2 States The Story Of My Marriage (8 page)

Ananya wore the same peacock blue sari that she wore to her HLL interview.

She caught me staring and blew a kiss. Fortunately, my mother didn’t notice. I

shook my head, beseeching Ananya to maintain decorum.

Ananya’s parents arrived ten minutes later. Her father wore a crisp white shirt,
like the one in detergent ads. Ananya’s mother walked behind in a glittery haze.

Her magenta and gold Kanjeevaram sari could be noticed from any corner of the

lawn. She looked as if she had fallen into a drum of golden paint. Behind her

walked a fourteen-year-old boy with spectacles; a miniature version of MBA men

who would get a degree this evening.

‘Hello mom,’ Ananya said and stood up, her voice her cheerful best.

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‘Safety pin illa something something,’ her mother replied. Mother and

daughter lapsed into Tamil. Ananya’s father took out his camera and started

taking random pictures of everything around us – the lawns, the stage, the chairs,

the mikes. Little brother didn’t have much to do but looked uncomfortable in his

new button-down collar shirt. My mother heard them talk and her mouth fell open.

I whispered, ‘Get up. Let us introduce ourselves.’

‘They are Madrasi?’ my mother asked, shocked.

‘Shsh, Tamilian,’ I said.

‘Tamilian?’ my mother echoed even as Ananya continued the introductions.

‘Mom, this is Krish, and this is Krish’s mother.’

“Hello,’ Ananya’s mother said, looking just as stunned as my mother.

‘Isn’t this cool? Our families meeting for the first time,’ Ananya cooed even as
everyone ignored her.

‘Krish’s father has not come?’ Ananya’s father asked.

‘He is not well,’ my mother said, her voice butter-soft. ‘He is a heart patient.

Advised not to travel.’

My mother faked it so well, even I felt like sympathizing with her.

Ananya’s parents gave understanding nods. They whispered to each other in

Tamil as they took their places.

‘I better go, I’m one of the first ones.’ Ananya giggled and ran up to join the
line of students.

I sat sandwiched between my mother on one side and Ananya’s mother on the

other.

‘You want to sit next to Ananya’s mother?’ I asked my mother.

‘Why? Who are these people?’ she frowned.

‘Don’t panic, mom. I said it because I have to join that line soon.’

‘Then go. I have come to see you, not sit next to Madrasis. Now let me watch,’

she said.

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The chief guest started the diploma distribution. The audience broke into

continuous applause for the initial students. Then they got tired and went back to

fanning themselves with the convocation brochures.

‘Get to know them. We’ll probably go for lunch together,’ I said.

‘You go for lunch with them. I can eat alone,’ my mother said.

‘Mom….’ I said as the announcer read out Ananya’s name.

Ananya walked on the stage, probably the only student whose picture was

worth taking. I stood up and applauded.

My mother gave me a dirty look. ‘Sit. Even her parents are not standing.’

Maybe they don’t love her like I do, I wanted to say but didn’t. I sat down.

Ananya’s parents clapped gently, craning their necs to get a better view.

Ananya’s mother looked at me with suspicion. I realized that I hadn’t yet spoken

to her. Start a conversation, you idiot, I thought.

‘Your daughter is such a star. You must be so proud,’ I said.

‘We are used to it. She always did well in school,’ Ananya’s mother replied.

I tried her father. ‘How long are you here for, uncle?’

Uncle looked up and down at me as if I had questioned him about his secret

personal fantasies.

‘We leave day after. Why?’ he said.

Some whys have no answer, apart from the fact that I was trying to make small

talk. ‘Nothing, Ananya and I were wondering if you wanted to see the city. We can

share a car,’ I said.

Ananya’s mother sat between us and listened to every word. She spoke to her

husband in Tamil. ‘Something something Gandhi Ashram something recommend

something.’

‘Gandhi Ashram is nice. My mother also wants to see it.’ I said.

‘What?’ my mother said from her seat. ‘Don’t you have to go on stage, Krish?

Your turn is coming.’

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‘Yes,’ I said and stood up. Gandhi Ashram would be a good start for the

families. He stood for peace and national integration, maybe that could inspire us

all.

‘Then go,’ my mother said.

‘Wait,’ I said and bent to touch her feet.

‘Thank god, you remembered. I thought you were going to touch Ananya’s

mother’s feet,’ she said.

My mother said it loud enough for Ananya’s mother to hear. They exchanged

cold glances that could be set to the backdrop of AK-47 bullets being fired.

Surely, it would take a Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi to make them get along.

‘Mom, control,’ I whispered to her as I turned to leave.

‘I am under control. These South Indians don’t know how to control their

daughters. From Hema Malini to Sridevi, all of them trying to catch Punjabi men.’

My mother had spoken so loud that the entire row heard her. For a few

moments, people’s attention shifted from the convocation ceremony to us.

Ananya’s mother elbowed her husband. They stood up, pulled up Ananya’s

scrawny brother between them and found some empty seats five rows away.

‘Mom, what are you doing?’ I struggled to balance the graduation cap on my

head.

‘Kanyashree Banerjee,’ the announcer said over the mike and I realised I was

horribly late. I had missed my last convocation as I had overslept. I didn’t want to
miss it this time.

‘What have I said? It’s a fact,’ my mom said, talking to me but addressing

everyone who had tuned into our conversation that beat the boring degree

distribution hollow any day.

‘Krish….’ I heard my name and ran up. The five Mohits were waiting near the

stage. I smiled at them as I climbed the steps to the stage. The chief guest gave

me my diploma.

My mother was standing and clapping. ‘I love you,’ she screamed. I smiled

back at her. For the last ten years my father had told her that her son would get

nowhere in life. I held up my diploma high and looked up to thank God.

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‘Move, the next student has to come,’ the announcer said as I emotionally

thanked the chief guest again and again. As I walked down the steps, I saw

Ananya’s parents. They had not applauded or even reacted to my being on the

stage. I came back towards my seat. Ananya stood at our row’s entrance, looking

lost. ‘I stayed back to get some pictures with friends. Where are my parents?’

‘Five rows behind,’ I said.

‘Why? What happened?’

‘Nothing. They wanted a better view,’ I said.

‘I’ve booked the car. We are all going afterwards, right?’

‘Go to your parents, Ananya,’ I said firmly as I saw my mother staring at me.

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11

‘We’ve already paid for the taxi,’ I said. ‘So, you can pretend to get along. See it
as a budget exercise.’

My mother and I walked towards the taxi stand outside campus. She had no

inclination to see where MR Gandhi lived. The Sabarmati Ashram, on the outskirts

of the city, was a key tourist attraction. Ananya had got lunch packed in little

packets from Topaz. According to her, it would be a Kodak moment to picnic

somewhere by the Sabarmati river. Of course, she had no idea about her missed

Kodak moment when my mother had made insightful comments about certain

South Indian actresses.

‘We had booked a Qualis,’ I told the driver who stood next to an Indica. Ananya
and her family were already at the taxi stand. Her mother looked like she had just

finished a grumble session, maybe her natural expression.

‘The Qualis is on election duty. We only have this.’ The driver crushed tobacco
in his palm.

‘How can we all fit in?’ I wondered.

‘We take double the passengers, squeeze in,’ the driver said.

‘Let’s take an auto,’ I said.

‘I’m not taking an auto,’ my mother said as she slid into the backseat.

‘You can sit in front and make madam sit in your lap,’ the driver pointed

Ananya to me. Ananya’s mother gave the driver a glare strong enough to silence

him for the rest of the day.

‘Mom, can you take an auto?’ Ananya requested her mother.

‘Why, we have also paid for this,’ she said. ‘Something something illa illa!’

‘Seri, seri, Amma,’ Ananya said.

We finally arrived at an arrangement. Ananya’s dad sat in front with Ananya in

his lap. Ananya’s mother sat behind with her son in her lap. My mother had

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already taken a window seat behind the driver. I squished myself between the two

ladies in the middle.

The Sabarmati Ashram is eight kilometers away from campus. The twenty-

minute drive felt like an hour due to the silence. Ananya tried to make

conversation with her parents. They pretended not to hear her as they kept their

heads out of the windows. My mother took out a packet of Nice biscuits and

started eating them without offering them to anyone. She took one biscuit and put

it in my mouth, to assert maternal rights on me. Of course, I couldn’t refuse.

‘Why is everyone so silent,’ Ananya said to me as we went to the ticket counter at

the ashram.

‘My mother made a silly comment at the convocation,’ I said, hoping Ananya

won’t seek details.

‘What did she say?’ Ananya asked as she fished for the required amount of

money for six tickets.

‘It’s not important. But your parents left after that.’

‘What exactly did she say?’ Ananya persisted.

‘Nothing, something about South Indian women being loose or something. No

big deal.’

‘What?’ Ananya looked at me, shocked.

‘I didn’t say it. She did. Silly comment, ignore it.’

‘I don’t know what to say,’ Ananya said.

‘Nothing. Let’s get everyone talking again,’ I said as we walked to the main

entrance.

We came inside the ashram. Gandhi lived here from 1915 to 1930. The famous

Salt March started form this ashram. Ananya appointed a guide, for no other

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reason than to keep everyone walking together. We passed the exhibits – various

pictures, paintings, letters and articles of Gandhi.

‘And when Mr. Gandhi left in 1930 for the Dandi March, he vowed never to

return to the ashram until India won its independence,’ the guide said in a

practiced voice. ‘And he didn’t after that day.’

‘Did he come back after India became free?’ Ananya’s mother wanted to know.

‘Alas,’ the guide sighed, ‘he couldn’t. He was shot dead within six months of

independence.’

My mother, not to be left behind in asking of questions, turned to the guide.

‘Why is it called Dandi March? Because he carried a stick?’

The guide laughed. Like all his mannerisms, his laugh was dramatic, too. ‘How

little we know about the greatest man in India. No madam, Dandi is the name of a

place, five hundred kilometers away from here.’

The guide took us to an exhibit of the map and pointed to the coastal town.

Ananya’s mother turned to her father and spoke in Tamil. ‘Something

something illa knowledge Punjabi people something.’

‘Seri, seri,’ Ananya’s father said in a cursory manner, engrossed in the map.

Ananya’s mother continued. ‘Intellectually, culturally zero. Something something

crass uneducated something.’

I don’t know if Ananya’s mother realised her use of the few English words, or

maybe she planted them intentionally. She had made her comeback. My mother

heard her and looked at me. The guide looked worried as his tip was in danger.

‘So, you see, Gandhiji strongly believed that all Indians are one. Anyway, let us
now see Gandhiji’s personal belongings. This way, please.’ The guide said,

breaking the Antarctic glances between the two mothers.

We sat down for lunch under a tree in the ashram complex, looking like we

were on death row. Everyone ate in silence as Ananya dropped the news. ‘We like

each other.’

Everyone looked at each other in confusion. Most people did not like each

other in this group.