2 States: The Story of My Marriage

by Chetan Bhagat

  ‘I lied. We lived together for two years. But please don’t tell anyone this.’

  ‘Lived together?’ Her eyebrows peaked. ‘Like together? You mean, you have done everything?’

  ‘That’s not important. I only told you so you don’t feel bad about my lack of interest in you.’

  ‘Two years? She didn’t get pregnant?’

  ‘Dolly, stop. Thanks for the coffee.’

  ‘I can make you forget her,’ Dolly said as she opened out her waist-length hair.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I know what guys want.’

  ‘You don’t. And try to stay away from wrong numbers.’

  We left Barista and drove back in her spacious Honda. I realised this Honda could be mine if only I didn’t believe in stupid things like love.

  ‘What should I tell my mother?’ Dolly asked.

  ‘Say you didn’t like me.’

  ‘Why? She’ll ask.’

  ‘It’s easy to slam an IITian down. Say I am a geek, boring, lecherous, whatever,’ I said.

  ‘She doesn’t understand all that,’ Dolly said.

  ‘OK, tell her Krish has no plans to continue in the bank. He’ll quit in a few years to be a writer.’

  ‘Writer?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You are too hi-fi for me,’ she said as we reached her house.

  14

  ‘I can’t believe you said no to Dolly,’ my mother said. ‘There has to be a reason, no?’

  She had brought up the topic for the twentieth time three days later. My father didn’t come home until late so my mother had taken the risk and invited her sister home for lunch. Some Indian men cannot stand any happiness in their wives’ lives, which includes her meeting her siblings.

  ‘Pammi is buying one more house in the next lane. She told me it is for her daughter,’ Shipra masi said, rubbing salt into my mother’s wounds. My mother hung her head low.

  ‘You are making the same mistake again. You chose an army person for your own marriage. You said they are sacrificing people. We have seen how much. You have spent your whole life in misery and poverty.’

  My mother nodded as she accepted her elder sister’s observation. Shipra masi had married rich. Her husband, a sanitary-fittings businessman, had struck gold building toilets. My mother had valued stupid things like virtue, education and nature of profession, and suffered. And according to Shipra masi, I planned to do the same.

  ‘How much will that Madrasin earn?’ Shipra masi inquired. ‘Dolly would have filled your house. When was the last time you bought anything new? Look, even your dining table shakes.’

  Shipra masi banged on the dining table and its legs wobbled. I pressed the top with my palm to neutralise her jerks.

  ‘I say, meet Pammi once again and close it,’ Shipra masi suggested. ‘What are you thinking?’ she said after a minute. ‘Do you know Pammi bought that phone, the one you can walk around with everywhere?’

  ‘Cordless . . .’ my mother said.

  ‘Not cordless, that new one costing twenty thousand rupees. You can take it all over Delhi. Pass me the pickle,’ Shipra masi said. She ate fast to catch up for the lost time she spent on her monologue.

  Cell-phones had recently arrived in India. A minute’s talktime cost more than a litre of petrol. Needless to say, it was the newest Punjabi flaunt toy in Delhi.

  ‘And what is this writer thing? Dolly said you will leave the bank to be a writer one day.’

  ‘What?’ my mother gasped.

  ‘In time, after I have saved some money,’ I said and picked up my plate to go to the kitchen.

  ‘This is what happens if you educate children too much,’ my masi said.

  ‘I have no idea about him becoming a writer. When did this start?’ my mother turned to me as I returned from the kitchen.

  ‘That South Indian girl must have told him. They love books,’ Shipra masi said.

  I banged my fist on the table. The legs wobbled. Maybe we did need to change it.

  ‘Nobody asked me to be a writer. Anyway, it is none of your business, Shipra masi.’

  ‘Look at him, these black people have done their black magic,’ Shipra masi said. ‘Don’t be foolish, Kavita, tell Pammi he will remain in Citibank and make a lot of money. Get his price properly.’

  I glared at everyone at the table, went to the living-room sofa and picked up the newspaper. The matrimonial page opened out. I threw it in disgust.

  ‘Let’s look at some educated girls. You want to see educated girls?’ my mother threw a pacifier at me.

  ‘I have an educated girl. I like her. She has a job, she is pretty, decent, hard-working and has a lot of integrity. What is your problem?’

  ‘Son,’ Shipra masi said, her voice soft for reconciliation, ‘that is all fine. But how can we marry Madrasis? Tomorrow your cousins will want to marry a Gujarati.’

  ‘Or Assamese?’ my mother added.

  ‘My god!’ Shipra masi said.

  ‘So what? Aren’t they all Indian? Can’t they be good human beings?’ I said.

  Shipra masi turned to my mother. ‘Your son is gone. I am sorry, but this boy belongs to Jayalalitha now.’

  The bell rang twice. Panic spread in the house as my father had arrived earlier than usual. I never welcome my father home. However, I was happy as it meant Shipra masi would leave now.

  ‘Hello Jija-ji,’ Shipra masi said as my father entered the house.

  My father didn’t answer. He picked up the newspaper thrown on the floor and folded it.

  ‘I said hello Jija-ji,’ Shipra masi said and smiled. She didn’t give up easily.

  ‘I like your goodbye more than hello,’ my father replied. No one can beat him in the asshole stakes.

  ‘My sister has invited me,’ Shipra masi said.

  ‘Useless people invite useless people,’ my father said.

  Shipra masi turned to my mother. ‘I don’t come here to get insulted. Only you can bear him. The worst decision of your life,’ Shipra masi mumbled as she packed her handbag to leave.

  ‘I would appreciate it if you don’t interfere in our family matters,’ my father said and gave her a brown bag. It was the mithai Shipra masi had brought for us. They exchanged glares.

  ‘Take it or I will throw it in the dustbin,’ my father said.

  I stood up to argue. My mother signalled me to back off. Shipra masi reached the main door. I came with her to shut it. I touched her feet, more out of ritual than respect.

  ‘Son, now don’t make foolish decisions like your mother. Marry a good Punjabi girl before they find out about your father. Dolly is good.’

  My father’s ears are as sharp as his tongue. ‘What is going on? Who is Dolly?’ my father shouted.

  Shipra masi shut the door and left. Nobody answered.

  ‘Are you seeing girls?’ my father demanded of my mother.

  My mother kept quiet.

  ‘Did you see a girl?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. I was kind of glad I did, just to piss him off.

  ‘I will . . .’ he screamed at my mother, lifting his hand.

  ‘Don’t even fucking think about it!’ I came close to him.

  ‘In this house, I make the decisions,’ my father said. He picked up a crystal glass and smashed it on the floor. The violence intended at my mother had to come out somehow.

  ‘You sure seem mature enough to take them,’ I said and moved towards the kitchen.

  ‘Don’t walk barefoot,’ my mother called out. She bent to pick up the splintered shards. Anger seethed within me. Not only at my father, but also my mother; how could she let him get away with this and start cleaning up calmly?

  ‘I don’t know why I come to this house,’ my father said.

  ‘I was thinking the same thing,’ I said.

  ‘Bastard, mind it!’ he shouted at me like he did at his army jawans ten years ago.

  ‘Krish, go to the other room,’ my mother said.

  ‘Not until this nutcase leaves,�
�� I said.

  ‘He can’t be my son. Nobody talks to their father like this.’

  ‘And no father behaves like this,’ I said.

  My mother pushed me towards the bedroom. My father looked around for new things to shout at or break. He couldn’t find much. He turned around and walked out. The loud sound of the door banging shut sent a sigh of relief through the whole house.

  My mother came to my room after cleaning up the glass in the living area. She came and sat next to me on the bed. I didn’t look at her. She held my chin and turned my face towards her.

  ‘You let him do this, so he does it. Why did you have to start cleaning up?’ I sulked.

  ‘Because he’ll break the other glasses, too. And then we will have no more glasses for guests,’ my mother said. ‘Don’t worry. I can manage him.’

  I looked at my mother, a tear rolled down her eye. I felt my eyes turn wet, too.

  ‘You have to leave him,’ I said after we composed ourselves.

  ‘It’s not that simple,’ she said.

  ‘I will earn now,’ I said.

  ‘I am fine. Ninety percent of the time he is not even here. He goes to his army mess, he visits his partners with whom he tries his harebrained business schemes.’

  ‘What? Like that security agency?’ I scoffed.

  ‘Yes, but he picks up fights with customers at the first meeting. Doesn’t exactly make them feel safe,’ my mother said.

  I laughed.

  ‘I can handle him. It is you who gets angry and fights with him,’ my mother said.

  ‘He starts it. What was the need to insult Shipra masi?’

  ‘He won’t change. Shipra is used to him. I worry how you will stay with him when you work in Delhi. Maybe you should take the company accommodation.’

  ‘Or maybe I should not be in Delhi.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I can’t stand him.’

  ‘Where are you planning to go?’

  ‘I don’t know, mom. I can only give a preference to Citibank. It’s no guarantee. Plus you get posted out after two years.’

  ‘You chose Delhi, no?’

  I didn’t answer. Somehow the thought of being in Delhi and seeing ditzy Punjabi girls by day and dad by night didn’t seem terribly exciting.

  ‘You come with me wherever I go,’ I said.

  ‘Where? I can’t leave Delhi. All my relatives are here. You will be in office all day. What will I do in a new city?’

  ‘I want to go to Chennai,’ I said.

  ‘Oh God!’ my mother’s mellow mood shifted gears to overdrive. She got up from the bed. ‘I find this harder to deal with than your father. Are you mad?’

  ‘No, I like Ananya. I want to give our relationship a shot.’

  ‘You’ll become a Madrasi?’

  ‘I am not becoming anything. I’m only going there to live. And Citibank transfers you in two years.’

  ‘I should meet an astrologer. I don’t know what phase you are going through.’

  ‘There is no phase. I love someone.’

  ‘Love is nothing, son,’ my mother patted my cheek and left the room.

  I didn’t submit the Citibank form until the last date. I kept taking my pen to the ‘location preference’ question. It had asked for three choices in order. I couldn’t fill it.

  ‘You’ve sent your form?’ Ananya asked on the phone.

  ‘I will. Almost ready,’ I said.

  ‘Are you crazy? It is the last day. You put Chennai, right?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said and hung up.

  I gave one final glance at the form. I looked at God above and asked him to decide my love-life. I filled up the form:

  Location Preference:

  1. Chennai or Delhi (equal preference)

  2. –

  3. –

  I sealed the form and dropped it off at the bank branch. In my bed I opened Ananya’s letter from last week. I read it every night before going to bed.

  Hello my Punjabi hunk,

  Miss me? I do. I miss our cuddles, I miss our walks in campus, I miss studying together and then going for midnight chai, I miss running to my dorm every morning to brush my teeth, I miss eating pao-bhaji on the char rasta with you, I miss playing footsie in the library, I miss the glances we stole in class, I miss my bad grades and the tears afterwards that you wiped, I miss how you made me laugh, I miss how you played with my hair, I miss how you used to watch me put eye-liner, I miss . . . oh, you get the drift, I miss you like hell.

  Meanwhile, I am fine in Chennai. My mother is at her neurotic best, my father is quiet as usual and my brother always has a book that says Physics, Chemistry or Maths on the cover. In other words, things are normal. I mentioned you again to my mother. She called a priest home who gave me a pendant to make me forget you. Wow, I never thought they’d react to you like this. Well, it is going to take more than a pendant to forget you, but for good measure I tossed it into the Bay of Bengal on Marina Beach. I haven’t mentioned you since, because I know you will come to Chennai and charm them yourself – just as you charmed me.

  Bye, my Love,

  Ananya.

  PS: Oh did I mention, I miss the sex too.

  I read the letter ten times. I read the last sentence a hundred times. I wanted to be with her right that moment. I realised I could have written ‘Chennai’ in the form but I had played roulette with my love-life due to some vague sense of responsibility and guilt towards home. I wondered if Citi would need more people in Delhi as this is where all the money is. After all, a Punjabi is far more likely to want a foreign bank account than a Tamilian. And I am Punjabi, so they would give me Delhi. Something yelped inside me. I read the letter again and again until I fell asleep.

  One week later, I received a call at home. Mother picked it up and said it was from a guy who sounded like a girl.

  ‘Hello?’ I said.

  ‘Hi Krish, it’s Devesh from Citi HR.’

  ‘Oh, hi Devesh. How are you?’

  ‘Good, I just wanted to give you your joining date and location.’

  My heart started to beat fast. ‘Yes,’ I said, excited and nervous.

  ‘So you start on June 1.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘And we are placing you in Chennai.’

  Imaginary fireworks exploded all over the Delhi sky. I felt real love for Devesh, the HR department and Citibank for the first time in my life.

  Act 3:

  Chennai

  15

  My flight landed in Chennai at 7 p.m. We had a six-hour delay in Delhi because a psycho called the airport and said the plane had a bomb. My bags took another hour to arrive on the conveyor belt. As I waited, I looked at the people around me. The first thing I noticed, excuse my shallowness, was that almost ninety percent of the people were dark complexioned. Of these ninety percent, eighty percent had dabbed talcum that gave them a grey skin tone. I understood why Fair & Lovely was invented. I couldn’t understand why people wanted to be fair so bad.

  Most women at the conveyor belt looked like Ananya’s mother; I couldn’t tell one from the other. They all wore tonnes of gold, but somehow it looked more understated than Pammi aunty’s necklaces that had precious stones and pearls hanging from them like shapeless dry fruits.

  I came out of the airport. I had to find an auto to go to my chummery. I fumbled through my pockets to find the slip of paper with my new address. I couldn’t find them in my jeans and almost panicked. I didn’t know any place in Chennai except T. Nagar. And I knew T. Nagar as I took Brilliant Tutorials once upon a time. Somehow, I didn’t think they’d shelter one of their lakh of students from eight years ago.

  I opened my wallet and found my address. I heaved a sigh of relief. I came to the auto stand. Four drivers argued with each other over the next passenger.

  ‘Enga?’ one driver pushed back three drivers and asked me. ‘Enga hotel?’

  ‘No hotel,’ I said and took out my wallet. I opened it and the drivers saw the ten hundred
-rupee notes my mother had given me before leaving Delhi. He smacked his lips. I pulled out the slip with the address.

  ‘English illa,’ he said.

  I looked around. No one proficient in English seemed visible. I read the address.

  ‘Nunga-ba-ka-ma-ma?’ I said.

  ‘Nungambakkam?’ the driver laughed as if it was the easiest word to say in the world.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said and remembered a landmark Devesh had told me. ‘Near Loyola College. You know Loyola College.’

  ‘Seri, seri,’ the driver said. My stay with Ananya had told me that ‘seri’ meant an amiable Tamilian.

  I loaded the luggage. ‘Meter?’

  He laughed again as if I had made a bawdy joke.

  ‘What?’ I tapped the meter.

  ‘Meter illa,’ the driver said loudly, his personality taking on a more aggressive form as he left the airport.

  ‘How much?’ I asked.

  ‘Edhuvum,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t understand. Stop, how much?’

  He didn’t stop or answer. I tapped his shoulder. He looked back. I played dumb charades with him, acting out ‘how much money, dude?’

  He continued to drive. After ten seconds he raised his right palm and stretched out his five fingers wide.

  ‘Five what?’

  He flashed his fingers again.

  ‘Fifty?’

  He nodded.

  ‘OK,’ I said. He understood this word.

  ‘Vokay,’ he said and extended his hand for a handshake. I shook his hand. He laughed and zoomed off into the Chennai sunset.

  I saw the city. It had the usual Indian elements like autos, packed public buses, hassled traffic cops and tiny shops that sold groceries, fruits, utensils, clothes or novelty items. However, it did feel different. First, the sign in every shop was in Tamil. The Tamil font resembles those optical illusion puzzles that give you a headache if you stare at them long enough. Tamil women, all of them, wear flowers in their hair. Tamil men don’t believe in pants and wear lungis even in shopping districts. The city is filled with film posters. The heroes’ pictures make you feel even your uncles can be movie stars. The heroes are fat, balding, have thick moustaches and the heroine next to them is a ravishing beauty. Maybe my mother has a point in saying that Tamil women have a thing for North Indian men.