘Cordless….’ My mother said.
‘Not cordless, the new costing twenty thousand rupees. You can take it all
over Delhi. Pass me the pickle,’ Shipra masi said. She ate up fast to catch up the
lost  time she spent on her monologue.
 

Cell-phones had recently arrived in India. A minute’s talktime cost more than a
litre of petrol. Needless to say, it was the newest Punjabi flaunt toy in Delhi.
‘And what is this writer thing? Dolly said you will leave t he bank to be a writer
one day.’
‘What?’ my mother gasped.
‘In time, after I have saved some money,’ I said and picked up my plate to go to
the kit chen.
‘This is what happens if you educate children too much,’ my masi said.
‘I have no idea of him becoming a writer. When did this start?’ my mother
turned to me as I returned from the kitchen.
‘The South Indian girl must have told him. They love books,’ Shipra masi said.
I banged my fist on the table. The legs wobbled. Maybe we did need to change
it.
‘Nobody asked me to be a writer. Anyway, it  is none of your business, Shipra
masi.’
‘Look at him, these black people have done their black magic,’ Shipra masi
said. ‘Don’t be foolish, Kavita, tell Pammi he will remain in Citibank and make a
lot of money. Get his price properly.’
I glared at everyone at the table, went t o the living-room sofa and picked up
the newspaper. The matrimonial page opened out. I threw it in disgust.
‘Let’s look at some educated girls. You want to see educated girls?’ my mother
threw a pacifier at me.
‘I have an educated girl. I like her. She has a job, she is pretty, decent, hard-
working and has a lot of integrity. What is your problem?’
‘Son,’ Shipra masi said, her voice soft for reconciliat ion, ‘t hat  is all fine. But
how can we marry Madrasis? Tomorrow your cousins will want to marry a
Gujarati.’
‘Or Assamese?’ my mother added.
‘My god!’ Shipra masi said.
‘So what? Aren’t they all Indians? Can’t they be good human beings?’ I said.
 

Shipra masi turned to my mother. ‘Your son is gone. I am sorry, but this boy
belongs to Jayalalit ha now.’
The bell rang twice. Panic spread in the house as my father had arrived earlier
than usual. I never welcome my father home. However, I was happy as it meant
Shipra masi would leave now.
‘Hello Jija-ji,’ Shipra masi said as my father entered the house.
My father didn’t answer. He picked up the newspaper thrown on the floor and
folded it.
‘I said hello Jija-ji,’ Shipra masi said and smiled. She didn’t give up easily.
‘I like your goodbye more than hello,’ my father replied. No one can beat him in
the asshole stakes.
‘My sister has invited me,’ Shipra masi said.
‘Useless people invite useless people,’ my father said.
Shipra masi turned to my mother. ‘I don’t come here to get insulted. Only you
can bear him. The worst  decision of your life,’ Shipra masi mumbled as she
packed her handbag to leave.
‘I would appreciate it  if you don’t interfere in our family matters,’ my father said
and gave her a brown bag. It was mit hai Shipra masi had brought for us. They
exchanged glares.
‘Take it or I will throw it  in the dustbin,’ my father said.
I stood up to argue. My mother signalled me to back off. Shipra masi reached
the main door. I came with her to shut it. I touched her feet , more out of ritual than
respect.
‘Son, now don’t make foolish decisions like your mother. Marry a good Punjabi
girl before they find out about your father. Dolly is good.’
My father’s ears are as sharp as his tongue. ‘What is going on? Who is Dolly?’
my father shouted.
Shipra masi shut the door and left. Nobody answered.
‘Are you seeing girls?’ my father demanded of my mother.
My mother kept quiet .
 

‘Did you see a girl?’
‘Yes,’ I said. I was kind of glad I did, just to piss him off.
‘I will….’ He screamed at my mother, lifting his hand.
‘Don’t even fucking think about it!’ I came close to him.
‘In this house, I make the decisions,’ my father said. He picked up a crystal
glass and smashed it on the floor. The violence intended at my mother had to
come out somehow.
‘You sure seem mature enough to take them,’ I said and moved towards
kitchen.
‘Don’t walk barefoot,’ my mother called out. She bent to pick up the splintered
shards. Anger seethed wit hin me. Not only at my father but also my mother; how
could she let him get  away with this and start cleaning up calmly?
‘I don’t know why I come to this house,’ my father said.
‘I was thinking the same thing,’ I said.
‘Bastard, mind it!’ he shouted at me like he did at his army jawans ten years
ago.
‘Krish, go to the other room,’ my mother said.
‘He can’t be my son. Nobody talks to their fat her like this.’
‘And no father behaves like this,’ I said.
My mother pushed me towards the bedroom. My father looked around for new
things to shout at or break. He couldn’t find much. He turned around and walked
out. The loud sound of  the door banging shut sent a sigh of relief through the
whole house.
My mother came to my room after cleaning up the glass in the living area. She
came and sat next t o me on the bed. I didn’t look at  her. She held my chin and
turned my face towards her.
 

‘You let him do this, so he does it. Why did you have to start cleaning up?’ I
sulked.
‘Because he’ll break the other glasses, too. And then we will have no more
glasses left for guests,’ my mother said. ‘Don’t worry. I can manage him.’
I looked at my mother, a t ear rolled down her eye. I flt my eyes turn wet, t oo.
‘You have t o leave him,’ I said after we composed ourselves.
‘It’s not that simple,’ she said.
‘I will earn now,’ I said.
‘I am fine. Ninety percent of  the time he is not  even here. He goes to his army
mess, he visits his partners with whom he tries his harebrained business
schemes.’
‘What? Like that security agency?’ I scoffed.
‘Yes, but he picks up fights with customers at the first meeting. Doesn’t
exactly make them feel safe,’ my mother said.
I laughed.
‘I can handle him. It is you who gets angry and fights with him,’ my mother
said.
‘He starts it. What was the need to insult Shipra masi?’
‘He won’t change. Shipra is used to him. I worry how you will stay with him
when you work in Delhi. Maybe you should take the company accommodation.’
‘Or maybe I should not be in Delhi.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘I can’t stand him.’
‘Where are you planning to go?’
‘I don’t know, mom. I can only give a preference to Citibank. It’s no guarantee.
Plus, you get  posted out after two years.’
‘You chose Delhi, no?’
 

I didn’t answer. Somehow the thought of being in Delhi and seeing ditzy
Punjabi girls by day and dad at night didn’t seem terribly exciting.
‘You come with me wherever I go,’ I said.
‘Where? I can’t leave Delhi. All my relatives are here. You will be in office all
day. What will I do in a new city?’
;I want to go to Chennai,’ I said.
‘Oh God!’ my mother’s mellow mood shifted gears to overdrive. She got up
from the bed. ‘I find this harder to deal with than your father. Are you mad?’
‘No, I like Ananya. I want to give our relationship a shot.’
‘You’ll become a Madrasi?’
‘I am not becoming. I’m only going there to live. And Citibank transfers you in
two years.’
‘I should meet an ast rologer. I don’t know what phase you are going through.’
‘There is no phase. I love someone.’
‘Love is not hing, son,’ my mother patted my cheek and lef t the room.
I didn’t submit the Citibank form until the last date. I kept taking my pen to the
‘location preference’ question. It had asked for three choices in order. I couldn’t
fill it.
‘You’ve sent your form?’ Ananya asked on the phone.
‘I will. Almost ready,’ I said
‘Are you crazy? It is t he last day. You put Chennai, right?’
‘Yeah,’ I said and hung up.
I gave one final glance at the form. I looked at God above and asked him to
decide my love-life. I filled up the form:
 

Location Preference:
1.  Chennai or Delhi (equal preference)
2.  –
3.  –
I sealed the f orm and dropped it off at the bank branch. In my bed I opened
Ananya’s letter from last week. I read it every night before going to bed.
Hello my Punjabi hunk,
Miss me? I do. I miss our cuddles, I miss our walks in campus, I miss studying together
and then going for midnight chai, I miss running to my dorm every morning to brush my
teeth, I  miss eating pao-bhaji on the char rasta with you, I miss playing footsie in the
library, I miss the glances we stole in the class, I miss my bad grades and the tears
afterwards that you wiped, I miss how you used to watch me put eye-liner, I miss…..oh,
you get the drift, I miss you like hell.
Meanwhile, I am fine in Chennai. My mother is at her neurotic best, my father is quiet
as usual and my brother always has a book that says Physics, Chemistry or Maths on the
cover. In other words, things are normal. I mentioned you again to my mother. She
called a priest home who gave me a pendant to make me forger you. Wow, I never
thought they’d react to you like this. Well, it is going to take more than a pendant to
forget you, but for good measure I tossed it into the Bay of Bengal on Marina Beach. I
haven’t mentioned you since, because I know you will come to Chennai and charm them
yourself – just as you charmed me.
Bye, my Love,
Ananya.
PS: Oh did I mention, I miss the sex too.
I read the let ter ten times. I read the last sentence a hundred times. I wanted to
be with her right that moment. I realised I could have written ‘Chennai’ in the f orm
but I had played roulette with my love-life due to some vague sense of
responsibility and guilt towards home. I wondered if Citi would need more people
in Delhi as this is where all the money is. After all, a Punjabi is far more likely to
 

want foreign bank accounts than a Tamilian. And I am a Punjabi, so they would
give me Delhi. Something yelped inside me. I read the let ter again and again until
I fell asleep.
One week later, I received a call at home. Mot her picked it up and said it was from
a guy who sounded like a girl.
‘Hello?’ I said.
‘Hi Krish, it’s Devesh from Citi HR.’
‘Oh, hi Devesh. How are you?’
‘Good, I just wanted to give you your joining date and location.’
My heart started to beat f ast. ‘Yes,’ I said, excited and nervous.
‘So you start on June 1.’
‘OK.’
‘And we are placing you in Chennai.’
Imaginary fireworks exploded all over the Delhi sky. I felt real love f or Devesh,
the HR department and Citibank for the first time in my life.
 

Act 3:
Chennai
 

15
My flight landed in Chennai at 7 p.m. we had a six-hour delay in Delhi because a
psycho called the airport and said the plane had a bomb. My bag took another
hour to arrive on the conveyor belt. As I waited, I looked at  the people around me.
The first  thing I noticed, excuse my shallowness was that almost ninety percent
of  the people were dark complexioned. Of these ninet y percent, eighty percent
had dabbed talcum that gave them a grey skin tone. I understood why Fair &
Lovely was invented. I couldn’t understand why people wanted to be fair so bad.
Most women at the conveyor belt looked like Ananya’s mother; I couldn’t tell
one from the other. They all wore tones of gold, but somehow it looked more
understated than Pammi aunt y’s necklaces that had precious stones and pearls
hanging from them like shapeless dry fruits.
I came out of the airport. I had to find an auto to go to my chummery. I fumbled
through my pockets to find the slip of paper with my new address. I couldn’t find
them in my jeans and almost panicked. I didn’t know any place in Chennai except
T. Nagar. And I knew t. Nagar as I took Brilliant Tutorials once upon a t ime.
Somehow, I didn’t think they’d shelter one of  their lakh of students from eight
years ago.
I opened my wallet  and found my address. I heaved a sigh of relief. I came to
the auto stand. Four drivers argued with each other over the next passenger.
‘Enga?’ one driver pushed back three drivers and asked me. ‘Enga hotel?’
‘No hotel,’ I said and took out my wallet. I opened it and the drivers saw the ten
hundred-rupee notes my mother had given me before leaving Delhi. He smacked
his lips. I pulled out t he slip wit h the address.
‘English illa,’ he said.
I looked around. No one proficient in English seemed visible. I read the
address.
‘Nung-ba-ka-ma-ma?’ I said.
‘Nungambakkam?’ the driver laughed as if it was the easiest word to say in the
world.
 

‘Yeah,’ I said and remembered a landmark Devesh had told me. ‘Near Loyola
College. You know Loyola College.’
‘Seri, seri,’ the driver said. My stay wit h Ananya had told me that ‘Seri’ meant
an amiable Tamilian.
I loaded the luggage. ‘Meter?’
He laughed again as if I had made a bawdy joke.
‘What?’ I tapped the meter.
‘Meter illa,’ the driver said loudly, his personalit y taking on a more aggressive
form as he left the airport.
‘How much?’ I asked.
‘Edhuvum,’ he said.
‘I don’t understand. Stop, how much?’
He didn’t stop or answer. I tapped his shoulder. He looked back. I played dumb
charade with him, acting out ‘How much money, dude?’
He continued to drive. After ten seconds he raised his right palm and stretched
out his five fingers wide.
‘Five what?’
He flashed his f ingers again.
‘Fifty?’
He nodded.
‘OK,’ I said. He understood this word.
‘Vokay,’ he said and extended his hand for a handshake. I shook his hand. He
laughed and zoomed off into the Chennai sunset.
I saw t he city. It had the usual Indian elements like autos, packed public buses,
hassled traffic cops and tiny shops that sold groceries, fruits, utensils, clothes or
novelty it ems. However, it did feel different. First, the sign in every shop was in
Tamil. The Tamil font resembles those optical illusion puzzles that give you a
headache if you stare at them long enough. Tamil women, all of  them, wear
flowers in their hair. Tamil men don’t believe in pants and wear lungis even in
shopping districts. The city is filled with film post ers. The heroes’ pictures make
 

you feel even your uncles can be movie stars. The heroes are f at, balding, have
thick moustaches and the heroine next to them is a ravishing beauty. Maybe my
mother had a point in saying that Tamil women have a thing for North Indian men.
‘Hey, that’s IIT?’ the auto driver said a word which would have led to trouble if
he had spoken it in Delhi.
I looked at the campus wall that lasted for over a kilometre. The driver recited
the names of neighbourhoods as we passed them – Adyat, Saidapet, Mambalam
and other unpronounceable names so long they wouldn’t fit  on an entire row of
Scrabble. I felt bad for residents of these areas as they’d waste so much of their
time filling the address columns in forms.
We passed a giant, fifty-feet-t all post er as we entered Nungambakkam. The
driver stopped the auto. He craned his neck out of t he auto and folded his hands.
‘What?’ I gestured.
‘Thalaivar,’ he said, pointing to the poster.
I looked out. The poster was for a movie called
Padayappa
. I saw the actors and
recognised only one. ‘Rajnikant?’
The auto driver broke into a huge grin. I had recognised at least on landmark
in the city.
He drove into the leafy lanes of Nungambakkam till we reached Loyola
College. I asked a few local residents for Chinappa Towers and they pointed us to
the right building.
I stepped out of the auto and gave the driver a hundred-rupee not e. I wondered
if I should give him a ten-rupee tip for his friendliness.
‘Anju,’ the driver said and opened his palm again.
I remained puzzled and realised it when he gest ured three times.
‘You want five hundred? Are you mad?’
‘Illa mad,’ the driver said, blocking the auto to prevent me from taking out the
luggage.
I looked at the desolate street. It was only nine but felt like t wo in the morning
in the quiet lane. Two autos passed us by. My driver stopped them. One of the
autos had two drivers, bot h sitting in front. The four of them spoke to each other
in Tamil, their voices turning louder.
 

“Five hundred,’ one driver who spoke a bit of English turned to me.
“No five hundred. Fifty,’ I said.
‘Ai,’ another driver screamed. The four of them surrounded me like baddies
form a low-budget Kollywood film.
“What? Just give me my luggage and let me go,’ I said.
‘Illa luggage. Payment…make…you,’ the Shakespeare among them spoke to
me.
They started moving around me slowly. I wondered why on earth didn’t I
choose to work in an air-conditioned office in Delhi when I had the chance.
‘Let’s go to the police station,’ I said, mustering up my Punjabi blood to be
defiant.
‘Illa police,’ screamed my driver, who had shaken hands with me just twenty
minutes ago.
‘This Chennai…here police is my police…this no North India…illa police,
ennoda poola combuda,’ the English-speaking driver said.
Their white t eeth glistened in the night. Any impressions of Tamil men being
timid (influenced by Ananya’s father) evaporated as I felt a driver tap my back.
‘Fuck,’ I said as I noticed one of the drivers take out something from his
pocket. Luckily, it wasn’t a knife but a pack of matches and cigarett es. He lit one
in style, influenced by too many Tamil movies. I looked down the st reet, for
anybody, anyone who would get me out of this mess.
One man came out of the next building. I saw him and couldn’t believe it. He
had a turban – a Sardar-ji in Chennai was akin to spotting a polar bear in Delhi. He
had come out to place a cover on his car. Tingles of  relief ran down my spine.
Krishna had come to save Draupadi.
‘Uncle!’ I shouted as loudly as I could.
Uncle looked at me. He saw me surrounded by the autos and understood the
situation. He came t owards us.
The drivers turned, ready to take him on as well.
‘Enna?’ the uncle said.
 

The drivers gave t heir version of t he story to him. Uncle spoke to them in
fluent Tamil. It is fascinating to see a Sardar-ji speak in Tamil. Like Sun TV’s
merger with Alpha TV.
‘Where are you coming from?’ he said.
‘Airport.’
‘Airport cannot be five hundred rupees. Hundred maximum,’ he said.
The four drivers started speaking simultaneously with lots of ‘illas’. However,
they had softened a little due to uncle’s Tamil. After five minutes, we settled for a
hundred bucks and disgusted glances from the drivers. My driver took out my
luggage and dumped it on the street as he sped off.
‘Thanks, uncle,’ I said. ‘You’ve lived in Chennai long?’
‘Too long. Please don’t stay as long as me,’ Uncle said as he helped me with
my luggage to the lift. ‘Punjabi?’
I nodded.
‘Come home if you need a drink or chicken. Be careful, your building is
vegetarian. No alcohol also.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, people here are like that. For them, anything fun comes wit h guilt ,’ he
said as the lift doors shut.
I rang the chummery doorbell. It was ten o’clock. A sleepy guy opened the
door. The apartment was completely dark.


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