‘Oh that,’ Guruji laughed, ‘It is on Rue Romain Rolland. One kilometre 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 repeated the story of that 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 path. 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.’
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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 time. 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 coffee. ‘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 then 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?’
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‘Nothing, let’s go. I want to hit the road while there’s still light.’ I picked up my helmet.
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37
‘Aunty, 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 mother wailed.
‘You are practicing, right?’
‘Yes, but….’
‘But what? Have you done any Kaho Na Pyaar Hai songs? Those are hot,’ I said.
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‘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 that, 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 for 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.
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‘Yeah, won’t be the first time though. I’ll manage. Anyway, all of you will come for the concert, right?’ I said.
‘OK listen, if I do have to perform, where and when do I have to report?’
My heart started to beat fast. 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.’
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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 for me to choose from.
‘They are all beautiful,’ I said.
The first 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 the food arrangements. I called Ananya at six to make sure they left on time.
‘You are going to kill me,’ Ananya said.
‘Why?’ I said.
‘Mom is not coming.’
‘Why?’ I said, careful to sound upset.
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‘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 seats 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 straight 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 that’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.
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Ananya arrived with her father and brother at 7.15. ‘Are we late?’ she asked breathlessly. She wore a peach chiffon sari with a skinny silver border. She had accessorised with a silver necklace and matching 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 delightful 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?’
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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 finished 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 sensibilities.
‘Welcome, ladies and gentlemen,’ Smitha said, holding the mike in her hand.
‘Are you having a good time?’
Nobody responded.
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‘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.
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39
‘What?’ Ananya’s father stood up as well.
Ananya looked at the 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 introductory 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 jiffy. 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 notice, 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 stage,’ she said as she played footsie with me.
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Her mother switched 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 modulation. 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