Arranged Love

by Mittal, Parul A

  ‘You mean like lyrics … no way … you gotta be kidding,’ dismissed Jay. ‘I can barely say your name correctly after more than a year of dating. In any case, you know I prefer techno music, without words.’

  I could never understand how someone can appreciate music without words. I mean words are everything to me. They added the meaning and soul to a song. A song without words was like a life without love, a flower without fragrance, a book without humour and a shampoo without froth.

  ‘It’s only a couple of songs,’ I insisted and argued that even a first grader can memorize school poems he doesn’t understand.

  ‘American schooling doesn’t focus on rote learning,’ he joshed, and then moving away from the topic, he asked, ‘Doesn’t your mom have any expectations from me?’

  I wasn’t planning on going through my mom’s groom selection criteria, at least not yet, but just to see Jay’s reaction, I casually mentioned that she wanted him to know the Hanuman Chalisa.

  ‘What the fuck is Hen-O-Men Char … Lisa?’ he asked, laughing out loud. ‘Oh wait! I think I know. CharLisa is a moniker for Charlie Sheen and his former girlfriend Lisa, right!’ Jay blabbered excitedly. ‘I fuckin love that sitcom Two and a Half Men.’

  I gave him a blank stare.

  ‘Half-A-Men CharLisa? That’s cool! Did your mom coin that term?’ he inquired fervently, caught up in his own excitement. The only other things that got him so thrilled were sex toys and sports. ‘I think your mom and I will really hit it off,’ he concluded, with a self-satisfied grin.

  Usually I found his Americanization of Indian words hilarious, but today I felt offended. Unknowingly he was mispronouncing and mocking a prayer. His reaction was expected. It was my reaction that I found surprising. It was not like I was very religious. I was, in fact, rather confused about my belief in God. It was one of the many things that I had put off for future contemplation. Yet, I failed to understand why I was feeling uncomfortable. ‘Hun—oo—maan Chaa—lee—saa,’ I broke it down phonetically on the chat window. ‘And it’s a prayer for one of our gods,’ I explained sombrely.

  Jay closed his eyes regretfully for a moment and then sighed, ‘Jesus fucking Christ!’

  We both looked uneasily at each other for a few seconds. After a brief, awkward silence, in which we both realized that something had gone amiss, he spoke, ‘You can’t fall in love with a guy and then change him. What if you find that you don’t love the changed person?’ His voice was soft and clear and his expression glum.

  I waited for him to break into a smile like he always did after pulling my leg. Meanwhile, the iPod in my mind smartly selected the song tagged with keywords love, change, person. I heard the song Ladki kyun na jaane kyun … tumhe badalne ko paas wo aati hai … from Hum Tum playing in my back office.

  ‘Listen, Suhaani, I am Jay. Don’t try to make a Jayant out of me,’ he said, a cold tone creeping into his voice.

  I had never seen him so humourless before and it made me fidgety. Clearly, I will never do well in Professor McGonagall’s class, for instead of Jay-ant, I had transformed him into Jay-no-joke.

  ‘I am sorry, Jay,’ I said anxiously. ‘It’s just that these things will help my parents relate to you.’ I said, justifying my failed attempt at the transfiguration charm.

  ‘All that I care for is whether you can relate to me or not.’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘Good, coz I am not a fuckin Shh-R-hook Can from DDLJ,’ he said, refusing point blank to make any effort to become a suitable boy.

  He had been very supportive a while ago. At least I had thought that he was taking the whole kite and bridge stuff sportingly. Why had he suddenly gone berserk? Did he think I was playing a prank until he goofed up with CharLisa, when it finally dawned on him that I was being serious?

  ‘You got to at least try,’ I urged.

  ‘Why don’t you try turkey for Thanksgiving dinner first? I promise I will do whatever you want after that.’

  I didn’t look for any hints of playful teasing in his response this time. His eyes were solemn and his face rigid. ‘I can’t. You know I am eggetarian.’

  ‘And I am an American, not an Indian.’

  I thought he was overreacting. I was willing to eat my eggs scrambled rather than sunny side up if that’s what his mom liked or drink black tea because his dad preferred it that way, but eating a bird? Urgh. Vegetarianism was like a lifestyle, a habit acquired over a series of years. Telling vegetarians to eat meat was like asking them to change their religion. I had only asked Jay to Google a prayer, not convert to Hinduism.

  I saw him get up from his bed and shift his laptop to the dining table. He went about taking some stuff out from the fridge and heating it in the microwave.

  Feeling stuffy and uncomfortable, I also got up and opened the window to let in the fresh cool air. On my way back, I bit into a half-eaten Snickers lying on my bedside table. The bitter-sweet taste of the chocolate-covered roasted peanuts mixed with the sweet aroma of caramel helped me relax. I came back to the laptop and found Jay chewing a crisp, clean cherry tomato from his frozen salad meal. Watching his sexy lips nibble on the fully ripened, juicy fruit made me horny. I looked away from his face and saw tiny snowflakes dance past the window pane behind him.

  ‘I miss the snow,’ I said softly, remembering how I would rush out into the open, when it began to snow and lift my face up to catch the fresh snowflakes on my tongue.

  ‘I miss hugging you,’ he whispered, and flung his arms wide open as if to hug me from within the laptop.

  The simple, sweet gesture dissipated the tension hanging in the air. Chocolate and tomato, the natural aphrodisiacs, had done their job.

  ‘You have had a long day,’ he spoke kindly. ‘Let’s sleep over it and then see how you feel. I am sure you will realize that you would rather have me be your playboy than your parents’ perfect boy.’

  Seeing the naughty, suggestive smile back on his face, an immense feeling of relief swept over me. I noticed a tear fall from my eyes as I smiled a big wide smile back at him.

  ‘SoHoney, SoHoney!’ He sang my name, making it rhyme with ‘Johnny Johnny’.

  ‘Yes Jay.’

  ‘Eating chocolate?’

  ‘No Jay.’

  ‘Telling a lie?’

  ‘No Jay.’

  ‘Open your shirt.’

  ‘Why? Why? Why?’ I asked in surprise. Last time I heard a toddler recite the poem, he was only opening his mouth not his shirt.

  ‘I wanna see where you are storing all the junk that you have been gorging,’ he demanded, his eyes dancing with mischief.

  ‘What’s there to see,’ I said, smiling sheepishly.

  ‘The size, the bulge and the curve,’ he said grinning.

  ‘They are like everyone else’s.’

  ‘Would you rather I peek at others?’ he questioned, narrowing his eyes teasingly.

  ‘No!’ I screamed. Denise didn’t have much flesh to look at, yet I didn’t want to take any chances.

  ‘C’mon, even your Indian saree doesn’t hide the curves,’ he said persuasively.

  I opened two buttons and slowly parted my shirt.

  ‘Jesus fucking Christ,’ he hollered, staring at the stomach tyres bulging over my jeans.

  I hid them back and quickly pushed away the empty Snickers wrapper outside the range of the camera lens.

  ‘One hour of cardio exercise, five days a week. No sweets and no fried food,’ advised Jay. ‘Also, tell your mom to use olive oil for cooking.’

  ‘I hate exercising and I love sweets,’ I yawped.

  ‘Try dancing,’ he suggested, and then realizing that he was getting late, he quickly put on his snow jacket, said bye, and left for his class.

  I turned on my iPod and sauntered out to the balcony adjoining my room. I could see parts of the Gurgaon metro line being constructed from my balcony. Further down was NH 8, lined with interestingly shaped office buildings that were defining Gurgaon’s new character
. A little on the right was MG Road or the Malls of Gurgaon road. No new construction was happening now as the builders were beginning to feel the aftermath of the US real-estate crash. As I stood leaning against the railing, I felt a sudden gush of wind hit my face and cover it with a layer of fine dust. The pure, soft snowflakes caressing Jay’s window were a stark contrast to the tiny dust particles that slapped mine. Yet a snowflake was nothing but water vapour condensed around a speck of dust. Was our love strong enough to overpower the cultural differences and keep our hearts bound together?

  The Art of Rejection

  ‘Rejecting a guy could be tough,’ I thought to myself, adjusting the height of my ergonomic chair, as the computer booted to life.

  I mean, especially if you made the advances that led him to believe that you love him. It’s almost like taking your best friend out for a treat at Pizza Hut and then telling her that her thighs were bulging out or her under arms sagging, and that she better stick to having salad. The idea is the same. You don’t intend to hurt. You do it for the other person’s benefit. Although, such benevolent deeds are rarely perceived as kind gestures.

  I remember my first time. It was a week before the Class X board exams and I was finding the build up to the D-day quite stressful. This tall, lean guy had moved into the neighbourhood two years ago and we were both part of a study group. I knew he had a soft corner for me, but I didn’t feel particularly attracted to him. I was actually besotted with another tall, fair guy in the group. One day we were studying together in his house and I felt this sudden primal desire to kiss. I knew it was wrong for I felt nothing for him, but overwhelmed by the teenage hormones raging through my body, I went ahead and snogged him. Gosh! I feel disgusted now to even think about it. The next day, we went out for a walk in the evening and he sang this romantic number from Bobby: ‘Mujhe kuch kahna hai, pahle tum, pahle tum’. The moment of passion was, however, gone and I found myself unable to reciprocate his feelings. I felt suffocated and uncomfortable, but I kept quiet. One day before the exams, when his repeated phone calls began to become a nuisance and I could no longer fake feelings, I confessed that it was all a big mistake. It was painful while the showdown lasted, but I was glad I had done the right thing. Next day, when the teacher called me up after the exam and asked if I knew anything about this guy who hadn’t shown up for exam, I discovered to my horror that he had jumped off the building. Luckily, he stayed on the first floor and there was a pile of cut grass below his balcony, so he escaped with a few scratches and a minor fracture in his hand. I have never eaten so much comfort food in my life as I ate that week. Thankfully, he didn’t take any names and my parents overlooked my consumption of ten litres of ice cream as board exam stress.

  It took me a couple of more accidents to learn that the key to short and sweet, guiltless rejection was in providing the rejected person with a reason. It was not good enough to tell him that he was this extraordinarily handsome, nice and considerate, simply too-good-for-me fellow and actually it was I who didn’t deserve him. We all know that ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ means exactly the reverse. There has to be a more solid rationale like ‘it is too soon after my last break-up’, or that ‘I can’t risk our friendship if this doesn’t work out’, or even ‘you are from Mars and I am from Venus’. Once I had even employed my mom’s sensitivity to caste difference as an excuse, though I would suggest you reserve that for the more serious break-ups.

  By the way if you think this is all crap and I am fussing over nothing, I suggest you check out rejectionhotline.com. It is a social service to the million of heart-breakers who suffer like me and a fine example of business in the yet unexplored field of PPO, Personal Process Outsourcing. I actually used their hotline to get rid of this get-a-clue challenged desi, back in Michigan. When he called the fake number I had given him, he was humorously, though not so subtly, informed of my non-interest.

  Basically rejection is a highly skilled art, very similar to faking an orgasm. You need to pretend a little, maybe even moan a few times, so as to massage the man’s ego but be tactful enough not to bare yourself completely and reveal the ugly truth. I know you think I am lucky. I agree. I haven’t had to reject men often. Maybe not exactly single digit, but certainly very few, especially compared to poor Neha. She has had to indulge in binge eating every now and then in guilt, both for rejecting and faking.

  However, none of my previous showdown experiences seemed applicable in Deep’s case. I barely knew him and this was a setting done by our parents. Neha would vouch that fade away works well in the hardly-any-commitment sort of relationship that I had with Deep. Reduced texting, emails, infrequent phone calls and no hanging out. The guy eventually gets the hint. But I guess it’s rather tricky to ignore your boss. Tanu di’s signature deferral seemed perfect for Deep, but it was not personalized enough. Besides, this was my only chance at rejecting an IITian and I wanted to do it with style, without hurting my FB access. If only I could buy myself a BlackBerry, I would have been spared all this work. But I knew Dad had blown all his savings on the South Africa vacation and Mom would probably want to buy one for herself first so she could nurture her crops while in school.

  Feeling the bra band digging into my skin, I shifted in my chair, re-adjusted the height and loosened the chair back a bit more. Then leaning down on the chair in a relaxed, beach position, I surveyed my surroundings. A couple of late-nighters were dozing off on their desks, but the bulk of the employees who availed the office cab facility were not due for another half an hour. I had reached office early today and was glad to get this quiet alone time to engage in some serious soul-searching.

  ‘How to reject your boss,’ I had barely typed in my google search bar, when I heard his sultry, seductive voice.

  ‘Coffee?’

  Wearing a green striped shirt and khaki trousers, adjusting the lock of black hair that had fallen on his forehead, he stood at the cubicle entrance.

  I stood up before he could sneak a peek at my monitor, discreetly closed the browser window with my left hand and followed him out.

  There was no one else in the coffee room. ‘Should I deliver the blow now?’ I pondered silently.

  He poured a cup of coffee, handed it to me and started pouring another for himself.

  No, morning was not a good time for rejections, I decided. We had just started the day and he could take the frustration out on me. End of the day was bad too as it wouldn’t give me any time to gauge his reaction. Some time during the latter half should be good, I concluded. That way I will also get time to work on my strategy during the first half.

  ‘Deep in thought?’ he asked, looking intently into my eyes, as he took a sip of his cappuccino.

  Oh! yeah, he was very much in my thoughts right now, but I was not going to let him fool me with a double entendre this time. ‘I was just thinking about the cleanest way to handle deep …’ I said, pausing intentionally in order to out-pun him.

  He gave me the confused, quizzical look I so wanted to see on his face.

  ‘… linking in YouTube videos,’ I added, sounding victorious, and broke into a broad smile. Score evened.

  ‘I find the best way to solve a puzzle is by playing with it. So I would suggest you play around with this deep … linking,’ he quipped quickly.

  Before I could think of something clever to say, a short, puny, young guy, with curly hair came rushing in, looking for Deep. He seemed glad to have found him alone. Well almost, if you ignore me.

  ‘Yaar, Deep, I have a major KS issue. You got to help me, man!’ He sounded desperate.

  ‘I am all ears,’ chuckled Deep lazily.

  The hassled guy looked at me uncertainly, stepped closer to Deep, and then continued, ‘I am not able to get through, man. It’s driving me crazy.’

  ‘These people you are trying to get through, you know them well?’ inquired Deep. I was standing behind Deep, so I couldn’t see his expression, but I was certain I heard a stifled, mischievous laugh.

  T
he curly hair seemed embarrassed and shocked at Deep’s question. ‘It’s only one person actually,’ he said hesitantly, and again looked at me to check if I was listening. I pretended to be lost in the emptiness of my coffee mug so that he could focus on describing his problem. ‘And I have only known her for a month,’ he whispered awkwardly.

  Deep put a reassuring arm around his frail shoulders and smiled. ‘There are 3Cs to successful KS,’ enumerated Deep confidently, ‘Cooperation, commitment and caution.’

  I was pretty sure that the third ‘C’ for Knowledge Sharing was culture and not caution, but it seemed prudent not to interfere in a private conversation.

  The guy still looked as lost as before. I thought he needed training in communication.

  ‘Oil the machinery well, buddy,’ advised Deep and then explained something in his ears.

  The young man’s face suddenly brightened into a smile.

  ‘Have faith in your abilities. Girls need time to open up,’ remarked Deep, with a wink and a naughty smile.

  The guy, now beaming with confidence, thanked him profusely and left.

  It was weird for a start-up to have knowledge sharing issues. I told Deep that if there were KS issues in the company, we should bring them to HR’s attention. After all, it required proper processes to be put in place.

  ‘Kavita has her own KS problems to deal with, but I will let her know your concern,’ dismissed Deep casually.

  ‘But KS is a key foundation for the survival of any institution,’ I insisted. I was unhappy that he was not taking my feedback seriously.

  ‘I couldn’t agree more with you,’ he said, smiling knowingly, before he headed out.

  Much to my embarrassment, I was to learn later that the KS advice that Deep was dispensing was regarding the Knowledge of Sex, aka, Kama Sutra, and not Knowledge Sharing as I misunderstood it to be. And the third ‘C’ he referred to as caution was actually condom!

  Whose Line Is It Anyway?