Chetan Bhagat - 2 States The Story of My Marriage Full Novel(5)

33
‘Bike?’ Ananya beamed when I went to pick her up on a black Yamaha RX 100.
‘Bala’s,’ I said.
Ananya sat pillion in a maroon salwar kameez, using her white dupatta to
cover her head and f ace. She looked like a member of Veerappan’s gang.
Pondicherry is a hundred and forty kilometres away from Chennai, down the
East Coast Road, or ECR, running along the Bay of Bengal. Fisherman’s Cove
falls on the way, twenty kilomet res outside Chennai city.
We left Ananya’s off ice at Anna Salai. She sat behind me and held the sidebars
tight. By the time we left the city at  Lattice Bridge Road, she switched from
gripping the sidebars to my shoulders. We took the Old Mahabalipuram Road,
which led us to ECR.
‘This is beautiful,’ I said as the sea became visible.
‘I told you.’ Ananya planted a kiss on the back of my neck.

We halt ed at Fisherman’s Cove where I met the cat ering manager briefly.
Everything seemed under control for the Citibank event. We left the resort and
came on the ECR again. An hour of driving lat er, we passed Mahabalipuram. It
had st unning rock-cut temples next to the sea.
‘Wow, these are amazing temples,’ I said as the wind swept back my hair.
The ECR ended an hour after Mahabalipuram. The roads became narrower. We
passed several little towns with long names and sprawling paddy fields. At a few
places, I had to stop to make way for bullock carts, village school kids and
goatherds. We reached Pondicherry around noon, and my first reaction was
disappointment.
‘This is it?’ I asked as I reached t he main chowk in the town. It was like any
ot her small town in India, dusty and noisy with Cola ad signs painted on uneven
walls.
‘The nice part is inside, the French quarter and the Aurobindo Ashram,’
Ananya said as I negotiated a sharp bend in the road along with fifty other two-
wheelers and f our trucks.
 

The only French I saw was an underwear billboard with the brand Frenchie.
‘Drop me here,’ Ananya said as we passed Cuddalore road, where HLL has one
of  its factories.
I had three hours to kill in this Malgudi town as Ananya had an extended lunch
meeting. We had agreed to meet at the L’Orient hot el at four for coffee.
I drove out of the factory compound and followed the signs to the Aurobindo
Ashram on Rue de la Marine. The Ashram building resembled a quiet hostel by
the sea. I came to the reception. More foreigners than Indian thronged the ashram
lobby.
A forty-year old West ern woman in a sari and beaded necklace sat at the
counter. ‘What are you looking for?’ she asked me.
Maybe, because I was in an ashram, or because the way she said it, I
suspected deeper meaning in her question. I looked at her. She had blue eyes
with wrinkles around them. ‘I’ve come for the first time,’ I confessed.
She gave me Ashram brochure. Another person came and bought meal tickets.
‘Can I get lunch here?’ I asked.
‘Yes, at the Ashram Dining Hall,’ she said and showed me the coupon booklet.
I bought one for myself.
‘Come, I’m going there,’ she said, walking out with me from the reception. We
walked along a lane adjacent to the ashram. The dining hall was half a kilometre
away. She told me her name was Diana and that she came from Finland. A former
lawyer, she now found more satisfact ion as a volunteer at the ashram than
helping Nokia secure patents.
‘Are you a seeker or here as a tourist ?’ She handed me my coupon.
‘Seeker?’
‘Yes, if you wish to seek your path. Or if you seek answers t o a specific
problem.’
‘Frankly, I came with a friend who had some work here. I wanted a day away
from of fice.’
Diana laughed. We reached the dining hall and picked our stainless steel
plat es. We entered the eating area where everyone sat on the floor. Lunch was
simple – organic brown rice, yellow daal and a carrot and peas subzi.
 

‘OK, so I seek an answer. How do I get it?’
‘Well the answers are within us. People stay in the ashram for a few weeks to
introspect, they attend satsang and ask questions of one of  the gurus. How much
time do you have?’
‘I need to meet my girlfriend for coffee in two hours. Then head back to
Chennai.’
Diana smiled and shook her head. ‘That’s a pretty stiff deadline to sort out
life’s unresolved answers.’
‘Maybe I shouldn’t even try then,’ I said.
‘Wait, see the gentleman there,’ she said and pointed to a seventy-year-old
man in white robes who sat two rows ahead of us. ‘He is a guru. Maybe I can
introduce to him.’
‘No, no, please don’t,’ I said.
‘Why not? If he is busy, he will say no.’
‘Pranam Guruji,’ Diana said and touched his f eet. I followed suit and he
blessed us. ‘Guruji, this is my friend. His name is,’ Diana said and paused.
‘Krish.’
‘Yes, he has only two hours. But he wanted to seek answers to some
problems,’ Diana said.
‘What do you have to do in two hours?’ Guruji asked, his voice calm.
‘He has to meet his girlfriend,’ Diana said, excitedly st ressing on the last word.
‘And surely, the girlfriend is more important than the problem,’ Guruji smiled.
‘Actually, she is the problem,’ I said.
Diana threw me a puzzled look.
‘Not her. But her family,’ I said. ‘It’s OK. I know it  is very little time.’
‘Send him to my house in fifteen minutes,’ Guruji said and left.
 

34
I hovered at the open door of  Guruji’s house before walking in.
‘Come in, Krish,’ Guruji said. He sat on a day-bed in his living room. I had
thought I’d be roaming around French cafés in Pondicherry. I had no idea I’d end
up in a guru’s house. The tiny house had sparse wooden furniture.
‘You may find it strange to be here. But I’d like to think we were destined to
meet,’ Guruji said.
‘Do you read minds?’ I wanted to know.
‘I read people. Your nervousness is obvious. Sit,’ he said and stroked his white
beard.
I sat cross-legged on the floor, facing him.
‘What is bothering you?’
‘My girlfriend is Tamilian, I am Punjabi. Our families are against our marriage. I
am doing whatever I can, but it is stressful.’
‘Hmmm,’ Guruji said. ‘Close your eyes and speak whatever comes to mind.’
‘I love her,’ I said, ‘and we make each other happy. But if our happiness makes
so many people unhappy, is it  the right thing to do?’
I rambled for some more time; Guruji didn’t make any sound. Since my eyes
were closed, I had no idea if  he was even around anymore. ‘She is my future,’ I
concluded.
‘Is that all?’
‘You are t here?’ I countered.
‘Are you sure this is the only problem that  is bothering you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There is a lot of … pain in you, unresolved issues. Before you build a future,
you must fix the past.’
‘What are you talking about?’ I opened my eyes. Guruji’s eyes were shut.
 

‘Close your eyes,’ Guruji said.
‘I have,’ I said and shut t hem again.
‘What keeps you awake at night?’
I kept quiet.
‘Do you take a long time to go to sleep?’ he probed.
‘Yes,’ I said.
“What kept you awake lately?’
‘Various t hings. There is work, which I am not exactly exited about. There’s
uncertainty about Ananya. There’s my father.’
‘What about your father?’
‘It’s complicated,’ I said.
‘And a heavy load, isn’t it?’
I sighed deeply.
‘Let it go,’ Guruji said.
‘I can’t. I don’t want to. I haven’t even talked about it.’
‘I’m listening,’ Guruji said. He bent forward and placed his palm on my head. I
felt a new lightness. I felt transported to another world. It was as if my soul had
disowned my body.
‘Guruji, don’t make me do it,’ I begged, not wishing to revisit the pain that
awaited me.
‘Go on, I’m listening.’ Guruji said.
 

35
Three years ago
My father came home at midnight. I had waited for hours. I didn’t have time, I had to
talk to him tonight. He refused dinner with a wave of his hand and sat on the living room
sofa to take off his shoes.
‘Dad?’ I said, my voice low, I wore shorts and a white T-shirt. The T-shirt had a tiny
hole at the shoulder.
‘What?’ he turned to me. “Is this what you wear at home?’
‘These are my nightclothes,’ I said.
‘You don’t have proper nightclothes?’
I changed the topic. ‘Dad, I want to talk about something.’
‘What?’
‘I like a girl.’
‘Obviously, you have time to waste,’ he said.
‘It’s not like that. She is a nice girl. An IIT professor’s daughter.’
‘Oh, so now we know what you did at IIT.’
‘I’ve graduated. I have a job. I’m preparing f or MBA. What’s the problem?’
‘I don’t have a problem. You wanted to talk,’ he said, not looking at me.
‘The girl’s father is taking her abroad. They’ll get her engaged to someone else.’
‘Oh, so her father doesn’t approve of it.’
‘No.’
‘Why?’
I looked at the floor.  ‘We had some issues with him, me and my friends.’
‘What issues? Disciplinary issues?’
 

‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Shocking. The son of an army officer has disciplinary issues. All the reputation I have
built, you’ll destroy it.’
‘Those issues are history now.’
‘Then why does he have a problem? Does your mother know about this?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Why hasn’t she told me? Kavita!’ my father screamed.
My mother came to the room, woken from a deep sleep. ‘What happened?’
‘Why was I not informed about this girl earlier?’ my father screamed.
‘He told me only a few weeks ago,’ my mother said.
‘And you hid it from me, bitch,’ my father said.
‘Don’t talk to mom like that,’ I said in reflex. I would have said more, but I need him
today.
My mother broke into tears. This wasn’t going well at all.
‘Dad, please. I want your cooperation. If you meet her father, he may reconsider.’
‘Why should I meet anyone?’ he said.
‘Because  I love her. And I don’t want her to go away.’
‘You are distracted, not in love.’
‘Leave it, Krish, he won’t listen. See how he talks to me. You don’t know how I lived
when you were in hostel.’
My father lunged menacingly towards my mother. He raised a hand to hit her. I
pulled my mother behind me. ‘Don’t,’ I said.
‘Who do you think you are?’ he slapped me hard on my right cheek. I sat down on the
dining room chair.
‘Leave us and go. Why do you even come back?’ My mother folded her hands at him.
‘Don’t beg, mom,’ I said, fighting a lump in my throat. My father had made fun of me
earlier for crying. To him, only weak men cried.
 

“Look at his voice, like a girl’s,’ my father mocked. He gave me a disgusted glance
and went to the bathroom to change.
‘Go to sleep, son,’ my mother said.
‘He is sending her away next week,’ I said.
‘What girl have you involved yourself with? You are so young,’ my mother said.
‘I am not marrying her tomorrow.’
‘Is she Punjabi?’ my mother asked.
‘No,’ I said.
‘What?’ she said, shocked as if I’d suggested she wasn’t human.
‘Will you meet her father, once?’
My father came out of the bathroom. He had heard my last sentence, ‘Don’t you dare
go anywhere, Kavita,’ my father said, his eyes wild.
I stared back at him.
‘Go to your room,’ my father said.
I came back to my bed. I heard noises in my parent’s room. I couldn’t sleep. I woke up
and came towards their room. I’d heard enough arguments of my parents throughout my
life to care, but I placed my ear at the door, anyway.
“He is growing up,’ my mother said.
‘With all the wrong values. What does he know about this girl? He is my son, he is
from IIT, see what deal I get for him at the right time.’
There it was, for all my father’s principles, I was his trophy to be sold in the market
to the highest bidder.
‘You are responsible for bringing him up like this,’ my father screamed at my mother.
I heard the sound of a glass being smashed against the wall.
‘What have I done? I didn’t even know about this girl….’
Slap … slap … my father interrupted my mother. I banged the door open as I heard a
few more slaps. I saw my mother’s hand covering her face. A piece of  glass had cut her
forearm.
My father turned to me. “Don’t you have any manners? Can’t you knock?’
 

‘You don’t teach me manners,’ I said.
‘Go away,’ he said.
I shook my head. I saw the tears on my mother’s face. My face burned with rage. She
had lived with this for twenty-five years. I did know why – to bring me up; I didn’t know
how she did it.
My father lifted his hand to hit me. Automatically, I grabbed his wrist tight.
‘Oh, now you are going to raise your hand against your own father,’ he said.
I twisted his arm.
‘Leave him, he won’t change,’ my mother panted.
I shook my head at her, my eyes staring right into his. I slapped his face once, twice,
then I rolled my hand into a fist and punched his face.
My father went into a state of shock, he couldn’t fight back. He didn’t expect this; all
my childhood I’d merely suffered his dominance. Today, it wasn’t just about the broken
glass. It wasn’t only that the girl I loved would be gone. It was a reaction to two decades
of abuse. Or that’s how I defended it to myself. For how else do you justif y hitting your
own father? At that moment I couldn’t stop. I punched his head until he collapsed on the
floor. I couldn’t remember the last time I reveled in violence like this. I was a studious
child who stayed with his books all his life. Today, I was lucky there wasn’t a gun at
home.
This insanity passed after five minutes. My father didn’t make eye contact with me.
He sat on the floor, and massaged the arm I had twisted. He stared at my mother, with a
‘see, I told you’ expression.
My mother sat on the bed, fighting back her emotions. We looked at each other. We
were a family, but pretty screwed up as they come. I  took a broom and swept the broken
glass into a newspaper sheet. I looked at my father and vowed never to speak to him
again. I picked up the newspaper with the glass pieces and left the room.
 

36
‘That’s it, Guruji,’ I said, tears now dry on my face. ‘I’ve never shared so much
with anyone.’
The sound of t he sea could be heard, the waves asymmetrical to my
tumultuous thoughts.
‘Open your eyes,’ Guruji said.
I lifted my eyelids slowly.
‘Come, we will go to the balcony behind,’ Guruji said.
I followed him to a terrace in the rear of the house. The sea breeze felt cool
even in the hot sun. I sat on one of the two stools kept outside. He went inside
and came back with two glasses and a book.
‘It’s coconut water. And this is the Git a. You’ve heard about the Gita?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘sort of .’ I took a sip of the coconut water.
‘What have you heard?’
‘Like it is t he ultimate book. It has all of life’s wisdom. You have to work and
not worry about the reward. Right?’
‘Have you read it?’
‘Parts of it. It’s nice, but a little….’
‘Boring?’
‘Actually, no, not boring. Hard to follow and apply everything.’
‘I’ll give you just one word to apply in your life.’
‘What?’
‘Forgiveness.’
‘Meaning? You want me to forgive my father? I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
 

‘Because what he did was so wrong. He has ruined my mother’s life. He has
never loved me.’
‘I am not saying he did the right thing. I am asking you to forgive him.’
‘Why?’
‘For you. Forgiving doesn’t make the person who hurt you feel better, it makes
you
feel better.’
I pondered over his words.
‘Close your eyes again,’ Guruji said. ‘Imagine you have bags on your head.
They are bags of anger, pain and loss. How do they feel?’
‘Heavy,’ I sighed.
‘Remove them from your head one by one,’ Guruji said. ‘Imagine you are
wearing a thick cloak that is wearing you down. Pardon the hurt others have
caused you. What they did is past. What is bothering you today are your current
feelings that come from this load. Let it go.’
Strange as Guruji’s metaphors were, I felt compelled t o obey the imagery in my
mind. My head felt lighter.
‘And surrender to God,’ he went on. ‘You don’t control anything or anyone.’
‘I don’t understand,’ I said.
‘Do you control your life? Your life depends on so many internal organs
functioning right. You have no control on them. If your lungs don’t cooperate, if
your kidneys fail, if your heart stops, it is all over. You’ll drop dead now. God has
chosen to give you the gift of life, surrender to him.’
He kept me in meditation for the next few minutes.
‘And now, you are free t o go,’ Guruji smiled.
I opened my eyes. The sharp afternoon sun shone on Guruji’s face. He went
inside and brought a small cup with grey ask. He dipped his index finger in the
ash and marked my forehead.
‘Thank you’ I said as he blessed me with his hand on my head.
‘You are welcome,’ he said. ‘Anything else I can help you with?’
‘Yes, which way is Hotel L’Orient?’
 

‘Oh that,’ Guruji laughed, ‘It is on Rue Romain Rolland. One kilomet re from
here.’
I reached L’Orient at four. Ananya was waiting at the entrance. The hotel is a
renovated heritage building and was originally the Education Department Office
when the French had colonised Pondicherry. Now a ten-room boutique property,
it had a small restaurant in the indoor open patio. We ordered coffee and a slice
of  ginger cake with custard sauce.
‘Isn’t this place lovely?’ Ananya breathed in deeply.
I nodded, still deep in though.
‘So, tell me, what did you do? And what’s with the tilak on your forehead?’
‘I hit my father.’
‘What?’
‘A long time ago. Remember, how I would always avoid talking about  my
father in campus?’
‘Yes, and I never pushed after that,’ she said. ‘But what are you saying?’
I repeat ed the story of t hat  night.
She looked at me, awestruck
‘Oh dear, I didn’t know your parents were like this.’
‘I nvever told you. It’s fine.’
‘Are you OK?’ she said and moved her hand forward to hold me.
‘Yes, I am fine. And I met a Guruji, who gave me good advice.’
‘What? Who Guruji, what advice?’ Ananya said.
‘I don’t know the Guruji. It doesn’t matter. Sometimes in your life you just meet
someone or hear something that nudges you on the right pat h. And that becomes
the best advice. It could just be a bit of common sense said in a way that
resonates with something in you. It’s nothing new, but because it connects with
you it holds meaning for you.’
 

I explained with such intensity, Ananya became concerned.
‘Are you OK, baby? I shouldn’t have left you.’
‘I’m fine. I’m glad I had t ime. I feel better.’
‘I love you,’ she said, brushing floppy hair off my face.
‘I love you, too,’ I said and clasped her hand tight.
Our order arrived, she cut the cake in two pieces and passed my half to me. I
wanted to change the topic. She read my mind.
‘So, tell me about this Citibank event. There is a concert?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘only for clients though.’
‘Do I get to come?’
‘Of course, I’ll get  passes for your family.’
‘Who is performing?’
‘S.P. Balasubramanium, Hariharan and….’ I paused.
‘Wow, those are big names. Who else?’
‘Some new singer.’
‘Cool, I’m sure mom and dad will love to come.’
I nodded. I spoke after a few more sips of cof fee. ‘I’ve tried enough, Ananya. I
want to go back.’
I told her about my conversation with my mother about transferring back to
Delhi.
‘What do you mean?’ she said, wiping my milk moustache.
‘I can’t work in Chennai forever. I’ll give it a few more weeks, and t hen I’ll tell
your parents to take a call on me.’
‘Weeks? What if they say no?’
‘Then we’ll see. I’ve surrendered everything to God anyway.’
‘What?’
 

‘Nothing, let’s go. I want to hit the road while there’s still light.’ I picked up my
helmet.
 

37
‘Aunt y, sorry to bother you, but the concert is next week,’ I said over the phone.
I had called Ananya’s mother from my office in the afternoon. I had the design
of  the newspaper ad in my hand.
Citibank Priority Banking is pleased to invite its clients
To an enchanting musical evening at Fisherman’s Cove
Featuring maestros:
S.P. Balasubramanium
Hariharan
And new talent, Radha
The concert will be followed by dinner.
By invitation only.
(For passes, contact your customer rep or any of the branches.)
Note: New account holders who open an account before the concert will also
get invites.
I hated the last line as it was too blatant. However, Bala insisted on it.
‘Hello, aunty? You there?’ I said.
‘What have you trapped me in?’ Ananya’s mot her wailed.
‘You are practicing, right?’
‘Yes, but….’
‘But what? Have you done any
Kaho Na Pyaar Hai
songs? Those are hot,’ I said.
 

‘Yes, I have. Film songs are easy. It is … my confidence.’
‘You’ll be fine. I am sending the ad to the newspaper today. Your name is in it,
without  surname as you insisted. It will come on Sunday, the day of the concert.’
‘Don’t, don’t put my name. What if I decide not to come?’ she asked with a
touch of  panic.
‘It’s fine. There are plenty of Radhas in Chennai. Nobody will know which one
did not show up,’ I said.
‘I’ll let you down,’ she said.
‘You won’t.’ I said.
‘Until when can you remove my name from the ad?’
‘Saturday. Don’t think like t hat , please,’ I said.
‘OK, still wanted to check,’ she said.
‘Fine, and practice the
Ek Pal Ka Jeena
song. It is number one on the charts,’ I
said.
‘I said take my name out,’ Ananya’s mother called me on Sunday  morning at 6
a.m.
‘You saw the ad already?’ I rubbed my eyes. I picked up
The Hindu
from under
the chummery entrance door. I opened Metroplus, the Sunday supplement.
‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘What is this?’
She had called when uncle had gone f or a bath. Ananya hadn’t woken up and
Manju huddled in his room with his best friends – Physics, Chemistry and Maths.
‘I couldn’t do it,’ I said, and made up a story. ‘The newspaper told me
Metroplus goes to press two days before. Only the main paper can be changed
until the night before.’
‘So, what are we going to do now?’
She had called me the previous morning to get her name removed. However, I
never called the newspaper to change the ad wordings.
‘Nothing, we’ll just say Radha fell ill,’ I said.
She kept silent. ‘Won’t it make you look bad?’ she enquired after a pause.
 

‘Yeah, won’t be t he first time though. I’ll manage. Anyway, all of you will come
for the concert, right?’ I said.
‘OK listen, if I do have t o perform, where and when do I have to report?’
My heart started to beat f ast. She was going to do it. ‘Aunty, everything is well
organised. We have a room next to the concert garden that will act as the
greenroom. Come there three hours early, by four. OK?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Thanks, aunty,’ I said.
‘I should thank you. I haven’t told anyone at home yet.’
‘Good, make an excuse and leave the house. See you.’
 

38
‘Which one should I wear?’ Ananya’s mother asked, sitting on the king-size bed
of  the cottage we had converted into a greenroom. The make-up artists, sound
engineers and the staff of Hariharan and S.P. had already arrived. The main
singers would come only at the last minute. However, Radha had come early and
laid out three Kanjeevaram silk saris f or me to choose from.
‘They are all beautiful,’ I said.
The f irst was purple and gold, the second yellow and gold and the third orange
and gold.
‘Touch-up, madam?’ the make-up man came towards Ananya’s mother.
‘I should leave the room,’ I said. Even though we had half a dozen people
around, I felt awkward watching my potential mother-in-law applying mascara.
‘I’m so tense, I can’t choose,’ she said, wiping sweat off her forehead.
The make-up man applied foundation on Ananya’s mother’s cheeks. I tried not
to look.
‘Take the orange, nice and bright.’
‘That ’s my wedding sari. I’ve hardly worn it since that day.’
‘Tonight’s quite special, too.’
The make-up man sprayed water on her forehead and wiped it.
‘I’ll be outside. I’ll see you on stage.’
She closed her eyes and folded her hands to pray.
I came outside and checked t he food arrangements. I called Ananya at six to
make sure they lef t on time.
‘You are going to kill me,’ Ananya said.
‘Why?’ I said.
‘Mom is not  coming.’
‘Why?’ I said, careful to sound upset .
 

‘She said my grandmother fell ill in Thirukudayur. She left  after lunch.’
‘Where is Thirukudayur?’
‘Six hours form Chennai. She won’t be able to make it.’
‘What about you guys?’
‘We are almost ready. I wanted to wear my mom’s nice orange Kanjeevaram
sari but I can’t find it. I hope she has not lost it. She wouldn’t take it with her,
hardly the occasion.’
‘Leave soon, Ananya, I can’t promise good seat s otherwise,’ I said.
‘OK, OK, bye,’ she said and hung up.
Bala arrived at 6:30 with Anil Mathur, the country manager. Anil had flown down
from Mumbai. Bala had ensured that a Mercedes brought Anil st raight to the
venue. Bala tailed him like a Tamil villain’s sidekick, showing him the
arrangements and taking credit for the entire event.
‘And this is the bar. And see the Citibank banner behind. I put a big ad in The
Hindu today. Number one newspaper here,’ Bala said.
I greeted Bala. He ignored me and continued to walk.
‘Hey, you are the Internet fiasco guy,’ Anil noticed me.
‘Good evening, sir,’ I said. I had become the poster boy for loserdom in the
bank.
‘Aren’t you the only Punjabi stuck here?’ he laughed. ‘I think t hat’s enough
punishment. No, Bala?’
Bala guffawed, even though the joke was on him, rather his city.
‘Looking to move back?’ the country manager said.
‘I’ll talk to you about it, sir,’ I said.
‘You let me know first,’ Bala finally acknowledged me. ‘I’ll help him, sir.’
The country manager patted my shoulder and walked away.
 

Ananya arrived with her father and brother at 7.15. ‘Are we late?’ she asked
breat hlessly. She wore a peach chiffon sari with a skinny silver border. She had
accessorised with a silver necklace and mat ching earrings.
‘Yes, but the concert hasn’t started yet . Come,’ I said. I led them to one of the
several round tables laid out in the garden. I chose one near the stage.
‘Food is that side, and uncle, the bar is that way,’ I said.
‘I don’t drink,’ uncle said, looking at Ananya.
‘Sure.’ I said.
Clients filled each of the ten seats on all eighteen tables. One or two bank
agents sat at every table, comprising primarily of junior Chennai Citibankers. Bala
and the country manager had a separate table with the biggest clients, those with
assets of five crore or more. I felt sorry for these clients. Frankly, I’d rather not be
rich than face the agony of having dinner with senior bankers.
The lights dimmed at 7.30. Conversations stopped at the round tables as Bala
came on stage. He wore a shiny cream silk shirt under his suit and resembled a
pimp in training.
‘Welcome everyone, what a delightf ul evening! I am Bala, regional manager for
the Priority Banking Group,’ he said and wiped the sweat off his face.
‘Your boss?’ Ananya whispered to me.
I nodded.
‘What’s with the shirt?’
‘Shsh,’ I said. Manju and Ananya’s father listened to Bala with full attention.
‘I want to welcome someone special,’ Bala said.
The crowd cheered as they expected Hariharan or S.P to take the stage.
‘Please welcome Mr Anil Mathur, country manager and MD, Citibank India,’
The crowd let out a collective sigh of disappointment.
Anil came on stage and realised that no one cared about him. He attempted a
joke. ‘Hello everyone, who would have thought some of our biggest clients will
come from the land of dosas and idlis?’
 

The crowd fell so silent, you could hear the waves on the adjacent beach.
Ananya looked at me shocked. I shrugged my shoulders. I had no control over
this.
Anil realised the joke didn’t work and attempted a rescue. ‘You see in Bombay,
idli and dosa are seen as simple snacks,’ Anil said.
‘He’s digging himself  in deeper,’ Ananya said.
‘Yes, luckily he has only five minutes.’
Anil realised his sense of humour only worked with people who worked under
him. He switched to what bankers do best, present boring PowerPoint slides with
growing bar charts.
‘So you see, when we came to Chennai, we started with a tiny footprint and
now we are a giant. From a mini idli we have become a paper dosa,’ Anil said,
gesturing with his hands to show the relative sizes of the two dishes.
‘Please, someone stop him,’ Ananya groaned.
‘We can’t. He is the boss,’ I said.
Anil f inished his speech and the staff applauded hard. The clients waited in
pain as two clueless but confident research analysts spoke about global
corporate outlook for the next ten years.
‘If we assume a seven percent GDP growth rate, the picture is like this,’ the
analyst said. Nobody questioned how the seven percent assumption came about,
but after that, the analyst had enough charts to show what happens if the growth
rate is indeed seven percent.
We ended the presentations at 8.30 People started to get restless as Bala came
on stage again. ‘Not another banker,’ you could almost hear them think.
‘And now, for the music concert we have a separate MC, Miss T.S. Smitha,’
Bala said.
The crowd applauded as the extra busty Smitha came on the stage. She wore a
low-cut blouse, a tad too deep for Citibank sensibilit ies.
‘Welcome, ladies and gentlemen,’ Smitha said, holding the mike in her hand.
‘Are you having a good time?’
Nobody responded.
 

‘What is she wearing?’ Ananya said. Our whole table heard and sniggered.
‘It is a little provocative, I admit,’ I said.
‘Her cleavage is so big, she can use it to hold the mike. Hands-free,’ Ananya
whispered to me.
‘Shut up, Ananya,’ I said, suppressing a smile.
‘We have three talented singers tonight,’ Smitha said. My heart beat fast. ‘We
are all, of course, waiting for the maestros. But the first singer is the new, very
talented, Radha. Please welcome her on stage.’
The crowd applauded as I craned my neck to see the stage. Ananya’s mother
arrived on stage in the orange sari.
‘It’s mom,’ Manju noticed first as he stood up.
 

39
‘What?’ Ananya’s father stood up as well.
Ananya looked at t he stage and then me in quick succession. ‘Krish, what
is….’
‘Shsh, pay attention,’ I placed a finger on my lips.
Radha took the mike.
‘Mom!’ Manju screamed.
Ananya’s mother looked towards us and smiled.
‘What are you going to sing for us first, Radha?’ Smitha asked coyly.
‘
Ek pal ka jeena
from
Kaho Na Pyaar Hai
,’ Ananya’s mother answered shyly.
The crowd roared and clapped as introduct ory music began for the song.
Radha aunty sang well; I noticed several clients tap their feet or nod their
heads to the music. Tamilians can tell good singers from bad, like Punjabis can
judge butter chicken in a jif fy. Nobody in the audience looked disapproving.
‘How did Radha come here?’ Ananya’s father spoke after recovering from the
shock.
‘Obviously, Krish arranged it, dad. Can’t you guess?’ Ananya said.
‘She never told me,’ uncle said. But his eyes glinted with pride.
‘Mom is singing so well,’ Ananya said to Manju, who nodded and reached out
for the various snacks ferried by waiters.
Ananya bent forward and kissed me on my cheek. Her father didn’t not ice, as
his eyes were transfixed on stage. A few agents did, and I smiled in
embarrassment.
‘Ananya, this is an office event,’ I whispered.
‘Of course, that’s why my mother is on st age,’ she said as she played footsie
with me.
 

Her mother swit ched to the latest Tamil hit number from Rajni’s movie. The
crowd’s excitement rose further. The song was a slow ballad, and required a lot
of  voice modulat ion. Claps ran through the crowd as Ananya’s mother
maneuvered a tough range of notes.
‘Lovely, beautiful!’ Ananya’s father said in reflex as Ananya’s mother switched
three octaves in one line.
Ananya’s mother sang four more songs to finish her act. Each song ended
with enthusiastic applause.
Smitha came on stage again.
‘That  was wonderful, Radha. And before you leave, I’d like to invite the next
singer, Mr S.P. Balasubramanium, who has a few words to say about you.’
The crowd rose to its feet and applauded as one of South India’s greatest
singers took the stage. Radha aunty folded her hands and bowed to him.
S.P. said, ‘Good evening, Chennai, and thank you, Citibank. Before I begin, I
want to praise Radha for her wonderful singing. The songs were popular, but I
can see she has a strong classical base. Do you sing often, Radha?’
‘No, first time like this.’
‘Well, you should sing more. Shouldn’t she, Chennai?’
Everyone banged their tables in support. Ananya’s mother bowed to everyone.
As she straightened, her eyes were filled with tears.
‘So, you will?’ S.P. said as he pointed the mike to Radha.
‘Yes, I will. Also, sir, I want to say that today is the happiest day of my life. I’ve
shared the stage with you.’
The crowd clapped. Radha aunty fought back tears as she left  the dais.
‘And I thought her happiest day was the day I was born,’ Ananya muttered as
she continued to clap.
The evening progressed with S.P. and Hariharan casting their spell on the
crowd. For everyone else, the main act had just begun. For me and Ananya’s
family, the main act was over.
Ananya’s mother joined us at t he table after ten minutes.
 

‘You were wonderful,’ a lady at the next table said to Ananya’s mother.
Ananya’s father exchanged shy glances with his wife. S.P. sang
Tere mere
beech mein
from
Ek Duje Ke Liye
. I looked at Ananya. Our struggle resembled that
film’s story. I only hoped our end wouldn’t resemble that movie’s climax.
An hour into the concert, Bala came to my table.
‘Krish, come with me. I want you to meet Mr Muruguppa, f amous jeweler,’ Bala
said.
‘What?’ I said.
‘Come, he wants to open a ten-crore account. Give him some bull on Citi. I
have t o drop Anil at the airport.’
‘Sir, I have guests,’ I said as Ananya not iced my dilemma.
‘It’s fine, we will manage. Dinner’s over there, right?’ Ananya said.
‘Oh, so she is the one?’ Bala said and turned to Ananya. ‘Tamil teria?’
‘Let’s go, Bala,’ I said.
I met Mr Muruguppa, a fat, jovial, fifty-year-old.
‘Punjabi? Tamil ille?’ he said and gave me his card.
‘No. So you are the jewellery king?’
‘What king? Emperor! We are the biggest in Chennai.’
‘Sir regarding your account,’ I said as I noticed Ananya’s family from a
dist ance. They laughed together over dinner. Several people came up to
congratulat e Ananya’s mother. The time to strike was not far away.
‘Mr Muruguppa, actually, I may need some jewellery myself,’ I said as I led him
to the dinner table.
 

40
‘Oh, trust me, she is on a different planet since that day. No need for dinner to
thank her,’ Ananya said over the phone.
We were in our respective offices. I had just invited Ananya’s family for dinner.
‘But we didn’t even pay her for the concert. That ’s the least I can do,’ I said.
‘You have done a lot,’ Ananya said.
‘Trust me, the dinner is important,’ I said.
‘Really? What ’s up?’
‘You’ll find out next Friday at Raintree. See you all at eight,’ I said.
The Raintree restaurant is located in the Taj Connemara hot el, on Binny Road off
Anna Salai. The outdoor restaurant is snug under a canopy of t rees of the same
name. Fairylights adorn the branches of t he trees and candles light up the t ables.
Apart from Amethyst, it is one other oasis in the city.
I sat with Ananya’s family at  one of t he outdoor tables, my trouser pockets
heavy.
‘This is stunning,’ Ananya said as she looked up at the little lights. She wore a
white fitted dress with sequins that reflected in the semi-darkness.
‘You’ve never come here bef ore?’ I said.
‘No we haven’t. Right, dad?’
Uncle shook his head even as he admired the foliage right above us.
Uniformed waiters served us a welcome drink of  coconut water with fresh mint.
They lef t the menu cards on our tables. The rest aurant specialises in Chettinad
food, named after a region south of  Tamil Nadu. The cuisine is known for its
intense spices and flavours, along with a large range of non-vegetarian
preparations.
 

‘Sir, for cocktails, I’d recommend Kothamalli Mary,’ the waiter said.
‘Kot ha-what?’ I asked.
‘It is like a Bloody Mary, sir, tomato juice and vodka, but with Chet tinad
spices.’
I looked at uncle. He looked reluctant to nod for alcohol in front of his wife.
‘I want one,’ Ananya said.
Ananya’s mother gave her a sharp look.
‘C’mon, just one cocktail,’ Ananya said.
I opened the menu. I couldn’t pronounce the tongue-twister names of the
dishes. Specials included kuruvapillai year and kozhi melagu Chettinad. I didn’t
bother reading the rest.
‘You know this food better, please order,’ I said.
Ananya’s parents looked at the menu several times.
‘It’s too expensive,’ Ananya’s mother said.
‘It’s fine,’ I said. ‘Ananya, please.’
Ananya took the menu and ordered for everyone. We ordered kozhakattai,
masala paniyaram, adikoozh, kandharappam, seeyam and athirasam. Of course, I
had no clue what went into those dishes; I figured at least one of them would be
edible. The waiter also suggest ed we order  idiyappam, rice noodles bunched up
like a bird’s nest.
‘How is the IIT preparation, Manju?’ I asked after the waiter left.
‘Good, I came tenth in the Mylapore mock IIT test,’ Manju said.
I nodded. ‘So, any more singing offers?’ I said to aunty.
Aunty smiled. ‘Don’t embarrass me. But I did find another Guruji who has a
modern approach to Carnatic music.’
I turned to Ananya’s dad. ‘How’s the bank, uncle?’
‘Good, your presentation is still being talked about.’
The food arrived; spicy, t angy and delicious.
 

‘This is great,’ I said as I had the masala paniyaram, a tastier cousin of the idli
and shaped like a ball.
The Raintree staff brought a trolley with ten chutneys to choose from.
‘I swear, Delhi needs to taste this. We haven’t gone past the paneer masala
dosa yet,’ I said as I took a spoonful of the tomato tamarind curry with
idiyappams.
‘You like it? I can make it  at home,’ Ananya’s mother said.
I realised that the right moment was near. Maybe at dessert, I told myself. We
scanned the dessert menu. Ananya’s father chose a coconut ice-cream. The deep
love for this f ruit among South Indians is inexplicable. The ice-cream arrived in an
act ual green coconut shell.
‘Superb,’ Ananya’s father said, a signal I took as
ready get-set, go
.
‘I want to talk about something important,’ I said.
Ananya’s father looked up from his ice-cream.
‘If it is OK?’ I amended.
Uncle nodded. Ananya’s mother looked at Ananya and me.
‘Manju, you too,’ I said. He kept his face so close to the ice-cream bowl, his
spectacles were smeared.
I had everyone’s attention. ‘Hi,’ I cleared my throat. ‘Uncle, aunty, Manju, I
came here six months ago. It is no secret why I chose Chennai as my first
posting. However, I cannot  stay here forever. I met Ananya almost three years
ago, and apart from our first fight, I’ve loved her every day since that day.’
Ananya took my hand in hers from under the table.
‘And we thought our love is enough reason for us to get married. We thought
our parents will meet at the convocation and things will be smooth. Well, we were
wrong.’
The waiter came to collect the ice-cream plates. I told him to come five minutes
later.
‘We could have run away. We could have f orced our decision on you. However,
Ananya t old me she had this dream of both sets of parents smiling on our
 

wedding day. And so, I want to see if we can do that. Also, I didn’t think we had
done anything wrong that we had to run away.’
Ananya’s parents kept a deadly silence. Either they were listening carefully or
the ice-cream had been too cold.
‘And ever since I came to Chennai, I have tried to be accepted by you. I don’t
expect you to love me like you do Harish, but at least you can accept me.’
Ananya’s mother wanted to talk. I signaled her to wait. ‘And while you may not
love me, I don’t want you to merely tolerate me either. Somewhere in the middle
lies the acceptance I am talking about.’ I slid my right hand inside my trouser
pocket and collected the four mini boxes with my fingers.
‘Keeping all t hat in mind, considering your daughter’s happiness and taking a
view of what you know of me,’ I said and paused to breathe. I took out the four
little red boxes and kept them on the table. The boxes said “Muruguppa
Jewellers’ on top. I opened the four boxes. Each had a gold ring. I stood up f rom
my chair and kneeled on the floor.
‘I, Krish Malhotra, would like to propose to all of you. Will all of you marry me?’
I said and held the four boxes in my palm.
Ananya’s parents looked at her and me in quick succession. Manju’s mouth
was open, t he coconut ice- cream very visible inside.
Ananya’s father gestured to Ananya on what to do.
‘After you, mom and dad,’ Ananya said, ‘and Manju, you too.’
Manju picked up his box. ‘Nice, real gold?’ he asked.
I nodded.
‘Argentum, atomic number sevent y-nine,’ Manju said as he held the ring inhis
hand.
‘Uncle?’ I prompted. My knees had started to hurt on the concrete floor.
‘if you promise to take care of my daughter,’ Ananya’s father said, ‘then it is a
yes from me.’ He bent forward and picked up his box.
Ananya hugged her father. ‘Thanks, dad,’ she said, ‘I love you.’
Ananya’s father blessed her with a hand on her head.
 

Ananya’s mother said, ‘It is not that we don’t like you. But our communities….’
Mom, c’mon,’ Ananya interrupted her.
Ananya’s mother took a minute to respond. ‘I know he will take care of you.
But will Krish’s parents treat my daughter with respect?’
‘We’ll work on that, too,’ I said, aware another challenge awaited me in Delhi.
“If t hey do, then?’
‘Then it is a yes form me,’ Ananya’s mother said.
‘Yay!’ Ananya cheered. Aunty took her ring and Ananya planted a kiss on her
mother’s forehead.
‘Akka, you haven’t picked yours,’ Manju said as the mother-daughter affection
continued. When they separated, both had tears in their eyes.
‘Oh, of course, where is it?’ Ananya picked up her ring.
I came back to my seat.
‘Sir, did you enjoy your meal?’ the waiter said as he cleared the plates.
‘You bet I did,’ I said, tipping him more than the bill that night.
 

41
‘I will miss you,’ Bala said as he handed me my transfer papers in his office.
‘I wish I could say the same,’ I said. Bala’s chin dropped. ‘I am kidding, cheer
up. I won’t be there to blackmail you anymore,’ I said.
Bala had agreed to make my case with Anil Mathur for the same reason. My
transfer to Delhi took two months to execute. I wanted to be home soon. Aft er all,
I had finished my Chennai job. Of course, we had a few more battles to win.
Ananya would have to deal with the full force of Punjabiness. However, lif e is best
dealt with one disaster at a time.
Operation Delhi would have t o be quick. Ananya convinced her bosses to
send her to Delhi for a week. After all, every HLL manager must have North India
exposure, Ananya had argued.
Ananya’s parents came t o drop us at t he airport. Ananya’s mother worried about
Delhi, given its status as t he worldwide capital of  eve-teasing.
‘Mom, the HLL guest-house is safe. I won’t be out much,’ Ananya said.
Ananya’s dad had his won concerns. ‘Remember, we have said yes. But you
are not married yet. Don’t embarrass us,’ uncle said to me as he bid us goodbye.
‘Of course, uncle,’ I said, t rying to figure out what he meant. No sex, I guess.
Ananya and I went inside t he terminal. She grabbed my arm as her parents
melted out of  sight. The flight took off . I brought out my notebook to explain the
next stage to Ananya – Operation Delhi.
‘So, I have to agree with your mom, whatever she says. Like whatever,’ Ananya
said, twenty minutes into the flight and thirty thousand feet high in the sky.
The plane passed through an area of turbulence.
‘Yes, never disagree,’ I said, tightening my seat-belt, ‘and the timing of your
trip could not be bett er. My cousin sister Minti is getting married next week. You’ll
come to the wedding, meet everyone, bingo, done.’
 

Ananya lifted the armrest to hold my arm tight. ‘I’m sure I’ll be fine with you.’
‘See, you have to win over my mot her. My father won’t agree ever, so he is not
part of the equation. Make mom happy, OK?’
‘Lower the armrest, it is not safe,’ the flight att ended said in a strict voice as
she passed the aisle.
When you are part of a couple, you don’t realise how cheesy your affections
are to the outside world.
‘Who does she think she is?’ Ananya huffed.
‘My mother?’
‘No, the airhostess. What’s with the thick red lipstick? Is she a flight attendant
or an item girl?’
I don’t know why women love commenting on other women’s appearances. I
never noticed the bald man next to me, who snores t hrough the flight.
‘Focus, Ananya. You are dealing wit h a Punjabi mot her-in-law here. You have
never seen anything like this,’ I said.
‘Can’t wait,’ Ananya said, sarcasm dripping from her mouth like the
airhostess’s lipstick.
 

ACT 4:
Delhi Reloaded
 

42
‘Let  go of my elbow,’ I said.
‘Why?’ Ananya said.
‘I see my mother.’
Mother wait ed at the arrival area. She stood among ten thousand drivers
holding placards with every Punjabi name possible. There were no more Venkats
and Ramaswamis, only Aroras and Khannas.
When people land at Chennai airport, they exchange smiles and proceed
gently to the car park. At Delhi, there is a traffic jam of people trying to hug each
ot her to death. My mother hugged me tight, and even though it was over the top, I
liked it. No one had hugged me like that in Chennai for the last six months (apart
from Ananya, of course, but that’s a different category of affection). We walked
towards the auto stand. Ananya greeted my mother but it went unnoticed.
‘You are?’ my mother asked me the most important question.
I nodded.
‘What did they serve?’ I noticed she was ignoring Ananya completely.
‘Paneer masala and rice,’ I said. ‘Mom, you’ve met Ananya, remember?’
My mother gave Ananya a fake smile and turned back to me. ‘No rotis?’
‘Mom, Ananya has a one-week stint in her Delhi office.’
‘Where will she stay?’ my mother said, her voice concerned.
‘At the company Guest-house,’ Ananya said.
‘Yes, but she only joins them day after, on Monday. I t hought it will be a good
idea if she came home for the weekend.’
‘Whose home?’ my mother asked, aghast.
‘Our home,’ I said. I removed my bags from the t rolley at the auto stand.
My mother turned silent. I paid the money at the pre-paid stand.
 

We fit ourselves and our bags into the auto. I sat  in the middle, with Ananya on
my right and my mother on the left.
‘All set for Minti’s wedding?’ I said.
‘What a boy Minti is going to marry!’ my mot her said.
‘Really? Is he good?’ I said.
‘Oh yes, so good- looking. White as milk,’ my mother said, ‘and guess the
budget of the wedding?’
I shrugged.
‘Rajji mama is spending five lakh on the parties alone. Plus they have a big
surprise gift  for the boy for the sagan.’
‘What’s the boy’s name?’ I said.
Ananya didn’t participate in the conversation. She turned her face to the
scenery outside. Her hair blew in the breeze and a few strands caressed my face.
‘I forget his real name, but everybody calls him Duke.’
‘Duke? Like British royalty duke?’ I said.
‘Yes, he is an engineer from a donation college. Now he works in Escorts
Soft ware. And his parents are so nice,’ my mother said. ‘Every occasion they
have met your mama-ji, they bring something for me. They’ve already given me
three saris.’
‘Amazing,’ I said.
‘You should see how they give respect . The boy touches my feet every time he
meets me.’
I nodded. I wanted to end the topic. But my mother was in full form. ‘I asked
Rajji mama why he is spending so much. You know what he said?’
‘What?’
‘He said “didi, where do you get good boys these days?” So, I said, if  Duke is
getting this, what will Krish get?’
I kept quiet. My mother continued anyway. ‘He said if Duke’s budget is five
lakhs, yours should be t en lakhs, gifts separate.’
 

‘Thanks for pricing me,’ I said.
‘I am just saying….’ My mother said.
We remained silent for the next five minutes. My mother shifted in her seat  due
to lack of space.
‘You could have booked a car. I would have paid,’ I said.
‘I didn’t know you’ll bring extra luggage from Chennai,’ my mother said.
I showed Ananya the guest-room. She kept quiet as she took out fresh clothes to
take into the bathroom.
‘Hey, I’m sorry about my mother. She’s all talk. Good at heart.’
‘Even murderers are good at heart. I thought you had told her about my
coming.’
‘I wanted to give her a surprise,’ I said.
‘Fuck off,’ Ananya said as she pushed me out of the room.
My father had gone for a business meeting. Ever since he left the army, he had
tried different ventures. These included a property dealership, a security agency
and a freight forwarding agency. None of them worked. According to him,
unscrupulous partners or corrupt officials had led to their failure. According to
me, it was his short temper and inability to come out of his army officer mode.
When you are used to a hundred people saluting you every day, it is difficult to
suck up to uneducated builders to allow you to sell their house. However, my
father kept jumping from one disaster to the next, which kept him out of the
house most of the times. Some even said he had a mistress somewhere, though I
doubt  another woman could survive him.
Ananya hadn’t left her room ever since she came. My mother went f or her
evening stroll at 6 p.m.
‘What are you doing inside? Come out, mom’s gone for a walk.’
She opened the door, her face still upset.
 

‘Should we make love?’ I winked at her.
‘Don’t test your luck, Mr Malhotra, I shall turn violent.’ She pushed me aside
and came to the living room. She switched on the TV.
‘What’s with this att itude, Ananya? You are supposed to win my folks over,’ I
said.
‘You can win over normal people. Not rude, insensitive people who insult
guests,’ she said.
‘So you will stay inside that room and sulk?’ I switched the TV of f.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ she said.
‘If you listen to me, you will be able to navigate her.’
‘I am all ears,’ she said dryly.
‘Dinner,’ I said.
‘Dinner what ? Do you guys t alk anything but food? What was t hat? She asked
what they served us on the plane? Like the first thing when you landed.’
I opened the fridge and took out two Frootis. I gave her one.
‘She is going to come back from her walk and prepare dinner. Offer to help
her, it is a good start.’
‘Help her?’ She poked a straw into the Frooti with more f orce than necessary.
‘You know, make a dish or two. Or if you want to bowl her over, make the
dinner tonight.’
‘What? Are you crazy, I’ve never made full dinner.’
‘Really?’ I slurped noisily at my drink.
‘Don’t “really” me. Did you ever learn to cook?’
‘No, but I studied all the t ime.’
‘I went to IIMA, too.’
‘Yeah but,’ I said and paused.
‘Yeah but, what? I am a girl, so tough luck, baby. There’s t he kitchen,’ she said
and tossed the Frooti carton on the table.
 

‘Ananya, I am suggest ing ways to win over my mother. You said you will do
whatever it takes.’
‘Fine, can I have another Frooti? I am famished.’
I gave Ananya another tetrapack. The doorbell rang. Ananya stood up too go
to her room.
‘Stay,’ I said as I opened the door.
 

43
My mother came back with two plastic bags full of vegetables. I helped her carry
them into the kitchen. She opened the fridge to keep the vegetables inside.
‘Who had the Frootis?’ my mother said.
‘I had one. And Ananya also.’
‘Three Frootis are missing. She had t wo?’ she said.
I kept quiet.
We came to the living room. My mother brought a giant cauliflower, a plate and
a knife with her. She started cutting little florets with the knife, using her thumb
as a base.
‘Aunty, can I help?’ Ananya said.
‘With?’ my mother said.
‘With dinner,’ Ananya said.
‘Yeah, mom, why don’t you let Ananya make dinner today?’ I suggested with a
heavy smile.
Ananya glared at  me. To help is one thing, to prepare a whole meal another.
Still, if Ananya had to make an impression, she had to more than wash the
vegetables.
My mother looked at Ananya.
‘Sure, aunt y, why not? It will be fun,’ Ananya said.
Mom shrugged and passed the plate to Ananya. ‘Krish likes gobi aloo. I
thought we will also make black daal, bhindi, raita and salad. Nothing much,
simple dinner.
‘Mom,’ I said, to stop her from increasing the menu.
‘The dry at ta is in the drum below the gas stove. Knead some for the rot is,’ my
mother said. ‘Yes, Krish?’
‘Nothing. You want to cook together so it is faster?’ I said.
 

‘She can make it if she wants to. I am not that hungry. Let it take time,’ my
mother said and switched on the TV.
Ananya cradled the cauliflower in her lap like a newborn child. She couldn’t
cut it like a pro, with the knife and thumb action. She cut florets one at a t ime,
using the knife like a saw.
My mother sniggered. I gave her a dirty look. ‘I have a headache. I’ll rest in my
room. Call me when dinner is ready,’ my mother said and left.
‘Ananya, you want help?’ I said.
‘Leave me alone,’ Ananya said, her gaze deep into t he cauliflower.
‘Use your thumb, like this,’ I said and mocked the action with my hand.
Ananya tried. Two florets lat er, she cut herself. ‘Ouch!’ she screamed.
‘What happened?’
‘Nothing,’ she sniffed. ‘Nothing, go rest with your mother.’
‘Is that blood?’ I said. ‘You are hurt!’
‘It’s OK. I said I will do what it takes. What’s a little blood?’
‘This cut is not my mother’s fault,’ I said.
‘Shut up and get me a band-aid. And bring the bhindi from the f ridge,’ she
said.
An hour later we had cut the gobi, bhindi, onions, garlic, ginger, tomatoes,
cucumber and green chillies required for the various dishes. Until you do it
yourself , you don’t realise the effort your mother puts into every meal.
We went to the kitchen. I took out the atta in a bowl.
‘I have no clue how to knead this,’ she said.
‘It’s OK, I’ve seen my mother do it . Let me try,’ I said and poured water into the
bowl.
‘And you fry the onions in …this?’ Ananya pulled out a kadhai from the utensil
shelf.
‘Yes, please,’ I said and switched on the gas. I opened the box of spices. She
didn’t know how to use them.
 

‘Remember the five constant spices in every Punjabi dish – salt, turmeric, red
chillies, coriander powder and garam masala,’ I said.
Ananya cooked the veget ables while I worked the atta. I had to refill the atta
twice due to too much stickiness. A pungent smoke rose in the kitchen. Both of
us had a coughing fit.
‘What did you do?’ I said.
‘I … don’t … know.’ Ananya coughed uncontrollably.
My mother came into the kitchen. ‘What are you doing?’ she ran to the st ove
and lowered the flame. ‘Who cooks on such a high flame? See, the spices have
burnt.’
Ananya backed off from the stove.
‘And you? What are you doing here?’ my mother said.
‘I … I came here because of t he burning smell,’ I said.
‘And you hands fell into the atta?’ she said, pointing to my dough-smeared
palms and fingers.
I kept quiet.
‘See, this is how she will use you af ter marriage. She can’t even make rotis.’
Ananya exited the kitchen. I wanted to go after her, but with mom present, it
didn’t seem like a good idea. I threw up my atta-filled hands in despair.
‘She is South Indian, mom, how can you expect  her to….’
‘You said she wants to make dinner. PK, tell her to make dosas if she wants.
Can she make dosas?’
‘Yeah, I am sure. But you need a grinder….’
Ananya came back into t he kitchen. ‘No, aunty, I can’t make dosas,’ Ananya
said. ‘And I can’t make a roti either. In fact, I am terrible at cooking anything.’
‘Apart from cooking schemes to t rap my boy,’ my mother said.
They exchanged battlefield looks, Ananya left the kitchen in disgust.
‘Mom!’ I said in frustration.
 

‘What? What  else is this?’ my mother said. ‘You are under her spell. You bring
her home. You knead atta for her. You give her two Frootis I had brought for
guests. You are so worried about her. What about me?’
‘What about you, mom?’
‘What is she doing here?’
‘Mom, she can hear you.’
‘See, you only care about her. Go, be with her.’
My mother rearranged the plat es in the kit chen. She threw the old spice
mixture and made a new one as I left.
‘Get me to the guest-house. I want to leave,’ Ananya said, her face wet with
tears.
‘No,’ I said and wiped her tears. ‘No, you can’t.’
‘I can’t do this,’ she said. ‘I thought convincing my parents would be enough.
You said your mother is sweet . Sweet? If your mom is sweet, then Hitler is a
cuddly toy.’
‘Take a shower, Ananya,’ I said. ‘Let’s all eat dinner together.’
We sat down for dinner. My mother served me. Ananya took t he food herself.
I chose t he topic. ‘What are the important ceremonies for Minti’s wedding?’
‘I have to go every day,’ my mother said, chewing her food. ‘There is a puja,
then a sangeet. Of course, the important ones are the sagan and the marriage,
next Friday and Sunday. You’ll come, no?’
‘Sagan and marriage, of course. I’ll bring Ananya, too.’
My mother gave me a dirty look. She didn’t want to talk about it with Ananya
present.
‘Don’t avoid the topic, mom. I’ve brought Ananya here so you and the family
get to know her.’
‘I already know she can’t cook dinner,’ my mother said.
‘I’m sorry, aunt y,’ Ananya said. I didn’t expect it but f elt relieved that Ananya
apologised.
 

‘It’s fine, you modern girls are like this. That is why I want Krish to marry….’
‘Mom, I want to marry Ananya,’ I said, ‘in case it is not clear.’
My mother placed the piece of roti back on her plate and pushed the chair
back to get up.
‘Mom, please wait. I want to talk,’ I said.
‘Why should I talk? You will do whatever you want anyway. Go to the temple
right now and get married.’
‘Aunty, we want you to be happy about it,’ Ananya said.
‘Well, I am not. You can’t force me to be happy. Everyone is praising Minti’s
mother for her choice. I’ve suffered for years to bring my son up. Why can’t I have
the same happiness? I want a lavish wedding, I want the girl’s parents to respect
me, I want the girl to be approved of by my brothers and sisters.’
‘They will like Ananya! She is intelligent, educated….’
‘She is South Indian,’ my mother said, cutting me.
‘So what? Let’s see what your brothers and sisters say about Ananya. This
wedding is a perfect excuse.’
‘And who will I say she is?’ my mother asked grimly.
‘Say she is Krish’s classmate who’s never seen a Punjabi marriage ceremony
and wanted to come,’ I said.
My mother kept quiet . She picked up her rot i and began to eat again.
‘Aunty, I am sorry I came unannounced. I thought Krish had told you.’
‘He never tells me anything. He is so careless,’ my mother said.
‘I agree, he doesn’t communicate well,’ Ananya said.
‘See,’ my mother said to me.
Even though they were ganging up against me, I let it pass. I wanted them to
bond in any way possible.
‘The daal is excellent, aunty, you must teach me how to make it,’ Ananya said.
 

‘Then why are you eating like a squirrel? Take a proper helping,’ my mother
said.
‘I’ll speak to Minti,’ I put in. ‘I’m sure she will have no problem if I bring a
friend.’
‘Only as a friend,’ my mother said.
‘Thanks, mom,’ I said and hugged her.
‘Your dad never gave me anything. You don’t deprive me of what I deserve,’
my mother said.
‘Where’s uncle?’ Ananya said.
‘Who knows?’ my mother said. ‘He’ll be back late. You’ll see him in the
morning. You are sleeping in the guest -room and Krish in his room, right?’
‘Of course, mom,’ I said, ‘how else?’
My mother finished dinner. Ananya offered to do the dishes. My mother said
the maid would arrive in the morning but Ananya insisted. My mother went to her
room.
‘OK, Miss Brand Manager, you sure you don’t need help?’ I said as I leaned
against the kitchen wall.
Ananya applied Vim on the dishes wit h a wire mesh. ‘No, I don’t want to be
accused of trapping the Prince of Punjab again,’ Ananya said and mercilessly
scrubbed a kadhai.
‘Let me dry the dishes,’ I offered.
‘Go away, I beg you,’ she said as she pushed me out of the kitchen.
 

44
‘Good morning , uncle,’ Ananya said as she came into the living room in her
night-suit. It was seven-thirty in the morning. My father, bound to his army habit,
had showered and changed. He looked up from his newspaper. He didn’t
respond.
‘I’m Ananya, Krish’s friend.’
‘Good,’ my father said and went back to his newspaper. He kept calm. I knew
he’d blow his lid when Ananya left. I came to the living room and ignored him.
‘Ananya, get ready. We should leave before the peak-hour traffic.’
‘Where are you going?’ my father said.
I didn’t answer. My father stood up and went to the kitchen.
‘Is this the way to behave?’ I heard him scream at my mother.
‘What happened?’ my mother said as I kept one ear to the kitchen.
‘I asked him where is he going, he didn’t answer. And who is that girl?’
‘He is going to drop Ananya to her guest-house and go to off ice. Why?’ my
mother said.
‘Why can’t he say it? And why didn’t you tell me we will have a visitor in the
house.’
‘I didn’t know,’ my mother said.
‘You are lying again,’ my father screamed.
Ananya looked terrified.
‘Welcome to my world,’ I said, ‘now let’s get the hell out of here.’
I came home from work and found deadly silence in the house. Obviously, my
father was home. He sat at the dining table wit h my mother.
 

‘Krish, your father wants to talk to you,’ my mother said.
‘Tell him, I don’t want to,’ I said.
‘He said he won’t come for Minti’s wedding if you don’t speak to him,’ my
mother said. Weddings on my mother’s side of the family were when we needed
my father the most. My mother wanted to portray a sense of normalcy. If my
father showed his face, it prevented tongues wagging for weeks. I had no choice.
I went and sat opposite him.
‘So, now that you have resorted to blackmail, what do you want to talk about?’
I said.
‘It’s not blackmail. When my family doesn’t talk to me, why should I….’ he said.
‘Whatever. What is it?’ I said.
‘Who is that girl?’
‘Ananya Swaminathan,’
‘How do you know her?’
‘She is a classmate from college and my girlfriend.’
‘See Kavita,’ my father said, ‘and you said she is only a friend.’
‘You talk to me, why do you have t o take it out on her,’ I said.
‘What is the purpose of her visit here?’ my father said.
‘She came on a work assignment. Minti invited her to the wedding. Do you
have a problem?’
‘You will not choose a girl for marriage. I will choose for you,’ my father said.
‘You want to sell me. And while you are out there negotiating me, what’s my
going rate?’
‘Kavita, this boy….’
‘This boy is right here. Talk to me.’
‘I am not coming for Minti’s wedding,’ my father announced.
‘Please, don’t do that . Krish, t alk properly,’ my mother pleaded.
‘No mom, we won’t take him. We’ll t ell them he is sick, mentally.’
 

‘Watch your mouth,’ my father said and raised his hand.
‘I dare you,’ I said and stood up. I went to my room but could hear them.
‘I won’t come for the wedding, Kavita,’ my father said. The sound of a
clattering plate, presumably shoved away on the dining table.
‘Do whatever you want, all of you,’ my mother said.
I lay in bed, I wondered why we even stayed toget her as a family. I never
thought I would, but I missed Chennai. Sure, people there didn’t really connect
with me, but at least nobody could jab my insides. I thought of calling Ananya but
I didn’t want t o dump my mood on her. Questions darted in my mind.
Am I even
doing the right thing by bringing Ananya into this family? What impression will she
have of me?
Will she change her mind about me? Watching my mind’s stupid daily
pre-sleep thought dance, I tossed and turned in bed all night.
 

45
Minti’s wedding ceremony took place at the Taj Palace Hotel in Dhaula Kuan.
Frankly, it  was a big deal for our clan. We had seen some over the top weddings,
but never before did an engagement ceremony happen at a top end five-star
hotel. Rajji mama had taken his one- upmanship among the relatives right to the
top by booking the Taj.
The banquet hall entrance had a sign.
The Talrejas welcome you
To SAGAN ceremony of their:
Most lovely daughter
Manorama (Minti)
Wit h
Dashing Gentleman
Dharamveer (Duke), B. Tech
‘Don’t laugh,’ I said to Ananya, suppressing my own smile.
‘I can’t help it ,’ she grinned. She adjusted the drape of her bottle green and
gold sari for the fifth time.
‘Welcome-ji, welcome,’ Rajji mama gave my mother and me hugs in quick
succession.
We came inside the banquet hall, which held two hundred people. The main
stage had t wo ornat e chairs stolen from a king’s palace. Alongside, there were
seventy-five boxes of sweets and five giant baskets of fruits.
Most of the women stood at t he chaat and juice counter. All the men stood at
the bar. I helped my female cousins access vodka by giving them my glass, which
they poured into their juice.
‘So, there is Rajji mama, Lappa mama, Shipra masi and your mother – in that
order, right?’ Ananya said.
 

‘Yes, and since my mother is the youngest, she needs validation from all of
them to do anything in life,’ I said.
‘Fine, let me understand first. Minti and Rohan are Rajji mama’s children,’
Ananya said and took out a notepad. ‘And who is the girl you gave the vodka to?’
‘That ’s Tinki, and she has a younger sister Nikki, both in college. They are
Lappa mama’s children. And Shipra masi has a son and a daughter, Bittu and
Kittu. That ’s it, my mom only has me.’
‘OK, OK,’ Ananya said as she finished taking notes.
‘Krish, come here,’ my mother screamed. She stood next to the stage.
‘Let’s go,’ I said and pulled Ananya’s hand.
Ananya hesitated at first, but came along. My mother sat with an eighty-year-
old lady who wore a gold necklace. It had a pendant bigger than the Olympic gold
medal.
‘She is Swaran aunty, my masi,’ my mother said.
My grandmother had died a couple of years ago. Swaran aunty was the senior-
most family member who was brought out at weddings and other auspicious
occasions to bless everyone.
I bent forward to touch her feet. I signaled and Ananya followed.
‘Kavita, teri noo hai?’ Swaran aunty said in Punjabi, asking if Ananya was my
mother’s daughter-in-law.
My mother explained she was a friend.
‘What is friend?’ Swaran aunty asked me.
‘Aunty, you need chaat?’ I countered.
‘Yes, nobody is getting me anything,’ she complained.
I returned with a plate of chaat. Ananya sat next to Swaran aunty and my
mother.
‘She is Madrasi?’ Swaran aunty said in a voice loud enough to belie her age.
‘Tamilian,’ Ananya said.
 

‘But she is fair complexioned?’ Swaran aunty said, genuinely confused. For
her years, her eyesight wasn’t bad at all.
Shipra masi passed by, looking expensive. Everything she wore – clothes,
jewellery, handbag and shoes – contained real gold of varying proportions.
‘Shipra, see this, a gori Madrasin,’ Swaran aunty screamed.
‘Hello Kavita, how are you Krish?’
‘Fine aunty, meet my friend, Ananya,’
‘Oh, we all know what kind of  friend. Yes, she is fair.’
Shipra masi called for Rajji mama and Lappa mama’s wives, Kamla and Rajni,
respectively.
‘Come, see Krish’s f riend. The Madrasin Kavita told us about,’ Shipra masi
shrieked.
Rajni aunty and Kamla aunty came over. We exchanged polite greetings. My
mother explained how my father had viral fever so he couldn’t come. Everyone
knew the truth but nodded in total support. Shipra masi even suggested some
medicines.
‘Ananya Swaminathan, aunty,’ Ananya repeated her name to Kamla mami as
she hadn’t caught it  the first time.
‘You are so fair. Are you hundred percent South Indian?’ Kamla mami asked.
She is also an IIMA pass out and a brand manager at HLL, I wanted to say. But
those are things you discuss in Chennai, not at the Taj Palace, Delhi, during the
Talreja’s sagan ceremony.
‘By South Indian standards, she is quite pretty,’ Shipra masi added insight.
‘I know, otherwise how black and ugly they are,’ Kamla mami said.
Everyone laughed, apart from Ananya. She had braved a smile all along, but it
disappeared. I moved next to her and gently patted her back.
I didn’t want her to react. Smile like a ditz and your chances of being accepted
will improve. Sometimes, love is tested in strange ways.
‘The boy’s side has come!’ Kittu, my youngest cousin, came running inside
like Amitabh Bachchan had lost his way and rung the doorbell.
 

‘Let’s go, let’s go,’ Kamla mami hauled up all the ladies. The ladies deposited
their gold sequined bags with Swaran aunty. Her immobility made her an ideal
cloakroom.
‘So, what is the surprise gift?’ my mother egged on Kamla aunty.
‘You will see it soon-ji. But the expense has broken our back. Minti’s daddy
had to take a loan.’
‘It’s OK, you have only one daughter,’ Shipra masi said as all of them walked
out.
Ananya let out a huge sigh af ter the Punjabi aunty gang left.
‘You OK?’ I said. ‘No, let me guess. You are not OK.’
‘I need a drink, let’s go to the bar,’ Ananya said.
‘But stay a few steps away. I’ll order the drink,’ I said.
We reached the bar. Tinki and Nikki came running to me, their lehngas lifted up
to their ankles with their hands.
‘Krish bhaiya, get a full glass of neat vodka. My friends from college have
come.’
‘Why can’t the girls take drinks themselves?’ Ananya asked.
Tinki and Nikki turned to Ananya, puzzled. At nineteen and seventeen, they
looked overdressed in their designer clothes.
‘Tinki, Nikki, this is Ananya,’ I said.
‘Oh, you are the one,’ Tinki exclaimed.
‘The one who?’ I said.
‘She is your girlfriend, no, Krish bhaiya?’ Nikki said.
I didn’t respond.
‘You are blushing,’ Tinki said, and turned to Ananya. ‘I love your earrings.
Where did you get t hem from?’
‘Coimbatore,’ Ananya said.
‘Where is t hat ?’ Tinki said.
 

‘Tamil Nadu, that is where I come from,’ Ananya said.
‘Stupid, didn’t you read it in geography?’ Nikki scolded her sister and turned
to me, ‘Your girlfriend is so pretty. And her sari is also so beautiful.’
‘Thanks,’ Ananya said. ‘Both of you look great. I want a lehnga like that.’
I took a full glass of vodka from the bar and poured it into three glasses. I
topped the drinks with Sprite and brought it for the girls.
‘I don’t drink. It’s only for the DJ later,’ Tinki clarified. ‘Anyway I am eighteen
now.’
‘You went to IIMA, no? You must be so intelligent. Can girls get into IIM? Nikki
said.
‘Of course, why not? What’s it got to do wit h being a girl,’ Ananya said.
I stepped away from them. The girls talked for the next ten minutes. If nothing
else, Ananya had bonded with the younger set of my family. Why was it so much
harder to win over the older generation?
‘Where are you?’ my mother’s angry voice cut into my musings. ‘The
ceremony is about t o start.’
I collected the girls and we went to the stage. Minti sat on the floor of t he stage
with Duke in front of her. A priest sat alongside.
As my aunts would say, Duke was on the healthier side.
‘He is fat,’ Ananya said flatly.
‘Shut up, someone will hear you,’ I said.
‘Oh, people really are careful about what they say around here,’ Ananya said,
sarcasm shimmering in her words like t he sequins in her blouse.
‘C’mon Ananya, they are not even aware they are being offensive. You will like
them once you know them.’
‘Please, I like your cousins, let me be with them,’ Ananya said, her voice
defiant from the vodka.
‘We like her,’ Nikki and Tinki certified as they gave Ananya a hug. Just like
men, women too become friendlier after alcohol.
 

Duke was indeed fair as milk. The chubby cheeks and fair complexion made
him look like a solely Cerelac-fed adult. He wore a shiny maroon kurta, of
probably the same fabric as one of Ananya’s mom’s saris. Damn, I was
remembering Ananya’s mother here.
Focus
, I said to myself.
Minti wore an orange lehnga studded with Swarovski crystals and other
precious stones. According to my mother, it cost twenty thousand rupees, while
the wedding sari had cost  thirty thousand. Ten percent of the wedding budget is
bridal costumes, my brain made a useless calculation.
The priest chanted mantras. Minti gestured at her cousins to ask if she looked
fine.
Nikki put her right thumb tip and index finger tip together to signify she looked
fab. Nikki also put her right middle finger on her forehead to show Minti she
needed to adjust  her bindi. Minti followed the instruct ions and fixed her bindi wit h
the lef t hand even as the priest t ied a thread on her right. I learnt three facts about
women: a) they never lose track of how t hey look; b) they help each other out by
giving instruct ions in any way possible; and c) they can multi-task. Of course, my
mind couldn’t focus on the ceremony. I t hought of ways to make my family like
Ananya.
Duke pulled out an engagement ring from his kurta pocket. He displayed it for
the cameras. A collective sigh ran across the women as they realised it was a
solitaire.
‘One-and-a-half-carats at least,’ Shipra masi curated it immediately.
Duke put t he ring on Minti’s finger and everyone clapped. Minti gave a shy
smile as she brought out a ring, a simple gold band for Duke. She put the ring on
him.
‘She looks so sweet,’ Tinki said and the two sisters gave each other hugs, their
eyes wet. Women have surplus emotions and they don’t need a big trigger to spill
them out.
Duke’s family waited after the ring ceremony in anticipation. Rajji mama took
out a little box from his shirt pocket. He passed it on to Duke. Duke refused three
times. Rajji mama insisted until Duke accepted it. Duke opened the black box. It
had a key with the Hyundai Motors sign on it.
This time the women and men gave out a collective sigh. Yes, Rajji mama had
outdone the solitaire.
 

‘They’ve given a car,’ Shipra masi said, to make it clear in case somebody
hadn’t got it.
Grown-ups from both sides opened their respective sweet boxes and force-fed
the other family. All of us went on stage one by one and congratulated the couple.
Minti’s parents gave gifts to all of Duke’s uncles and aunts. Duke’s parents
returned the favour. My mot her and Shipra masi received a sari each.
‘Show me yours,’ Shipra masi said to my mother. Fortunately, they found them
similar. Duke’s parents could not be accused of aunt favouitism.
Rajji mama gloated after everyone complimented him on the masterstroke gift.
‘Uncle, start the DJ,’ Nikki said to Rajji mama.
Rajji mama nodded towards t he dance floor. DJ pussycats from Rajouri
Garden comprised of two fat surds who had waited hours f or that signal. They
started with dhol beats. All the younger cousins hit t he dance floor. The uncles
needed a few more pegs and t he aunties needed a few more elbow pulls from the
younger kids to come and groove.
‘They gave a car?’ Ananya said in shocked voice even as Nikki dragged her
towards the dance floor.
‘Yeah, a silver Santro,’ Nikki said, ‘come no, didi.’
Ananya went with the girls. Her years of Bharatnatyam training made her the
best performer on the floor. She picked up the Punjabi steps fast  and even taught
my cousins a few improvised moves. She looked beautif ul in her dark green
Kanjeevaram . Like an idiot, I fell in love with her all over again.
‘Have you eaten dinner?’ my mother came up next to me.
‘Er …no,’ I said, peeling my eyes away from the floor.
‘Then eat fast, we won’t get an auto home,’ my mother said.
‘We will buy a car soon,’ I said.
‘Like your father will let us have one. Anyway, why should we take? Kamla
said we shouldn’t buy anything major until you get married. We don’t want
duplicate items.’
‘Mom,’ I protest ed.
 

‘Go fast, the paneer will get over. And tell your friend to eat.’
I waved at Ananya to come eat with me. She panted as she walked with me to
the buffet. I put black daal, shahi paneer and rotis on my plate. Ananya took
yellow daal and rice.
‘That ’s it?’
‘That ’s all I like,’ she said.
There was a commot ion at  the bar. Duke and his friends were fighting with the
bartender.
‘What happened?’ I asked.
‘They are not making the pegs large enough. Duke’s friends are upset,’ an
onlooker said.
Rajji mama intervened. The hotel staff had foreseen that t he whisky may run
out and so had st arted doling out smaller quantities. There were no extra bottles
of  that brand even in the hotel. Rajji mama took out a wad of notes and gave it to
the hotel staff. A waiter was sent to the Delhi border to fetch the whisky. Like
always, money soot hed nerves and everyone became cheerful again.
‘This is a wedding?’ Ananya said.
‘Of course, that’s how all weddings are. Why, your side has it  different?’ I said.
‘You bet,’ Ananya said.
We bade goodbyes to Rajji mama and Kamla aunty. As I walked out with my
mother and Ananya, Shipra masi called me.
‘Yes, aunty,’ I said.
‘Listen, you are our family’s pride. Don’t do anything stupid. These Madrasis
have laid a trap for you.’
‘Good night, aunty,’ I said.
‘See, I am saying it for your benefit . Your mot her has suffered, make her
happy. You can get girls who will fill your house with gifts.’
I bent down. If all else fails with kin, touch feet.
‘What did Shipra masi say?’ Ananya asked me.
 

‘She said to make sure Ananya is dropped home safe,’ I said as I stopped an
auto.
 

46
I met Ananya at  Punjabi by Nature in Vasant Vihar. I should have t hought of a
better-named venue, given her current mental state. However, t he location was
convenient and the food excellent.
‘What is the point of  me attending these family events, I feel so awkward,’
Ananya began.
‘It’s one more ceremony – the actual wedding. Don’t worry, tomorrow my aunts
will be more used to you. Once my mother sees them accepting you, she is more
likely to say yes.’
‘I think she wants a set  of car keys more than anyone’s approval,’ Ananya said.
‘No, my mother is not like that. She doesn’t want the car, but she wants her
siblings to appreciate she managed a car. Get  it?’
‘Not really,’ Ananya shook her head.
The waiter came to take the order. We ordered one paranthas, which came with
enough butter to stop your heart instantly. We ate dinner as we contemplated our
next move.
‘Sir, would you like to try our golgappas with vodka?’ the waiter said.
‘What?’ Ananya said.
‘No t hanks,’ I told the waiter and turned to Ananya. ‘It is a gimmick. Trust me,
Punjabis don’t do that on a regular basis.’
‘I am going back to Chennai in two days,’ Ananya said.
‘I know. But I will speak to mom, maybe even my uncles, after the wedding. I
want to lock this in,’ I said.
‘What about your dad?’ Ananya said.
‘He won’t agree. We’ll have the wedding without him. Aren’t mom’s side
relatives enough?’
‘They are more than enough. Each talks more than ten of my relatives. Still.’
 

‘Ananya, you can’t get everything in life. Your parents, my mom, relatives – we
have enough blessings. My father is not required.’
‘You should talk to him though. He’s your father,’ Ananya said.
‘Isn’t the food great?’ I said as I rubbed butter on my paranthas.
 

47
Minti’s final wedding ceremony gave new meaning to the expression over the top.
Real elephants and ice sculpture fairies greeted us at the entrance. The boy’s
side had not yet arrived. Patient ushers waited with trays of flower petals. We
shuffled through landscaped gardens with two dozen dolphin-shaped fountains
to reach the main party area. The caterer had chosen a world theme. Food stalls
served eight cuisines – Punjabi, Chinese, home-st yle Indian, Thai, Italian,
Mexican, Goan and Lebanese – with at  least five items in each genre. Apart from
these, there were two chaat stalls – one for regular eaters and other for health-
conscious guests. The regular counter served samosas and tikkis, while the
health counter had sprouts-stuffed golgappas. My aunts took both, one for the
tast e another for health.
There were t wo bars. The first bar had a giant Johnny Walker Black Label
magnum cask. All uncles congregated here and waiters kept bringing in a regular
supply of paneer tikkas and hara bhara kababs. The second bar was the mocktail
bar, nicknamed t he ladies bar. It had a large display shelf wit h two dozen glasses
of  diff erent shapes and filled with psychedelic fruit drinks.
‘Beautiful, Rajji, you have held the family name high,’ my mother said,
admiring the flower arrangements on the bridal stage.
‘These orchids have come from Thailand. Just landed two hours ago from
Bangkok,’ Rajji mama said.
‘Fifty thousand is just the flowers bill’ Shipra masi said. We raised our
eyebrows to express suitable awe.
My cousin Rohan came running in to tell us that the baraat had arrived. We
went outside and stood next to the elephants to receive them. Rohan gave me a
pink turban, somet hing all brothers and close male relatives wore to receive the
groom.
‘You look cute,’ Ananya grinned.
All turbaned men posed for pictures with their equivalent counterparts from
Duke’s side. I had a picture clicked with Prince, Duke’s cousin. Minti’s father
grinned as he hugged Duke’s father for a picture. Duke’s father frowned.
‘Why is the boy’s father so serious?’ Ananya said.
‘Maybe he is hungry,’ I said. We soon found out I was wrong. Duke’s f amily did
come inside and sat on the sofas. However, they refused to touch anything to eat.


‘One cold drink-ji,’ Kamla mami begged Duke’s mother, who shook her head.
“We are not hungry,’ Duke’s father said. Duke, his parents and a dozen close
relatives sat on the sofas next  to the stage. Half a dozen waiters stood by wit h
trays but the boy’s side ate nothing.
‘The snacks are not hot, go get fresh ones,’ Minti’s father screamed at the
wait ers. His anger was misplaced. The boy’s family had not refused food because
of  its temperature.

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