From the dining table at the centre of the flat, Deepa noticed a large oil painting in the drawing room of a pretty young woman dressed in a sari, who she assumed was the late Mrs. Sharma. She stole glances at the portrait, trying to glean anything of interest, but it offered little. It was a sober depiction of a young woman wearing a green and gold sari. Deepa had heard from people at the temple that Varoon Sharma was a widower. At first news of this last week, Deepa was secretly elated. The fact that the Sharmas had no matriarch meant that if there was to be a match, Jyoti would be the head matriarch of the family, not under the constant eye and judgment of a mother-in-law. There were so many cruel mothers-in-law willing to slowly torture their daughters-in-law by subjugating them, making them servants in the kitchen. Some, in the suburbs, slums, and villages, were less subtle, paying strangers to throw acid on their non-compliant daughters-in-law’s faces, scarring, disfiguring them for life if they didn’t obey. It wasn’t just the uneducated lower class that inflicted this type of barbarity; the upper classes could be just as ruthless, and sometimes worse because they felt they lived with some impunity, which some did. What happened to the legions of poor girls whose faces were savaged by these types of attacks? It made one shudder. There were too few people in the world who knew mercy. But it was how the world worked. It was her duty to see to it that her daughter, her baby, was kept out of harm’s way and out of the cycle of domestic violence. The lucky ones might not be physically abused, but there were countless girls who suffered daily hardships, who were told that their cooking or child-rearing was subpar, criticized every day in some small passive-aggressive way, humiliated little by little. Some mothers-in-law were so astute in this that they had the entire neighbourhood convinced they themselves were saints, that they were the most gracious and caring of women, while behind closed doors they inflicted emotional torture, and of course their perfect sons were never chastised. Also, if over the years a son was not produced, the daughters-in-law would somehow be blamed. Since divorce was out of the question as it blighted both families, these young women were sometimes driven to commit suicide, like her poor cousin in Gujarat had a few years ago. Those were the extreme cases, of course, but it was her duty to ensure that her Jyoti baby not be married into a family remotely like that.
Could Varoon Sharma be one of those types? He might be rich and powerful but was he actually crass and backward? He seemed confident in his traditional white kurta and pyjama and diamond-encrusted Rolex. His broad shoulders and thick salt-and-pepper hair suggested confidence, wisdom. He didn’t seem desperate to please—there was something reassuring about that, but Deepa wasn’t entirely convinced yet. It was her daughter’s future, after all. She wasn’t about to let good posture and expensive jewelry influence her judgment.
Varoon said, “The Australians have some fine pace bowlers this year . . .”
If there was to be a match between their families, she wondered if Varoon would ultimately be bold enough to ask for a dowry. Although Deepa abhorred how dowries devalued females, making them a liability to their parents, they were still a felicitous part of the ceremony and ritual of Hindu marriages. Instead of goats and chickens or money, nowadays among some of the more refined classes it was fine saris and jewelry that were given. Luckily, Patik women had a taste for fine jewelry and over the years Deepa had inherited a sizeable collection. In the vault there not only lay gold bars, but also fine artisanal jewelry made from diamonds and rubies, emeralds and sapphires, that would slacken Varoon Sharma’s jaw. And, with no mother-in-law in the picture, the jewels would all be Jyoti’s.
“Jyoti works with Citibank,” Mrs. Patik beamed. “She finished her master’s at the London School of Economics,” quickly adding, “with distinction,” and then tried to contain her smile, fearful of appearing crass, boastful. It was a fine balance this arranged marriage business, presenting yourself as the best qualified candidate while being modest.
Varoon seemed impressed but now Deepa felt a hot spell come on. She sipped some ice water. Had menopause already begun? She’d been getting these hot flashes ever since London. Or was that just the anxiety that someone might find out about the incident? Apart from her and Jyoti, no one knew. But Deepa was keenly aware of the minefield of gossips, countless housewives who lived for nothing other than to get together in the afternoons over tea, clucking their tongues at scandals and reprobates: “Did you see what the girl from the fifth floor was wearing?” “It’s no surprise, I hear her second cousin ran off and eloped into a love marriage!” Of course when she hosted tea socials, Deepa didn’t incite that type of talk herself, but she understood the purpose it served. It was gossip as much as it was intelligence. A community of women that kept each other informed was a strong one. And if it meant that they indirectly spread some fear and shame into their girls for behaving inappropriately, then it was of value because society would judge the young women for misbehaving, for the tiniest slip (but not the men—never the men!). This was how the world worked, and so in fact it was their duty, as mothers, to keep each other informed, to instill the right morals in their daughters.
Getting down to business, Deepa said, “You must hear Jyoti’s kundali.”
Varoon said, “Yes, of course. Please.”
“It’s quite simple really,” she said, motioning her husband to unfurl the papers on the table, which he did while rolling his eyes ever so slightly. The professor was a closet atheist and didn’t believe in kundalis. He was about to say something but Deepa shot him a look that made him keep quiet and sit back. She explained to Varoon, “The panditji said Jyoti would be a highly intelligent and successful girl through her whole life. Her ninth house is very robust, indicating success with higher education. And it’s been quite accurate. Jyoti’s always been at the top of her class. In her seventh house, where marriage and partnership are concerned, the Sun firmly sits, marking her marriage a great success.” Deepa beamed, this time without restraint. She didn’t care if she was being boastful, the arranged marriage game of peacocking had begun and she wanted the Sharmas to know that they should consider themselves lucky to have a girl like Jyoti sitting at their table.
Deepa continued, “He said all matters of Jyoti’s life would be generally rewarding and prosperous: a long life with health and wealth. She will have a solid relationship with her soulmate and healthy children. At least one son.”
Varoon said, “Obviously you’ve been blessed with a talented and beautiful daughter. I don’t need a kundali to see that. And I hope to have as many granddaughters as grandsons.”
It was the right thing to say. No one ever actually admitted it out loud these days that they preferred boys over girls, at least in their class of society, but Deepa kept her eyes on Varoon to see if he really meant it. His relaxed, genuine smile convinced her, for now, that he wasn’t a misogynist.
“Would you like to hear Anush’s kundali?” Varoon said.
“Of course, please do tell,” Deepa said, shooting her husband a look to remind him to stay in his place. The custom of kundalis at arranged marriages was an ancient practice. She wasn’t about to let his upstart passive-aggressive opinions sully venerable traditions.
“Right after Anush was born, I ran through a monsoon storm and knocked at the panditji’s door in the middle of the night. Obviously, he was reluctant to make the chart right then. But I was so excited that I begged him. Eventually he relented, and when he made Anush’s chart, his face went grave, he didn’t say anything.”
This piqued everyone’s interest, including the doctor’s.
Laying the astrological charts on the table for all to admire, Varoon explained, “The panditji sat me down, held my hand, and I’ll never forget his words, he said, ‘This boy is extraordinary. I’ve never seen a kundali like this. With the Sun in his first house, he is a natural-born leader. Courageous, he will overcome great odds through his own means. He will go on to do extraordinary things.’”
Deepa took a breath, doing her best not to think how
for the first time in a while, luck was on their side.
- 39 -
VAROON
1998
“OH MY, FIVE DIFERENT CHUTNEYS for the pani puris? Varoon bhai, you’re spoiling us,” Deepa Patik said. Throughout the pleasantries, Varoon couldn’t help but notice Anush’s indifference, and even though it incensed him, he smiled through it.
A week ago, the BJP president had called about a photo in the newspaper of Anush and the Muslim woman. He warned Varoon, “I can’t risk being associated with a mixed Hindu-Muslim relationship.”
“I’ll take care of it right away,” Varoon assured the president. Varoon’s future with the party and access to commercial and residential real estate deals worth mountains of money were on the line.
After informing Anush of the meeting with the Patiks, the boy was bold enough to contend, “How can I marry a girl I don’t even know?”
“No one is forcing you to marry her. Just meet her and her family. Go out with her, get to know each other.”
“What if I don’t want to marry a Gujarati girl?”
Varoon had warned, “You won’t get a rupee from me for the rest of your life. I’ve decided to sell the furniture shop and that building once and for all. Developers are offering a hefty sum of money. Once you’re married to a respectable Gujarati girl, you will receive half of the money from the sale of the building and your monthly stipend from me will triple.”
Anush had agreed, reluctantly, but the boy’s rebellious streak was so healthy the fool was perhaps still seeing the Muslim girl. He was probably thinking of her right now while they sat at the table with the Patiks. The boy had absolutely no shame. Varoon wanted to reach over and smack Anush on the side of the head but he willed himself to stay put. It required a colossal amount of self-restraint.
“Were the chutneys for the pain puris made from scratch?” Deepa asked.
“Of course,” Varoon replied as Chottu served the table.
Varoon had hoped to achieve two things by serving a Gujarati meal so perfectly prepared by his servants: the first was to let the Patiks see he was somewhat traditional—he didn’t need to serve Western dishes to charm them—and at the same time he wanted them to understand that he wasn’t too orthodox—he wasn’t looking for a cook or head servant as a daughter-in-law. He was happy Jyoti was an educated young woman with a career. He wanted them to see he was unlike most Gujarati men, who proclaimed their modernity to society but really had antiquated notions of marriage and wanted their womenfolk to be nothing but lifetime housewives. By showing that the servants could easily prepare a magnificent multi-course meal without the supervision of a matriarch in the kitchen, he was hoping the Patiks would tacitly understand he was happy to let Jyoti work, and when she was ready to have children she would have skillful servants attend to her needs. If she wasn’t interested in cooking, it would not be required of her.
As Chottu served the puris, Deepa said, “I’ve never seen puris like this in my life. They’re all perfect.”
Chottu and the other servants had been working for days to finish the menu and all of a sudden the amount of food on the table was teetering on overkill. Varoon hoped it wasn’t perceived as desperate.
“Oh my god,” Deepa said, tasting the pani, “this is incredible.”
Varoon had had it special ordered from a pani puri walla who exclusively used Evian water. It cost a ridiculous sum of money, considering it was basically water with a handful of spices, mint, cilantro, cumin, lemon, and ginger, but the delight on the Patiks’ faces was worth every paisa.
He could only pray that the Patiks had not seen the photo of Anush with the Muslim girl in the newspaper. Their arms around each other like drunk lovers—disgraceful.
“Did your servants make these puris? They’re beautiful—like works of art,” Deepa said.
“No, I had a puri maker come in and make them right in our kitchen this afternoon,” Varoon said.
“I insist you give me his phone number. These are exquisite.”
In the case that they’d seen the photo, Varoon wondered if Anush would be able to manoeuvre the conversation, make up some story about how she was just a platonic college chum. But of course the ability to subtly take control of a conversation required a certain amount of competence, aptitude, and Varoon doubted Anush possessed these qualities. If they weren’t innate in the boy, could they be acquired? Was one born with equanimity or was it a learned skill? The ability to remain calm under pressure was priceless and something Varoon felt he’d failed to instill in the boy. But maybe having dominion over one’s wants and emotions was something that came with time, was finessed with experience while being in a role of leadership. Varoon had thought by now Anush would have cultivated some semblance of an adulthood but the boy lacked discipline; he was still too busy partying till the early mornings—the ingrate. He was barely even making an effort to be polite now, sitting slightly hunched over, staring at the table, as though there was something mesmerizing in the grain of the wood. All Varoon could hope for at this point was that Anush wouldn’t excuse himself and nip into his bedroom for a drink, get tipsy, and say something impromptu and stupid, which he’d mistake for courage. The boy seemed to want to revolt against anything to do with his father. Varoon had some empathy, as he, too, had railed against his own father, but this was different. Anush was spoiled, entitled. A prosperous future with a good wife from a decent family was within grasp, right now, but that would change if Anush continued to see that Muslim girl. Would Anush be able to recognize the opportunity he had in front of him? Or would he throw it all away?
Varoon shifted in his chair. It was difficult loving your own children sometimes. He never thought it would turn out like this. He never thought he’d be capable of feeling so disappointed with his own flesh and blood. But perhaps it was his own fault. Perhaps if he’d been harder on the boy. Perhaps if he’d punished him more for doing so poorly in school; after all, Anush’s behaviour wasn’t exactly new. The boy had never excelled at anything. Never had the desire to work hard. Anush’s original kundali told of a rather mediocre life, one in which there was wealth and health but nothing out of the ordinary. The boy was spoiled and Varoon, as the only parent, was the one to blame.
But there was no point in dwelling on the past now. It was time to focus on the task at hand: impress the Patiks and get Anush married to a decent Gujarati girl before the fool ruined his life by doing something stupid like running away and getting married to that Muslim girl.
“Mmm. These might be the best pani puris I’ve ever had,” Deepa said.
“They’re very good, but remember the gol gappas we had in Himachal Pradesh?” Dr. Patik said.
“Darling, there’s no comparison. These are fantastic.”
Hindu-Muslim marriages only worked well in romantic movies. Life was much more complex and nuanced. There was too much history between Hindus and Muslims for Anush ever to be happily married to a Muslim. Things might seem fine to the two of them now, partying in nightclubs every night, smugly proud of being so liberal and open-minded, but after a few years there would be little to hold them together. Society certainly wouldn’t help their union, the public being overwhelmingly against mixed marriages.
Compared to arranged marriages, love marriages were far less successful. The divorce rate in Western countries was flagrant. Even President Clinton seemed to be heading towards divorce after his impeachment. Varoon could only pray the youth of India would be able to resist the temptation of becoming American. There was something inherently distasteful about a culture that espoused freedom and liberty without mentioning responsibility. For a while he’d hoped Anush would grow up and see this for himself, but perhaps the boy had succumbed to the lure of Western hedonism. Perhaps he was slow—not in the sense that he was stupid; Anush just thought about things too much. It made him incapable of making good choices.
“Aree, I’m just saying the gol gappas are quite different,” Dr. Patik said. “The northerners use dif
ferent ingredients and whatnot.”
“Ha ha, bhai,” Deepa argued. “They use phalanoo and dhiknoo kinds of things—God only knows what.”
Varoon knew this meeting was somewhat like a card game and assured himself that he’d played cards with the best, sometimes for lakhs of rupees. A doctor and a housewife would be easy to read, flatter, defeat.
“You’ll have to excuse my husband,” Deepa said to Varoon. “He wouldn’t know a proper authentic Gujarati dish if it slapped him in the face.”
Beneath the playful barbs, there was real animosity between the Patiks. But Varoon sensed that he’d already begun to win over Deepa, the one who wore the pants.
It had crossed Varoon’s mind that the Patiks might have the audacity to ask to take Anush’s kundali and have it double checked by another pandit, upon which the forgery would be revealed. However, Varoon gave the Patiks no opportunity to doubt him. By presenting himself with confidence but without guile, he won their trust. Varoon wished he could mentor his son. Having built an empire from nearly nothing he understood people’s weaknesses. He would tell him that reading people was an art. That listening to people and being a keen observer were skills that needed to be honed. That everyone deeply yearned for something, sometimes so deeply that they weren’t even conscious of it, let alone able to express it. For example, the doctor wasn’t able to stand up to his wife. Perhaps he didn’t love her, perhaps he did, but he certainly didn’t have her respect, and in the two hours that they’d been sitting here, Varoon could see that the doctor craved his wife’s appreciation, or at least for her to show him some deference. And so, even though she made the decisions in their family, Varoon made sure to include her husband at every turn, making him feel as though he were steering the ship.
Once you figured out what it was that people wanted, you had to help them attain it, which earned their trust, their confidence. Once you had that, the sky was the limit.
An Extraordinary Destiny Page 25
