2 States: The Story of My Marriage

by Chetan Bhagat

Three years ago

  My father came home at midnight. I had waited for hours. I didn’t have time, I had to talk to him tonight. He refused dinner with a wave of his hand and sat on the living room sofa to take off his shoes.

  ‘Dad?’ I said, my voice low. I wore shorts and a white T-shirt. The T-shirt had a tiny hole at the shoulder.

  ‘What?’ he turned to me. ‘Is this what you wear at home?’

  ‘These are my nightclothes,’ I said.

  ‘You don’t have proper nightclothes?’

  I changed the topic. ‘Dad, I want to talk about something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I like a girl.’

  ‘Obviously, you have time to waste,’ he said.

  ‘It’s not like that. She is a nice girl. An IIT professor’s daughter.’

  ‘Oh, so now we know what you did at IIT.’

  ‘I’ve graduated. I have a job. I’m preparing for MBA. What’s the problem?’

  ‘I don’t have a problem. You wanted to talk,’ he said, not looking at me.

  ‘The girl’s father is taking her abroad. They’ll get her engaged to someone else.’

  ‘Oh, so her father doesn’t approve of it.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why?’

  I looked at the floor. ‘We had some issues with him, me and my friends.’

  ‘What issues? Disciplinary issues?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Shocking. The son of an army officer has disciplinary issues. All the reputation I have built, you’ll destroy it.’

  ‘Those issues are history now.’

  ‘Then why does he have a problem? Does your mother know about this?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Why hasn’t she told me? Kavita!’ my father screamed.

  My mother came to the room, woken from a deep sleep. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Why was I not informed about this girl earlier?’ my father screamed.

  ‘He told me only a few weeks ago,’ my mother said.

  ‘And you hid it from me, bitch,’ my father said.

  ‘Don’t talk to mom like that,’ I said in reflex. I would have said more, but I needed him today.

  My mother broke into tears. This wasn’t going well at all.

  ‘Dad, please. I want your cooperation. If you meet her father, he may reconsider.’

  ‘Why should I meet anyone?’ he said.

  ‘Because I love her. And I don’t want her to go away.’

  ‘You are distracted, not in love.’

  ‘Leave it, Krish, he won’t listen. See how he talks to me. You don’t know how I lived when you were in hostel.’

  My father lunged menacingly towards my mother. He raised a hand to hit her. I pulled my mother behind me. ‘Don’t,’ I said.

  ‘Who do you think you are?’ He slapped me hard on my right cheek. I sat down on the dining room chair.

  ‘Leave us and go. Why do you even come back?’ My mother folded her hands at him.

  ‘Don’t beg, mom,’ I said, fighting a lump in my throat. My father had made fun of me earlier for crying. To him, only weak men cried.

  ‘Look at his voice, like a girl’s,’ my father mocked. He gave me a disgusted glance and went to the bathroom to change.

  ‘Go to sleep, son,’ my mother said.

  ‘He is sending her away next week,’ I said.

  ‘What girl have you involved yourself with? You are so young,’ my mother said.

  ‘I am not marrying her tomorrow.’

  ‘Is she Punjabi?’ my mother asked.

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘What?’ she said, shocked as if I’d suggested she wasn’t human.

  ‘Will you meet her father, once?’

  My father came out of the bathroom. He had heard my last sentence. ‘Don’t you dare go anywhere, Kavita,’ my father said, his eyes wild.

  I stared back at him.

  ‘Go to your room,’ my father said.

  I came back to my bed. I heard noises in my parent’s room. I couldn’t sleep. I woke up and came towards their room. I’d heard enough arguments of my parents throughout my life to care, but I placed my ear at the door, anyway.

  ‘He is growing up,’ my mother said.

  ‘With all the wrong values. What does he know about girls? He is my son, he is from IIT, see what deal I get for him at the right time.’

  There it was, for all my father’s principles, I was his trophy to be sold in the market to the highest bidder.

  ‘You are responsible for bringing him up like this,’ my father screamed at my mother. I heard the sound of a glass being smashed against the wall.

  ‘What have I done? I didn’t even know about this girl. . . .’

  Slap . . . slap . . . my father interrupted my mother. I banged the door open as I heard a few more slaps. I saw my mother’s hand covering her face. A piece of glass had cut her forearm.

  My father turned to me. ‘Don’t you have any manners? Can’t you knock?’

  ‘You don’t teach me manners,’ I said.

  ‘Go away,’ he said.

  I shook my head. I saw the tears on my mother’s face. My face burned with rage. She had lived with this for twenty-five years. I did know why – to bring me up; I didn’t know how she did it.

  My father lifted his hand to hit me. Automatically, I grabbed his wrist tight.

  ‘Oh, now you are going to raise your hand against your own father,’ he said.

  I twisted his arm.

  ‘Leave him, he won’t change,’ my mother panted.

  I shook my head at her, my eyes staring right into his. I slapped his face once, twice, then I rolled my hand into a fist and punched his face.

  My father went into a state of shock, he couldn’t fight back. He didn’t expect this; all my childhood I’d merely suffered his dominance. Today, it wasn’t just about the broken glass. It wasn’t only that the girl I loved would be gone. It was a reaction to two decades of abuse. Or that’s how I defended it to myself. For how else do you justify hitting your own father? At that moment I couldn’t stop. I punched his head until he collapsed on the floor. I couldn’t remember the last time I revelled in violence like this. I was a studious child who stayed with his books all his life. Today, I was lucky there wasn’t a gun at home.

  The insanity passed after five minutes. My father didn’t make eye contact with me. He sat on the floor, and massaged the arm I had twisted. He stared at my mother, with a ‘see, I told you’ expression.

  My mother sat on the bed, fighting back her emotions. We looked at each other. We were a family, but pretty much as screwed up as they come. I took a broom and swept the broken glass into a newspaper sheet. I looked at my father and vowed never to speak to him again. I picked up the newspaper with the glass pieces and left the room.

  36

  ‘That’s it, Guruji,’ I said, the tears now dry on my face. ‘I’ve never shared so much with anyone.’

  The sound of the sea could be heard, the waves asymmetrical to my tumultuous thoughts.

  ‘Open your eyes,’ Guruji said.

  I lifted my eyelids slowly.

  ‘Come, we will go to the balcony behind,’ Guruji said.

  I followed him to a terrace in the rear of the house. The sea breeze felt cool even in the hot sun. I sat on one of the two stools kept outside. He went inside and came back with two glasses and a book.

  ‘It’s coconut water. And this is the Gita. You’ve heard about the Gita?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘sort of.’ I took a sip of the coconut water.

  ‘What have you heard?’

  ‘Like it is the ultimate book. It has all of life’s wisdom. You have to work and not worry about the reward. Right?’

  ‘Have you read it?’

  ‘Parts of it. It’s nice, but a little. . . .’

  ‘Boring?’

  ‘Actually, no, not boring. Hard to follow and apply everything.’

  ‘I’ll give you just one word to apply in your l
ife.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Forgiveness.’

  ‘Meaning? You want me to forgive my father? I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because what he did was so wrong. He has ruined my mother’s life. He has never loved me.’

  ‘I am not saying he did the right thing. I am asking you to forgive him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘For you. Forgiving doesn’t make the person who hurt you feel better, it makes you feel better.’

  I pondered over his words.

  ‘Close your eyes again,’ Guruji said. ‘Imagine you have bags on your head. They are bags of anger, pain and loss. How do they feel?’

  ‘Heavy,’ I sighed.

  ‘Remove them from your head one by one,’ Guruji said. ‘Imagine you are wearing a thick cloak that is wearing you down. Pardon the hurt others have caused you. What they did is past. What is bothering you today are your current feelings that come from this load. Let it go.’

  Strange as Guruji’s metaphors were, I felt compelled to obey the imagery in my mind. My head felt lighter.

  ‘And surrender to God,’ he went on. ‘You don’t control anything or anyone.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I said.

  ‘Do you control your life? Your life depends on so many internal organs functioning right. You have no control on them. If your lungs don’t cooperate, if your kidneys fail, if your heart stops, it is all over. You’ll drop dead now. God has chosen to give you the gift of life, surrender to him.’

  He kept me in meditation for the next few minutes.

  ‘And now, you are free to go,’ Guruji smiled.

  I opened my eyes. The sharp afternoon sun shone on Guruji’s face. He went inside and brought a small cup with grey ash. He dipped his index finger in the ash and marked my forehead.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said as he blessed me with his hand on my head.

  ‘You are welcome,’ he said. ‘Anything else I can help you with?’

  ‘Yes, which way is Hotel L’Orient?’

  ‘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 thought.

  ‘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 never 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 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.’

  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?’

  ‘Nothing, let’s go. I want to hit the road while there’s still light.’ I picked up my helmet.

  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 practising, right?’

  ‘Yes, but. . . .’

  ‘But what? Have you done any Kaho Na Pyaar Hai songs? Those are hot,’ I said.

  ‘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 prev
ious 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.

  ‘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.’

  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.’

  ‘How’s the purple?’

  ‘That’s beautiful, too,’ I said.

  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.