‘You are going to kill me,’ Ananya said.
‘Why?’ I said.
‘Mom is not coming.’
‘Why?’ I said, careful to sound upset.
‘She said my grandmother fell ill in Thirukudayur. She left after lunch.’
‘Where is Thirukudayur?’
‘Six hours from 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.
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 with their clients. I had made Ananya’s family sit on the staff 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?’
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.
‘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.
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.
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 manoeuvred 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. Radha aunty folded her hands and bowed to him.
S.P. said, ‘Good evening, Chennai, and thank you, Citibank. Before I begin, I want to praise Radha for her wonderful singing. The songs were popular, but I can see she has a strong classical base. Do you sing often, Radha?’
‘No, first time like this.’
‘Well, you should sing more. Shouldn’t she, Chennai?’
Everyone banged their tables in support. Ananya’s mother bowed to everyone. As she straightened, her eyes were filled with tears.
‘So, you will?’ S.P. said as he pointed the mike to Radha.
‘Yes, I will. Also, sir, I want to say that today is the happiest day of my life. I’ve shared the stage with you.’
The crowd clapped. Radha aunty fought back her tears as she left the dais.
‘And I thought her happiest day was the day I was born,’ Ananya muttered as she continued to clap.
The evening progressed with S.P. and Hariharan casting their spell on the crowd. For everyone else, the main act had just begun. For me and Ananya’s family, the main act was over.
Ananya’s mother joined us at the table after ten minutes.
‘You were wonderful,’ a lady at the next table said to Ananya’s mother.
Ananya’s father exchanged shy glances with his wife. S.P. sang Tere mere beech mein from Ek Duje Ke Liye. I looked at Ananya. Our struggle resembled that film’s story. I only hoped our end wouldn’t resemble that movie’s climax.
An hour into the concert, Bala came to my table.
‘Krish, come with me. I want you to meet Mr Muruguppa, famous jeweller,’ Bala said.
‘What?’ I said.
‘Come, he wants to open a ten-crore account. Give him some bull on Citi. I have to drop Anil at the airport.’
‘Sir, I have guests,’ I said as Ananya noticed my dilemma.
‘It’s fine, we will manage. Dinner’s over there, right?’ Ananya said.
‘Oh, so she is the one?’ Bala said and turned to Ananya. ‘Tamil teria?’
‘Let’s go, Bala,’ I said.
I met Mr Muruguppa, a fat, jovial, fifty-year-old.
‘Punjabi? Tamil ille?’ he said and gave me his card.
‘No. So you are the jewellery king?’
‘What king? Emperor! We are the biggest in Chennai.’
‘Sir, regarding your account,’ I said as I noticed Ananya’s family from a distance. They laughed together over dinner. Several people came up to congratulate Ananya’s mother. The time to strike was not far way.
‘Mr Muruguppa, actually, I may need some jewellery myself,’ I said as I led him to the dinner table.
40
‘Oh, trust me, she is on a different planet since that day. No need for dinner to thank her,’ Ananya said over the phone.
We were in our respective offices. I had just invited Ananya’s family for dinner.
‘But we didn’t even pay her for the concert. That’s the least I can do,’ I said.
‘You have done a lot,’ Ananya said.
‘Trust me, the dinner is important,’ I said.
‘Really? What’s up?’
‘You’ll find out next Friday at Raintree. See you all at eight,’ I said.
The Raintree restaurant is located in the Taj Connemara hotel, on Binny Road off Anna Salai. The outdoor restaurant is snug under a canopy of trees of the same name. Fairylights adorn the branches of the trees and candles light up the tables. Apart from Amethyst, it is the one other oasis in the city.
I sat with Ananya’s family at one of the outdoor tables, my trouser pockets heavy.
‘This is stunning,’ Ananya said as she looked up at the little lights. She wore a white fitted dress with sequins that reflected in the semi-darkness.
‘You’ve never come here before?’ I said.
‘No we haven’t. Right, dad?’
Uncle shook his head even as he admired the foliage right above us. Uniformed waiters served us a welcome drink of coconut water with fresh mint. They left the menu cards on our table. The restaurant specialises in Chettinad food, named after a region south of Tamil Nadu. The cuisine is known for its intense spices and flavours, along with a large range of non-vegetarian preparations.
‘Sir, for cocktails, I’d recommend Kothamalli Mary,’ the waiter said.
‘Kotha-what?’ I asked.
‘It is like a Bloody Mary, sir, tomato juice and vodka, but with Chettinad spices.’
I looked at uncle. He looked reluctant to nod for alcohol in front of his wife.
‘I want one,’ Ananya said.
Ananya’s mother gave her a sharp look.
‘C’mon, just one cocktail,’ Ananya said.
I opened the menu. I couldn’t pronounce the tongue-twister names of the dishes. Specials included kuruvapillai yera and kozhi melagu Chettinad. I didn’t bother reading the rest.
‘You know this food better, please order,’ I said.
Ananya’s parents looked at the menu several times.
‘It’s too expensive,’ Ananya’s mother said.
‘It’s fine,’ I said. ‘Ananya, please.’
Ananya took the menu and ordered for everyone. We ordered kozhakattai, masala paniyaram, adikoozh, kandharappam, seeyam and athirasam. Of course, I had no clue what went into those dishes; I figured at least one of them would be edible. The waiter also suggested we order idiyaappam, rice noodles bunched up like a bird’s nest.
‘How is the IIT preparation, Manju?’ I asked after the waiter left.
‘Good, I came tenth in the Mylapore mock IIT test,’ Manju said.
I nodded. ‘So, any more singing offers?’ I said to aunty.
Aunty smiled. ‘Don’t embarrass me. But I did find another guruji who has a modern approach to Carnatic music.’
I turned to Ananya’s dad. ‘How’s the bank, uncle?’
‘Good, your presentation is still being talked about.’
The food arrived; spicy, tangy and delicious.
‘This is great,’ I said as I had the masala paniyaram, a tastier cousin of the idli and shaped like a ball.
The Raintree staff brought a trolley with ten chutneys to choose from.
‘I swear, Delhi needs to taste this. We haven’t gone past the paneer masala dosa yet,’ I said as I took a spoonful of the tomato tamarind curry with idiyappams.
‘You like it? I can make it at home,’ Ananya’s mother said.
I realised that the right moment was near. Maybe at dessert, I told myself. We scanned the dessert menu. Ananya’s father chose coconut ice-cream. The deep love for this fruit among South Indians is inexplicable. The ice-cream arrived in an actual green coconut shell.
‘Superb,’ Ananya’s father said, a signal I took as ready, get-set, go.
‘I want to talk about something important,’ I said.
Ananya’s father looked up from his ice-cream.
‘If it is OK?’ I amended.
Uncle nodded. Ananya’s mother looked at Ananya and me.
‘Manju, you too,’ I said. He kept his face so close to the ice-cream bowl, his spectacles were smeared.
I had everyone’s attention. ‘Hi,’ I cleared my throat. ‘Uncle, aunty, Manju, I c
ame here six months ago. It is no secret why I chose Chennai as my first posting. However, I cannot stay here forever. I met Ananya almost three years ago, and apart from our first fight, I’ve loved her every day since that day.’
Ananya took my hand in hers from under the table. ‘And we thought our love is enough reason for us to get married.
We thought our parents will meet at the convocation and things will be smooth. Well, we were wrong.’
The waiter came to collect the ice-cream plates. I told him to come five minutes later.
‘We could have run away. We could have forced our decision on you. However, Ananya told me she had this dream of both sets of parents smiling on our wedding day. And so, I want to see if we can do that. Also, I didn’t think we had done anything wrong that we had to run away.’
Ananya’s parents kept a deadly silence. Either they were listening carefully or the ice-cream had been too cold.
‘And ever since I came to Chennai, I have tried to be accepted by you. I don’t expect you to love me like you do Harish, but at least you can accept me.’
Ananya’s mother wanted to talk. I signalled her to wait. ‘And while you may not love me, I don’t want you to merely tolerate me either. Somewhere in the middle lies the acceptance I am talking about.’ I slid my right hand inside my trouser pocket and collected the four mini boxes with my fingers.
‘Keeping all that in mind, considering your daughter’s happiness and taking a view of what you know of me,’ I said and paused to breathe. I took out the four little red boxes and kept them on the table. The boxes said ‘Muruguppa Jewellers’ on top. I opened the four boxes. Each had a gold ring. I stood up from my chair and kneeled on the floor.
‘I, Krish Malhotra, would like to propose to all of you. Will all of you marry me?’ I said and held the four boxes in my palm.
Ananya’s parents looked at her and me in quick succession. Manju’s mouth was open, the coconut ice-cream very visible inside.
Ananya’s father gestured to Ananya on what to do.
‘After you, mom and dad,’ Ananya said, ‘and Manju, you too.’
Manju picked up his box. ‘Nice, real gold?’ he asked.
I nodded.
‘Argentum, atomic number seventy-nine,’ Manju said as he held the ring in his hand.
‘Uncle?’ I prompted. My knees had started to hurt on the concrete floor.
2 States: The Story of My Marriage Page 19
