Anil didn’t answer. He just laughed. The sadistic laugh of seeing a fish out of water gasp for life. ‘What happened? HR screwed up?’ Anil said. His phone rang again. The secretary confirmed business class and a BMW pickup at the airport.
Anil asked her to make sure it is a 5-series at least.
‘Remember the Tata Tea deal we did with BankAm? I came back with that idiot MD from BankAm and the car company sends me a Toyota and a 5-series for him.
Can you imagine what I went through?’ Anil emphasized again. The secretary confirmed she wouldn’t make him slum it in a car that cost less than an apartment. Calmness spread in the room as Anil’s mood improved.
‘Where was i?’ Anil said and looked at me. He laughed again. ‘Which college are you from?’
‘IIMA,’ I said.
‘Salute, sir,’ Anil said and mock-saluted me.
I didn’t brag about my college, you asshole, I wanted to say. He got the name out of me.
‘I went to IIMC. I was on the waitlist for IIMA but they never called me. I guess I am not as smart as you,’ Anil said.
I had no clue how to answer that question. Another trainee in the room was from IIMC and he introduced himself. They hi-fived before Anil turned to me again.
‘But who cares, I became the country manager and many of your IIMA seniors didn’t,’ Anil said and winked at me.
Obviously you still care, you obnoxious, insecure prick ,I said to myself even as I smiled. What would life be without mental dialogue.
‘So, you had the idea of selling Internet stocks to housewives?’ Anil asked after he touched down from his gloat-flight. ‘And Bala, you didn’t stop him.’
‘Sir, I always try to encourage young talent. Plus, IIMA, I thought he’d know,’
Bala said, picking on Anil’s resentment against my bluest of the blue-blooded institute.
‘IIMA, yeah right,’ Anil said. ‘You have cost the bank more business than you can ever make back in five years.’
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I wondered if I should cancel my deal with Bala. Even the personalized coffee didn’t seem worth it.
‘What about monitoring? Bala, you didn’t monitor when the losses started?’
‘I was getting more business, sir,’ Bala said.
We had a lunch-break. I didn’t join the group. One, I had to prepare for IIT
trigonometry for the class tomorrow with brother-in-law. Two, I didn’t need any more slamming. And three, the food was South Indian special, which I had begun to hate by now and I was sure Anil would too.
Post-lunch, Anil wrapped up the meeting. ‘I want good customer numbers.
Either bring those customers back or win new ones, I don’t care. And please have better food next time.’
‘We will, sir, we are working super hard,’ Bala said.
The other trainees nodded. Apart from the IIMC guy, they hadn’t spoken a word during the meeting.
‘I can tell you this Internet debacle will lead to layoffs across the bank. And if we see Chennai at the bottom, literally and figuratively, there will be layoffs.’ Anil said and horror showed on all faces at his last words.
‘And you, HR error,’ Anil said and tapped my shoulder. ‘You need to buck up big time.’
The BMW came to the branch to take Anil and our anxieties away. Bala came to my desk after we had come back to our seats. ‘Thanks, buddy. I owe you,’ he said.
‘Big time, buddy, big time,’ I said.
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24
I figured it must be a special occasion when I heard excessive frying sounds from Ananya’s kitchen. I had completed two months of tuitions and Manju had become smarter than the kids in the Complan and Bournvita ads. I could bet one month of my after-tax, PF and HRA alary that Manju would crack IIT, medical or any draconian entrance exam known to man. Most of it was his own work, and my waking up at five had little to do with it.
‘What’s going on,’ I said and sneezed twice. The pungent smell of burnt chillies flared my nostrils.
‘Special cooking for special guests,’ Manju said, while continuing to solve his physics numerical.
‘Who?’
‘Harish, from the bay area,’ Manju said.
‘Harish who?’
Another fryer went on the stove. This time smells of mustard, curry leaves and onions reached us. If this was one of those prize-winning Indian novels, I’d spend two pages on how wonderful those smells were. However, the only reaction I had was a coughing fit and teary eyes.
‘You are rhumba sensitive,’ Manju said and looked up at me in disgust. He stood up and went to the door. ‘Switch on the exhaust fan, amma,’ he screamed and shut the door.
Ananya’s mother continued to tackle the contents of the fryer. ‘OK, you go for bath. They will come anytime,’ Ananya’s mother said and went to max volume,
‘Ananya! Are you ready?’
‘Who is Harish?’ I asked again as Manju refused to look up from his problem.
‘The nakshatram matched no, so they are here. Ok, so g is 9.8 metres per second squared and the root of …’ Manju drifted off to the world he knew best, leaving me alone to deal with my world, where a boy was coming to meet my girlfriend to make her his wife.
I yanked Manju’s notebook from him.
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‘Aiyo, what?’ Manju looked at me shocked.
‘What’s the deal with Harish. Tell me now or I’ll tell your mother you watch porn,’ I said.
Manju looked stunned. ‘I don’t watch porn,’ he said in a scared voice.
‘Don’t lie to me,’ I said. Every boy watches porn.
‘Only once I s …saw a blue film, at my friend’s house, by mistake,’ he stuttered.
‘How can you watch it by mistake?’
‘It belonged to my friend’s dad. Please don’t tell amma.’
His face, even his spectacles looked terrified. I closed the books. ‘Tell me all about Harish. How did this happen?’
Manju told me about Harish, the poster boy of the perfect Tamilian groom.
Radha aunty had pitched Harish for the last two years. He fit every criteria applied by Indian parents to make him a worthwhile match for Ananya. He was Tamilian, a Brahmin and an Iyer (and those are three separate things, and non-compliance in any can get you disqualified). He had studied in IIT Chennai and had scored a GPA of 9.45 (yes, it was advertised to the Swamis)’
He went on to do an MS with full scholarship and now worked in Cisco Systems, an upcoming Silicon Valley company. He never drank or ate meat or smoked (or had fun, by extension) and had a good knowledge of Carnatic music and Bharatnatyam. He had a full half-inch-thick moustache, his own house in the San Francisco suburbs, a white Honda Accord and stock options that, apart from the last three months, had doubled every twelve minutes. He even had a telescope he used to see galaxies on the weekend (I told you he had no fun).
Manju was more excited at the prospect of seeing the telescope and thought it reason enough for his sister to marry that guy.
‘He said you can actually see the colours on the rings of Saturn,’ Manju said, excited.
‘You spoke to him?’
‘He called. Couple of times,’ Manju said.
‘Ananya spoke to him?’
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‘No. he used to call when she wasn’t at home. Anyway, until the nakshatram matches, the boy and the girl are not allowed to talk.’
‘Nakshatram what?’ I asked. The list of Tamilian hoops one needs to jump before getting married seemed infinite.
‘Horoscope. It is a must. If they don’t match, boy and girl’s side don’t talk. But they have matched for akka and him.’
I thought about my own family. The only nakshatram we think about is the division of petrol pumps when we have to see the girl.
‘You are a science whiz kid who wants to see Saturn rings. And you accept that people whose horoscopes don’t match shouldn’t talk?’ I said.
‘That’s how it is in our culture,’ Manju said, his hands itching to get to his workbook. I gave him back his notes.
‘And he is coming now?’ I said.
‘Yes, for breakfast. And please, don’t snatch my notebook again.’
‘I am sorry,’ I said and stood up. I wanted to have a showdown with Ananya about this. Surely, she’d have known a bit more about his visit. But for now, I wanted to get out.
‘Bye, Manju,’ I said as I turned to leave.
‘Krish bhaiya, can I ask you one thing?’ he said.
‘What?’ I said.
‘Can something bad happen if you watch blue films?’
I stared at him.
‘I won’t, I promise, I just wanted to know,’ he said.
‘If you just watch them?’
‘Just watching …and,’ he said and hesitated, ‘and if you do something else afterwards.’
‘Why don’t you ask your appa?’
‘Aiyo, what are you saying?’
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‘You could become blind,’ I said with a serious face.
‘Really? He said, ‘how is that possible?’
‘Be careful,’ I winked at him and left.
‘’Welcome, welcome,’ greetings had started at the entrance even before I could leave the house.
A crowd had gathered at the main door – Ananya’s dad and mom, Shobha athai, three other Kanjeevaram-clad aunties and two random uncles in safari suits became the welcome party. They received Harish like an astronaut who had returned from the first Indian lunar mission. The only time grown-ups get excited about young people is when young people are getting married and the old people control the proceedings. I had come to Ananya’s house several times, and I had received a welcome no better than the guy who came to collect the cable bill. But Harish had it all. Aunties looked at him like he was a cuddly two-year-old, only he was fifty times the size and had a moustache that could scare any cuddly two-year-old. He wore sunglasses, quite unnecessary at seven in the morning, apart from showing off his sense of misplaced style. He had come with his parents, a snug Tamilian family who walked into the room with their overachiever in shades.
Fortunately, he removed them when he sat on the sofa.
Ananya’s father noticed me with a confused expression.
‘Uncle, I was leaving,’ I said. ‘Sorry. I came for Manju’s tuitions.’
‘Had breakfast?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I said.
‘Then sit,’ he said. The firmness in his voice made me obey instantly. I wanted to wriggle out of it, but a part of me wanted to see the drama unfold. Uncle’s attention shifted to the new guests. Maybe he had made me stay intentionally. I perched in a corner chair like a domestic servant who is sometimes allowed to watch TV.
The taxi driver came in to ask for his bill and Harish’s dad stepped outside to settle it. They couldn’t agree on the price and their argument began to heat up.
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Harish’s dad bargained for the last five rupees even as Harish’s mother casually mentioned another of their son’s achievement. ‘MIT calling him, requesting him to do Ph.D. at their college.’
All the ladies in the room had a mini orgasm. Marble flooring is to a Punjabi what a foreign degree is to a Tamilian.
‘But his Cisco boss said, nothing doing. You cannot leave me.’ Harish’s mother said. Harish kept a constant smile during the conversation.
Manju came into the room and called me.
‘What?’ I asked, dreading another physics problem.
I went into his room. Ananya sat on his bed, wearing a stunning peacock blue sari – the same colour she wore the day I had proposed to her.
‘Go, your groom is waiting,’ I said.
‘Manju, leave the room,’ she said.
Manju had already sat down to study again. ‘Aiyo, where should I go?’
‘Go and meet the guests. Or help Amma in the kitchen,’ Ananya said in a no-nonsense way.
Manju went to the living room with the physics guide.
I turned away from Ananya.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘Who the fuck invented the word sorry? How can there be just one word to answer for anything one does. Tomorrow you could marry Mr Sunglasses outside, and then say sorry. What am I supposed to say?’
‘Don’t overreact. I am doing it to fob off Shobha aunty. I still have the final say.
I’ll say no.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Because this is not important. You saw the petrol pump girl, didn’t you?’
‘But I told you later. And it wasn’t a formal thing. My mother went to visit Pammi aunty.’
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‘And neither is this formal. My parents said Harish is only coming for a casual visit.’
Oh, so people match horoscopes casually?’
‘It is the first step. And Shobha aunty did it. Krish, listen …’
‘Ananya!’ a Tamil-accented scream filled the room.
‘I love you,’ she said, ‘and I have to go now.’ She brushed past me to the door.
‘Why are you wearing this stunning sari?’ I placed my hand on the bolt to stop her.
‘Because my mother chose it for me. Now, can I go or do you want appa to come here?’
‘Let’s elope,’ I said.
‘Let’s not give up,’ she stood up on her toes to kiss me. The taste of strawberry lip-gloss lingered on m lips.
I came outside after five minutes. The hubbub over Harish had settled down a little. The men opened their newspapers. The women gave each other formal smiles like ballet dancers. The groom took out his latest Motorola Startac mobile phone, checking messages. Ananya’s mother served her standard fossilised snake snacks. No one spoke to each other. In a Punjabi home, if a similar silence occurred, you could assume that something terrible has happened – like someone has died or there is a property dispute or someone forgot to put butter in the black daal. But this is Ananya’s home protocol. You meet in an excited manner, you serve bland snacks and you open the newspaper or exchange dead looks.
My re-entry made everyone notice me. Ananya’s mother seemed surprised.
Ananya sat next to her and faced Harish’s parents. I occupied my corner chair.
‘Manju’s tutor,’ Ananya’s mother said. Everyone looked at me, the tutor who came to teach in a corporate suit.
‘He is Ananya akka’s classmate,’ Manju said, restoring some status to me.
‘You also went to IIMA? I have many colleagues who are your seniors,’ Harish said.
‘Really? That’s nice,’ I said. I wanted to shove the spiral snacks up his moustache-covered nose, but I kept a diplomatic smile.
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Ananya’s father spoke to Harish’s father in Tamil. ‘Something something Citibank Chennai posted something. Something something Punjabi fellow.’
Everyone nodded and felt relieved after my credentials of being a Punjabi made me a safe outsider.
‘Talk, Ananya,’ Ananya’s mother whispered to her.
‘How long are you here for?’ Ananya asked as her bangles jingled. She really didn’t have to wear the bangles.
‘Two weeks. Then I have to go for our annual conference to Bali,’ he said.
‘Bali?’ one of Ananya’s aunts said.
‘Bali is an island in Indonesia, an archipelago. It is eight hours flying time from here via Singapore,’ Harish’s mother said.
Everyone nodded as they absorbed the little nugget of knowledge before breakfast. Ananya’s family loved knowledge, irrespective of whether they ever used it.
We moved to the dining table, or rather the dining floor. Ananya’s mother had already kept the banana leaves. I found them a little greener than usual, perhaps my jealousy reflected in them.
Aunties loaded up Harish’s leaf.
‘This is too much,’ Harish said, pointing to the six idlis on his leaf. ‘Does anyone want one?’ He picked up an idli and placed it in Ananya’s leaf.
‘Wow!’ all the aunties screamed in unison.
‘See, how much care he is taking of her already. You are so lucky, Ananya,’ an aunt said as I almost tore a piece of banana leaf and ate it.
I saw the bowl of sambhar in the middle. I wondered if I should pick it up and upturn it on Harish’s head. She can take her own idlis, idiot, why don’t you go drown in Bali, I thought.
Harish thought it really funny to shift everything he was served to Ananya. He transferred parts of upma, pongal, chutney and banana chips from his leaf to hers. Really Harish, did anybody teach you not to stretch a bad joke too far? And all you aunts, can you please stop sniggering so as to no encourage this moron?
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‘We must decide the date keeping in mind the US holiday calendar,’ Shobha aunty said and I felt she was moving way, way too fast.
‘Easy, aunty, easy,’ Ananya said.
Thanks, Ananya madam, that is so nice of you to finally impart some sense to these people. ‘You OK?’ Manju offered an idli to me. I had spent two months with him.
He could sense the turmoil in me.
‘I’m good,’ I said.
The breakfast continued. And then Ananya’s mother did something that paled all the idli-passing and date-setting comments. She began to cry.
‘Amma?’ Ananya said as she stood up and came to her mother.
Amma shook her head. Manju looked at her but didn’t stop eating. The uncles pretended nothing had happened.
‘What, Radha?’ Suruchi aunty said as she put a hand on Amma’s shoulder.
‘Nothing, I am so happy. I am crying for that,’ she said in such an emotional voice even I got a lump in my throat. All the other aunts had moist eyes. Harish’s mother hugged Ananya’s mother. I looked at Ananya. She rolled her eyes.
‘How quickly our children grow up,’ one aunt said, ignoring the small fact that with the children, she’d grown into an old woman, too.
I’m going to get you all, I will, I swore to myself as I went to wash my hands.
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25
‘Why don’t you tell them! This gradual strategy is obviously not working,’ I said as I opened the menu.
We had come to Amethyst, a charming teahouse set in an old colonial bungalow. It is one of the few redeeming aspects of the city. Set in a one-acre plot, the bungalow is on two levels. Outside the bungalow there are grand verandahs with cane furniture and potted plants with large leaves. Waiters bring eclectic drinks like jamun iced tea and mint and ginger coolers along with expensive dishes with feta cheese in them. It is a favourite haunt of stylish Chennai ladies and couples so madly in love, they feel a hundred bucks for jamun mixed with soda was OK.
‘I’ll have the jamun iced and chicken sandwich, and some scones and cream, please.’ Ananya said.
‘And some water, please,’ I said to the waiter.
‘Still or sparkling, sir?’ the waiter said.
‘Whatever you had a bath with this morning,’ Krish said.
‘Sir?’ the waiter said, taken aback, ‘tap water, sir.’
‘Same, get me that,’ I said.
‘I have told them, of course. They don’t agree,’ Ananya said, as we reverted to our topic.
‘Is Mr Har