The Story of a Long-Distance Marriage

by Siddhesh Inamdar

  ‘Yes, all right,’ I shrug and say. ‘But what if Anju comes complaining and picks up a fight with Gaurav while we are gone?’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be fine. It’s not the first time he’ll be here looking after Momo in our absence.’

  I’m not convinced, but there’s nothing we can do till we are back. ‘Let’s start packing,’ I say. ‘We’re going to be gone for two weeks.’

  *

  The lanes of Behala resonate with the sound of ululations, which tells us we are nearing Tanvi’s home. Ira and I are in the back seat of an old Maruti 800 in which Tanvi’s brother-in-law picked us up from Sealdah station, feeling alien in a land whose language we don’t understand. We look out, taking in the sight of the big, discolouring houses and of the people going about their day languidly on bicycles, seeming simpler and friendlier than the ones we are used to in Delhi.

  The wedding is to take place in this small suburb of Kolkata where Tanvi’s parents live. Tanuj and his family from Bombay have gathered at his aunt’s house not far from here. They are to come to the hall only around lunch, but he wanted us to meet Tanvi first. I expect to feel out of place until he arrives. We get out of the car and push open the gate of a two-storied house where everybody knows everybody else but us. The narrow staircase rings with the sound of laughter and round Bengali syllables. I quickly reach out for Ira’s hand and enclose mine in it.

  ‘Come, come,’ says a tall and lean elderly man with a beard in a soft voice as we step in side by side. ‘You must be Tanuj’s friends. I hope you had a good journey.’ I presume he is Tanvi’s father. Ira and I nod and sit down on the sofa as the others squeeze closer together for us. ‘May is not the best time to get married in Kolkata,’ he continues, offering us water. ‘It gets very hot and humid. People sweat a lot and build up an appetite for all the fish, though!’ he laughs, adding, ‘But Tanu’s wedding is at night, as most Bengali weddings are. So it won’t be very uncomfortable.’

  I nod politely as he gets a call from the caterer and excuses himself. Another relative comes out of the kitchen and offers us tea. The house is full of twenty to thirty men and women milling about in finery, while Ira and I sit in sweat-soaked clothes from yesterday. I look around to see if I can spot Tanvi.

  ‘Hi,’ says a woman who emerges from a bedroom, cradling a baby in her left arm. From a photo Tanuj had shown me of the two families, taken on the terrace of his house the day the wedding was fixed, I can tell this is Tanvi’s elder sister. ‘Tanvi will be out in a minute,’ she says as she sits in the chair vacated by her father. She looks a bit frazzled.

  ‘And who might this be?’ Ira asks the baby, putting out her hand. ‘Shake hands?’

  ‘She’s Polka. That’s the only word she answers to anyway.’

  Polka not only shakes the hand but unexpectedly and eagerly goes from her mother’s arm to Ira’s. ‘Tanuj and I worked together once, but I’m sure you know him better,’ Tanvi’s sister says. ‘And since you are here and he is not, how about you tell us all we need to know about him?’

  I laugh, relax and say, ‘He warned me I would be probed and told me strictly not to answer any trick questions. I will not give him away.’

  She laughs too and, leaving Polka to honk Ira’s nose, goes back in to check what’s keeping Tanvi. I get my phone out to take photos of the two. Polka, we discover, loves being photographed. She strikes one pose after another for the camera as her audience laughs and applauds. I am busy focusing from her to Ira when Tanvi comes out, looking beautiful in a yellow Bengali cotton sari and red blouse that covers her back and arms. She is younger than Ira and me but, with her hair tied in a bun, looks lady-like and older than her years. Her eyes narrow as she looks at us and smiles. Tanuj had told me she herself does not like this narrowing of her eyes when she smiles as she feels it makes her look foreign. But I find it endearing.

  ‘Hi Rohan. Hi Ira,’ she says warmly. Her voice is sweet and clear and evidently trained in music. ‘It’s so good to meet you guys finally. Tanuj has told me so much about you.’

  And as she sits down to talk, I quickly send him a message, partly as reassurance and partly because I feel it’s the right thing to say: ‘Good choice.’

  *

  Ira and I have been put up in one of the rooms at the wedding venue, which is also where arrangements have been made for lunch for the two families and us. So we head there after meeting Tanvi. Tanuj and his family arrive at noon. There’s something unmissable about him that says he is the star of the whole affair. It’s not what he’s wearing; the wedding does not start for another twelve hours and he is in a plain yellow collared T-shirt and jeans that he would wear on an average day in Delhi. It’s more to do with the way he carries himself. He does not look stressed or apprehensive but revels in the attention he receives from his family and Tanvi’s. He does not eat with the rest of the party but goes from table to table to ask after the guests. He is a man in control.

  As always I overeat, particularly the fish, and slip into a food coma as soon as Ira and I retire to our room. It’s evening by the time she wakes me up. I look out of the window of our room and see that preparations in the lawn are already in top gear. I rush to the bathroom and have a quick bath before changing into the maroon sherwani I’ve got. While Ira gets ready, I decide to go downstairs and look around.

  Strings of fairy lights dropped from the terrace come to life just as I walk on to the lawn. Guests begin to arrive and a crowd gathers around the food counter. Tanvi sits nervously in a throne in one hall adjacent to the lawn as her friends keep her company. As per the custom, the groom is detained in a different hall until the start of the ceremony a few hours later. He is in a cream-coloured silk dhoti and a richly embroidered dark red kurta. The cone-shaped topor he wears on his head signals that he is ready for the marriage. His shoot is over. As I enter, he is explaining to the photographer that once the ceremony is done, he wants him to take a photo that would resemble the poster of Tanu Weds Manu—the groom seated in his wedding clothes with Tanvi next to him in hers, her legs stretched over the arms of the throne after she has passed out against his shoulder. Tanuj tells him he will put it up on Facebook with the caption ‘Tanu Weds Tanu’.

  ‘Best man,’ he says as I go up and sit beside him.

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘So, as best man, what can I do you for? Are you thinking of running away? Do I need to counsel you?’

  ‘What? No! I’m happy and I’m excited. I can’t wait to be married.’

  I cock an eyebrow at him. ‘Really?’ I say. ‘I knew Ira for ten years when we got married, and I wasn’t so excited. You can be honest with me.’

  ‘I am,’ he asserts. ‘True story. I know my life is about to change but I’m not scared. I feel prepared.’

  I scoff disbelievingly. ‘Okay seriously,’ I say. ‘You never told me the whole story.’

  ‘Didn’t I? I told you it was serendipity. That’s all there was to it, really.’ He stares at me stare at him and adds, ‘Okay, I’ll tell you one more thing from that day I met her for the first time. I lay all my cards on the table. I told her how much money I make and what sort of life I’m capable of giving her. She later told me she liked that about me—that I was honest. That’s what made her choose me. You know, Rohan, you and I—we have a lot to be grateful for. We ought to be grateful that the girls who chose to marry us did so in spite of a lot of odds. Which is why I’m looking forward to what lies ahead. It can only be fun, right?’

  I look at him without answer. ‘How’s Ira?’ he asks.

  ‘All right.’

  ‘You know, if you want me to assign you one best-man duty, it would be to be with her. I wouldn’t want her to feel out of place. There are enough people to fuss over me; you should go be with her.’

  *

  I find that Ira is ready when I go back upstairs. She only asks me to hook the mangalsutra, which she wears on traditional occasions, behind her neck. She has a scent of rose
water and looks like a dream. I had wanted her to wear the green Kanjivaram silk sari from my brother’s wedding two years ago. But she reminded me it’s going to be hot and humid here and so chose a maroon cotton sari instead to go with my sherwani. Though it wasn’t my first choice, I concede that it’s better for the night ceremony than the green would have been.

  We go downstairs and are greeted jovially at every step by members of Tanuj’s family who keep us occupied and entertained. We are licking our fingers at the end of dinner after several helpings of the bhetki paturi when we see Tanvi being carried on a wooden seat by her brothers and uncles, the shy smile on her face hidden behind the two betel leaves she holds in her hands. We quickly finish eating and hurry on to the mandap. Most guests have dined and left by now and only close family members gather around; that is the way of a traditional Bengali wedding, we are told. It is midnight.

  The main wedding ritual begins with Tanvi encircling Tanuj seven times. As the pandits keep up their chant of mantras, the bride and groom stand facing each other. She lowers the betel leaves and their eyes finally meet. Tanuj covers the parting of Tanvi’s hair with sindoor. Ululation ensues. Conch shells go off. They are now officially married. But the rituals are not yet over. They go on for another hour as the onlookers start petering out and there are only a handful left. Throughout, Tanuj has about him what he likes to call the look of optimism. It is the expression he summons to his face every time he poses for a photo or knows he is being watched. It is not really an expression of happiness. He does not exactly smile. But with the subtlest adjustment of the muscles of his eyes and mouth, he conveys to his audience that good things are about to happen to him.

  Ira sits by herself on a step at the edge of the mandap as I walk around to take photos on my phone. I take one of her from a distance: her chin rests on her palm as she watches the proceedings, looking impassive and thoughtful, unbothered by the late hour and the heat. I feel a surge of gratitude for her for having come with me without a fuss within days of returning from New York, simply because it was something I wanted to do. I feel thankful that she hasn’t brought up our recent fights so far and yet again wonder if she will some time soon. Her face is inscrutable. I don’t know what she’s thinking. Is she working on an argument? Or has she put all of it behind? Will our marriage survive the differences that have surfaced? We may not be fighting right now but I know our relationship is not what it used to be. I don’t know how to fix it—or even what it is that needs fixing.

  As I look from Ira to Tanvi and Tanuj, I wonder if our marriage would have been less complicated if we belonged to the same communities and had got married as per tradition, not in court. It’s a silly thought, I know, but I entertain it only because I’m at a loss for answers and I’m looking for them in places where I wouldn’t have looked before. Would Ira and I be happier if we had decided to live in like Yusuf and Mira instead of getting married? Would it have been better for me if I had an arranged marriage? I think of Alisha getting on a train to Jaipur in a few hours from now. Would I be happier had I stayed single like her? What would it be like to start a life with someone new without the baggage of a decade?

  As the rituals conclude and Tanuj and Tanvi proceed to feast with their families, Ira and I head back to our room. We change into our bedclothes and Ira falls asleep before the lights are out. Even in sleep, she looks tired but uncomplaining. I stay up a few minutes longer, thinking of the ten days that lie ahead. Ira and I will finally be without a buffer between us. And left to our own devices, there’s no knowing what we might do.

  13

  Holiday

  Sikkim is special to me—has been for many years now. It is where I first experienced what falling in love is. I think a love for your parents is something you are born with. And the friends you make at a young age, more than anything else, are accidental companions you grow used to over time. So when you first fall in love, it’s a feeling you’ve never imagined before. It takes your breath away, it moves the ground beneath your feet. But, most of all, it moves something inside you. For me, Sikkim was where it happened.

  It was at the end of my first year of college. An ex-student who had started a travel company had organized a trip to Sikkim as part of the adventure club in college and I had immediately signed up. I did not know anyone else who was going, but I was instinctively drawn to the place. After a day’s journey from Bombay to Kolkata, followed by an overnight train to New Jalpaiguri, we had finally driven in a packed, noisy bus into the mist of the mountains.

  At the end of the long journey, though, I found Sikkim a bit underwhelming. It had sounded remote and exotic but what I saw was unexceptional. Honestly, it seemed like any other place in the Himalayas I had been to before. Worse, I was told our hotel would have a beautiful view of the valley. But, as things turned out, I could barely see my own nose—the fog was that thick.

  The next morning, I was startled out of sleep by a general commotion in the corridor outside. Frightened and disoriented, I saw it was barely seven o’clock. My roommate, a junior I had befriended on the train, wasn’t around. I threw my blanket away, hurriedly put on my sweatshirt and stepped out on to the corridor facing the valley. And there it was, right in front of me. Hidden the previous day, it now seemed so close that I could make out its contours, its shadows and almost the texture of its snow. I ate my words and conceded it was unlike anything I had seen before. Mount Kanchenjunga, the third highest mountain in the world, its heights swathed in the pearly pink light of daybreak, looked old yet ageless, tall and stoic. Ironically, it was something so still and unmoving that moved something inside me, and right there, unable to take my eyes off it for several minutes, I fell in love for the very first time.

  So when the time came for me to plan an anniversary holiday for Ira and me, the first place I thought of was Sikkim. It’s been ten years but the memory of that morning is still fresh. And I hoped, in my own uncertain agnostic way, that the place where I first fell in love might also lead me to rediscover what I have lost.

  *

  But I begin to regret my impulsive and irrational choice long before we are anywhere near Sikkim. It is a clear, sunny day in Kolkata when we take off, so Ira decides not to take an Avomine and instead stay awake for our first time on a Vistara flight. As with most things, my airline selection was guided by the criterion of cost. But now that we are on the plane, we realize we have actually got a good deal. We are about to pass up the airhostess’s meal offer when we find out that we don’t have to pay separately for it, and, even better, it’s not just salad and rice with one piece of chicken but a full plate of prawn lasagne, with chocolate fondant for dessert. We relish the wholesome meal supplied by Taj and take out our copy of the Lonely Planet Sikkim guide, knowing well that we will soon succumb to sleep. And that is when it happens. The plane jumps several feet in the air as people gasp and look at each other in fright.

  Ira immediately reaches for the air sickness bag in the seat pocket and throws up. A short, soft beep rings down the aisle, the overhead seatbelt indicator lights up and the captain’s voice comes on the intercom, informing us that we are passing through a particularly bad stretch of turbulence and asking us to return to our seats. I see fat droplets of water slide down the other side of the window panes. There’s a downpour outside.

  I call the airhostess and hand her Ira’s air sickness bag, hoping that this is the one bad thing that has to happen at the start of a good holiday. I wait for the rain to stop as suddenly as it had started, for the sun to emerge and for the scary and sickening shuddering of the aircraft to come to an end. Since none of it happens, I ask Ira if she wants to take an Avomine. But we are only minutes from landing and popping the tablet now would mean she will be drowsy for the rest of the day, so she refuses. I feel bad for her. I take her hand in mine as she rests her head against my shoulder, swallowing hard to fight the nausea.

  Instead of easing up, the turbulence only becomes worse. I too start to feel like I want to throw u
p as the plane starts descending. This has never happened to me before, so I dig my nails into the arms of my seat and stare at the roof, trying not to be affected by the panic that has set in around me. A sideways glance at Ira tells me she is about to vomit again. I get the air sickness bag out of my seat pocket and hold it open before her mouth just as she retches hard.

  The massive wave of relief that washes over me as the plane touches down in Bagdogra recedes too quickly. The only prepaid taxi counter at the airport is crowded with tourists and locals trying to get to Siliguri and Darjeeling, and cabs are in short supply. I have to stand at the window for twenty minutes, jostling with the unruly lot of people as my whole body breaks into a sweat in the high humidity, before I can get a booking for five hundred rupees for a short ride to Siliguri. Outside in the porch, Ira stands by weakly while I look up at the heavy downpour, waiting for our driver to arrive.

  He is a jolly fellow who tells us as he looks at us in the mirror five minutes into the drive that monsoon has arrived in Bengal ahead of schedule this year. I ask him hopefully if it’s raining less heavily in the hills. To which he inconsiderately says no. Ira and I look at each other and smile at the same moment in spite of ourselves.

  It is evening by the time we arrive at the Siliguri hotel where we are to spend the night. Despite the hunger, all I want to do when I drop in the bed is sleep off. But the next day’s arrangements are yet to be made. Gaurav’s travel agent friend, Sharmila, through whom I have made most of the bookings for the holiday, had told me she could arrange a taxi to drive us from Siliguri to Gangtok. But it would have cost us a good sum and we are on a shoestring budget, so I had turned her down.

  I must now step out in the rain and the diminishing light to book bus tickets for tomorrow. Thankfully, our hotel is in the main market and I am told I can walk down to the Sikkim National Transport bus stand, but when I get there I find it deserted. An enthusiastic guard tells me with a resourceful air that buses have stopped plying from the SNT stand to Gangtok and directs me instead to the Tenzing Norgay bus terminus a few metres away on the other side of the road. This one is full of activity and chaos, but a passing conductor tells me I can buy tickets only once I’m on the bus tomorrow. This means running the risk of passing up one packed bus after another before we can manage to get seats, and that could take hours as there is a service to Gangtok only once every half hour. The buses themselves look so rickety and battered that I can tell the journey will be very uncomfortable. In deep despair I decide to call up Sharmila and ask her to send us a taxi.