2 States The Story Of My Marriage (14 page)

The waiter reloaded our sambhar and delivered the banana dosa. The latter

tasted like a pancake, and I have to say, wasn’t bad at all. ‘Oh, that’s where I am

staying, right?’

‘Yes, the Citi chummery. My first home too,’ he leaned forward and patted my

back.

I suppose I had a good boss. I should have felt happy but didn’t. I wondered if I
should call HLL first or straight land up there.

I came back to my desk in the afternoon. I met some customers, but most of

them didn’t have time to stay long. Ms Sreenivas had given me a lucky break, but

it wasn’t that easy to woo conservative Tamilians, after all.

‘Fixed deposit. I like fixed deposit,’ one customer told me when I asked him for
his investment preferences.

At three in the afternoon, I had a call.

‘It is for you, sir,’ Sri said as she transferred the line to my extension.

‘Hi, I’d like to open a priority account, with my hot-shot sexy banker.’

‘Ananya?’ I said, my voice bursting with happiness, ‘Where are you? When are

we meeting? Should I come to HLL? I am sorry my flight…’

‘Easy, easy. I am in Kancheepuram.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘Three hours from Chennai. I’ll head back soon. Why don’t you come home for

dinner?’

‘Home? Your home? With your mom and dad?’

‘Yes, why not? You have to know them anyway. Mom’s a little low these days,

but that is OK.’

‘Why is she low? Because of us?’

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‘No, she finds other reasons to be miserable. Luckily, this time it has nothing
to do with me.’

‘Ananya, let’s go out, OK?’

‘I can’t today. My aunt is visiting from Canada. Come at eight.’ She gave me

her address. I noted it down after making her spell it thrice. ‘See you in five

hours,’ she said and hung up.

I stared at the watch, hoping it would move faster. The reps left at six, and as
Citi’s great culture goes, MBAs never left until eight.

I killed time reading reports on the Indian economy. Smart people had written

them, and they made GDP forecasts for the next ten years with confidence that

his the basic fact – how can you really tell, dude?

At seven-thirty I stood up to leave. Bala came towards me. “Leaving?’ he

asked, puzzled as if I had planned to take a half day.

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Not much to do.’

‘One tip, never leave before your boss,’ he said and winked at me. He laughed,

and I didn’t find it funny at all. I want to see what a Tamil joke book looks like.

‘What time do you leave?’ I said, tired.

‘Soon, actually let me call it a day. Kusum will be waiting. You want to come

home for dinner?’

‘No, thanks,’ I said.

He gave me the second disappointed look.

‘I have to go somewhere, distant relatives,’ I said.

‘Oh,’ he said, his voice still a little sad.

I am sorry dude, I am not handing you the remote of my life because you are my boss,
I thought.

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17

‘Swaminathan’, the name plate of Ananya’s small standalone house proclaimed in

arched letters. I pressed the doorbell even as a buzzing grinder drowned the ring.

‘Yes?’ Ananya’s father opened the door with a puzzled expression. I bet he

recognised me but feigned ignorance to rattle me. He wore a half-sleeve white

vest with a front pocket and a checked blue and white lungi.

‘Krish, sir, Ananya’s friend,’ I said. For no particular reason, fear makes me

address people as sir. I had brought a gift pack of biscuits, as my Punjabi

sensibilities had taught me to never go to someone’s house without at least as

many calories as you would consume there.

‘Oh, come in,’ he said after I reintroduced myself.

I stepped inside and handed him the gift pack.

‘Shoes!’ he said in a stern voice when I had expected ‘thanks’.

‘What?’ I said.

He pointed at the shoe rack outside the house.

I removed my shoes and checked my socks for smells and holes. I decided to

take them off too, I went inside.

‘Don’t step on the rangoli,’ he warned.

I looked down. My right foot rested on a rice flour flower pattern. ‘Sorry, I am
really sorry, sir,’ I said and bent down to repair the pattern.

‘It’s OK. It can’t be fixed now,’ he said and ushered me into the living room.

The long rectangular room looked like what would be left if a Punjabi drawing was

robbed. The sofas were simple, with cushions thinner than Indian Railways

sleepers had and from the opposite of the decadent red velvet sofas Pammi

aunty. The walls had a pale green distemper finish. There were pictures of various

South Indian gods all around the room. The dining area had floor seating. At one

corner, there was a daybed with a tambura (which looks like a sitar) kept on it. An

old man sat there. I wondered if Ananya’s parents were cool enough to arrange

live music for dinner.

‘Sit,’ Ananya’s father said, pointing at the sofa.

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We sat opposite each other as I faced Ananya’s dad for the first time in my life.

I strained my brain hard for a suitable topic. ‘Nice place,’ I said.

‘What is nice? No water in this area,’ uncle said as he picked up a newspaper.

I hung my head, as if to apologise for the water problem in Mylapore.

Ucle opened the newspaper, which blocked his face from mine. I didn’t know if

it was intentional. I kept quiet and turned to the man with the tambura. I smiled,

but he didn’t react. The house had an eerie silence. A Punjabi house is never this

silent even when people sleep at night.

I bent forward to see if uncle was reading the paper or avoiding me. He had

opened the editorial page of The Hindu. He read an opinion piece about AIADMK

asking the government to do an enquiry on the defense minister who had sacked

the naval chief. It was heavy-duty stuff. No one in my family, correction, no one in
my extended clan ever read editorial pages of newspapers, let alone articles

about AIADMK.

Uncle caught me peeking over him and grunted, ‘What?’

‘Nothing,’ I said. I didn’t know why I felt so guilty.

Uncle continued to read for five minutes. I had an opportunity to speak again

when he turned the page. ‘No one is at home, sir?’

‘Where will they go?’

‘I can’t see anyone.’

‘Cooking. Can’t you hear the grinder?’ he said.

I didn’t know if Ananya’s father was naturally like this or extra grumpy today.

Maybe he is pissed about me being here, I thought.

‘You want water?’ he said.

‘No sir,’ I said.

‘Why? Why you don’t want water?’

I didn’t have an answer except that I felt scared and weird in this house. ‘OK,
give me water,’ I said.

‘Radha,’ uncle screamed. ‘Tanni!’

‘Is that Ananya’s grandfather,’ I said, pointing to the old man.

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‘No,’ he said.

I realised Ananya’s father answered exactly what was asked. ‘Who is he?’ I

asked slowly.

‘It’s Radha’s Carnatic music teacher who came to see her. But she is busy in

the kitchen making dinner for you. Now what to do?’

I nodded.

Ananya’s mother came in the living room. She held a tray with a glass of water

and a plate of savouries. The spiral-shaped, brown-coloured snacks resembled

fossilised snakes.

‘Hello, aunty,’ I stood up.

‘Hello, Krish,’ she said.

‘I am sorry I came at the wrong time,’ I said, looking at the teacher.

‘It’s OK. Ananya invited you. And she has a habit of not consulting me,’

Ananya’s mother said.

‘Aunty, we can all go out,’ I said.

‘It’s OK. Food is almost ready,’ she said and turned to her husband. ‘Give me

half an hour with Guruji.’ She went up to Guruji and touched his feet. The Guruji

blessed her. Ananya’s mother picked up the tambura and they left the room.

‘So, Citibank placed you in Chennai?’ uncle said, initiating conversation with

me for the first time.

‘Yes, sir’ I said. Ananya had told him the bank transferred me.

‘Why do they send North Indians here?’

‘I don’t know, sir.’

‘Useless buggers,’ he mumbled and buried himself in his newspaper again.

I cleared my throat and finally gathered the courage to ask. ‘Where’s Ananya?’

Uncle looked up in shock as if I had asked him where he kept his porn

collection. ‘She had gone for a bath. She will come after evening prayers.’

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I nodded. Ananya never did any evening prayers in Ahmedabad. I heard noises

from the other room. They sounded like long wails, as if someone was being

slowly strangled. I looked puzzled and uncle looked at me.

‘Carnatic music,’ uncle said. ‘You know?’

I shook my head.

‘Then what do you know?’ he asked and sank into The Hindu waiting for me to

respond.

I had an urge to run out of the house. What the fuck am I doing here in this

psycho home? I heard footsteps outside.

‘Sorry,’ Ananya said, coming in.

I turned to look at her. I was seeing her after two months. She wore a cream-

coloured cotton sari with a thin gold border. She seemed prettier than I last saw

her. I wanted to grab her and plant the biggest kiss on her lips ever. Of course,

things had to be different with Mr Hindu-addict Grumpyswami in front of me.

‘Hi Ananya, good to see you,’ I greeted her like a colleague at work. I kept my
hands close to my body.

‘What? Give me a hug,’ she said and uncle finally lost interest in The Hindu.

‘Sit here, Ananya,’ he said and carefully folded the newspaper like he would

read it again every day for the rest of his life.

‘Hi dad,’ Ananya said and kissed her father on the cheek. I felt jealous. ‘Oh,

mom is singing,’ she said, upon hearing her mother shriek again.

‘Yes, finally,’ Ananya’s father said. ‘Can you tell the raga?’

Ananya closed her eyes to listen. She looked beautiful but I had to look away

as uncle eyed every move of mine.

‘It’s malhar, definitely malhar,’ she said.

Uncle nodded his head in appreciation.

‘How many ragas are there?’ I asked, trying to fit in.

‘A thousand, yeah dad?’ Ananya said.

‘At least. You don’t listen to Carnatic music?’ uncle said to me.

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‘Not much, but it is kind of nice,’ I said. Of course, saying I have no fucking
clue what you are talking about didn’t seem quite right.

‘Mom won two championships at the Tamil Sangam in Kolkata when dad was

posted there,’ Ananya said, her voice proud.

‘But she has stopped singing since we came to Chennai,’ uncle said and threw

up his hands.

‘Why?’ I said.

‘Various reasons,’ Ananya said and gestured at me to change the topic.

‘Your aunt is here?’ I asked.

‘Yes, Shobha athai is in the kitchen. She is dad’s elder sister.’

I prayed Shobha aunty didn’t have a personality like her brother’s. Silence fell
in the room. I picked up a snack to eat it. Every crunch would be clearly in the

room. I had to keep the conversation going. I had read a book on making friends a

while ago. It said take an interest in people’s work and keep bringing their name

into the conversation.

‘So, you have worked all over India, Mr Swaminathan?’ I said.

‘A few places, until I became stuck here,’ he said.

‘Stuck? I thought you like Chennai, your hometown,’ I said.

Uncle gave me a dirty look. I wondered if I had said something inappropriate.

‘I’ll get Shobha. Let’s eat dinner soon,’ uncle said and left the room. I wanted
to ask Ananya about her father, but I wanted to grab her first.

‘Don’t,’ Ananya said as she sensed my intentions.

‘What?’

‘Don’t move. Keep a three-feet distance,’ she said.

‘Are you mad? There is no one here.’

‘Not here? My mother is singing in the next room for God’s sake.’

‘That’s singing?’

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‘Shut up,’ she giggled. ‘And I’d suggest you learn a bit of Carnatic music. No,
stop, don’t get off the sofa.’ She gave me a flying kiss and I subsided back into

the sofa.

‘Dad is having a bad month at the bank,’ Ananya whispered. ‘He got passed

over for promotion. He deserved to head Bank of Baroda for his district but dirty

politics happened. And he hates politics.’