2 States: The Story of My Marriage

  ‘It’s a Tamil style wedding,’ Ananya said.

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, what else do you expect in Chennai? Anyway, won’t your relatives like to see something different?’

  ‘Actually, no,’ I said.

  ‘We’ll see, and you can take the train to Chennai. The Rajdhani Express takes twenty-eight hours.’

  ‘That’s a long ride with relatives,’ I said.

  ‘You’ve waited so long for this, what’s another day?’ Ananya said and ended the call.

  ‘You really won’t come? I have your tickets.’

  My father kept silent. My mother sat next to me at the dining table.

  ‘Why does it have to be a choice? Why can’t mom get her relatives and you come as well?’ I said. Why can’t we be a normal family for once? I thought. I guess there are no normal families in the world. Everyone is a psycho, and the average of all psychos is what we call normal.

  ‘He feels they have insulted him in the past,’ my mother said.

  ‘And he hasn’t insulted them?’ I said, ‘Anyway, what does it have to do with my wedding? Dad, say something.’

  ‘You have my blessings. Don’t expect my presence,’ my father said.

  ‘His drama never ends,’ my mother said. ’He himself went to Chennai and said yes to the Madrasis. This wouldn’t even have happened otherwise. Now when everyone in my family is waiting for the wedding, he stops them. Why? Because he can’t see them happy. Most of all, he doesn’t want to see me happy.’ She then broke into tears.

  ‘Is that the case, dad?’

  ‘No, I’ve given you a choice,’ he said.

  ‘Which son will not want his father to come?’ my mother said, ‘This is not a choice. This is blackmail.’

  ‘Whatever you want to call it. If this wedding is happening because of me, then I should get to choose the guests.’

  ‘No dad,’ I said, ‘Mom has equal rights, too. Unfortunately, I belong to both of you.’

  ‘So, you decide,’ my father said.

  My mother and dad looked at me. I paced up and down the room for ten minutes.

  ‘Dad, mom’s family has to come. You do what you have to do,’ I said and left the room.

  Rajji mama had arranged a two-man dholak band at the Hazrat Nizamuddin station. I helped locate the thirty-seven II-tier AC berths reserved for my relatives in the Rajdhani Express compartment. Two of my mother’s cousin sisters had decided to join at the last minute and we had to accommodate them as well. My mother made up a wonderful story about my father’s viral fever that could be malaria. Everyone knew the reality, and apart from the awkwardness of fibbing to Ananya’s parents again, people were relieved, as my dad equalled to no fun.

  ‘You can’t talk half the things when your husband is here,’ as Shipra masi told my mother.

  I stood inside the bogie, matching everyone’s ticket to their berth. Rajji mama dragged me out. ‘You have to dance a little, no? This is the baraat leaving,’ he said.

  At four in the afternoon, hundreds of bored passengers on the platform watched the free entertainment provided by our family. The dholak men jogged along the train and argued with mama over the payment. They couldn’t squeeze much out of him as the train had picked up speed.

  I came inside my compartment, which the ladies had turned into a sari shop. The entire lower berths were filled with the dresses everyone planned to wear for each of the functions.

  ‘This is beautiful,’ my seventy-year-old distant aunt said as she fondled a magenta sari with real gold-work. Women never get too old for admiring saris.

  My younger cousins had taken over the next compartment. The girls had their make-up kits open. They discussed the sharing of mascaras. I see why whole families get excited about a wedding; there’s something in it for everyone.

  I came outside to stand at the compartment door. The train whizzed past Agra, Gwalior and Jhansi over the next few hours. I still had a day to go as the train traversed through this huge country, cutting through the states I had battled for the last year. These states make up our nation. These states also divide our nation. And in some cases, these states play havoc in our love lives.

  I came inside when the train reached Bhopal at dinnertime. My relatives couldn’t contain their excitement that Rajdhani Express offered free meals.

  ‘Take non-veg, the Madrasis won’t give you any,’ Shipra masi advised everyone.

  ‘OK aunty, for the next three days, there are no Madrasis, only Tamilians,’ I said.

  Shipra masi separated the foil from her chicken. ‘Yes, yes, I know. Tamil Nadu is the state. But we are going to Madras only, no? Why does the ticket say Chennai?’

  ‘It’s the same. Like Delhi and Dilli,’ Kamla mami said as she slurped her chicken sweet corn soup.

  ‘Is it true their chief minister is an ex-film heroine?’ my mother’s cousin said.

  ‘Yes-ji,’ another aunt said, ‘these South Indian women are quite clever.’

  ‘God has given them a brain, nothing else,’ came another loose comment and I considered jumping off the train.

  60

  Ananya’s father checked my clan into twenty rooms at the Sangeetha Residency in Mylapore. The rooms were basic, but clean and air-conditioned. ‘What happened to your father? We just met him,’ he asked.

  ‘It’s a viral fever that could become malaria,’ I said.

  ‘Is that possible?’

  ‘It happens in Delhi. Anyway, what’s the schedule?’ I regulated the conversation.

  ‘We have a puja tomorrow afternoon and another one in the evening. The wedding muhurtam will be in the morning day after tomorrow,’ he said.

  ‘Uncle, what about a DJ? There is no party?’ I was aghast for my kith and kin.

  ‘We have a reception party day after evening. Have your fun there,’ he said and turned to my mother, ‘Kavita jee, Shipra jee, can I talk to you for a second?’

  My mother, Shipra masi and Ananya’s father stepped away from me and other relatives. They spoke for five minutes. My mother rejoined me. Shipra masi went to the reception to collect her keys.

  ‘What?’ I said as we climbed up the steps towards our hotel rooms.

  ‘Nothing,’ my mother said.

  ‘It’s my marriage. I deserve to know.’

  ‘They asked me if I wanted a special gift,’ my mother said. Perhaps, Ananya had recounted Minti’s wedding to her parents.

  ‘And? What did you say?’ I said, eyeing my mother with suspicision.

  ‘Don’t talk to me in that voice,’ my mother said.

  ‘What exactly did you say, mom?’ I said, my tone worse, ‘what? Did you send him to buy a car or split ACs or what?’

  ‘That’s what you think of me. Don’t you?’ my mother said as we reached the first floor. She paused to catch her breath.

  Shipra masi’s expensive sandals could be heard four seconds before she arrived to join us on the first floor.

  ‘See this stupid sister of mine. She said no to any big gifts,’ Shipra masi said to me.

  ‘You did?’ I said to my mother.

  My mother looked at me.

  ‘You will never understand how much I love you,’ my mother said.

  I hung my head down in shame. My mother smacked the back of my head. I deserved a slap.

  Shipra masi waved her hands as she spoke.

  ‘You and your mother, both the same – impractical. She tells him, “I sent my son to do one MBA, I am getting two MBAs in return. Ananya is the best gift,”’ Shipra masi said, ‘OK, she earns a lot, but Kavita, why say no if someone is ready to give. Why not grab it.’

  ‘Because we are not that kind of people, Shipra masi,’ I said and gave my mother a hug, ‘she is all talk. But she can never behave like Duke’s mother. Never,’ I said.

  I came into my hotel room where ten cousins, six aunts and four uncles sat on my bed. I sat on the floor as space was at a premium. We had twenty rooms to choose from, but my relatives would rather be
cramped together than miss out on juicy gossip session.

  The younger cousins battled for the TV remote. I repeated the schedule to my aunts.

  ‘They are big bores. How can they do puja the whole day?’ Kamla mami said.

  ‘They don’t even have sangeet?’ my mother said.

  ‘I think they are trying to save money,’ Shipra masi said.

  ‘What language will the pujas be in? Madrasi?’ another aunt said.

  ‘Tamil, maybe Sanskrit,’ I said.

  ‘I am not coming,’ my mother said.

  I glared at my mother.

  ‘Where do we eat?’ an aunt expressed everyone’s concern.

  ‘The meals are in the dining hall at the wedding venue. Let’s go to bed, we have to wake up early,’ I said.

  We had planned to meet in the hotel lobby at seven-thirty in the morning. We only left at nine.

  ‘What is the address?’ Rajji mama said.

  I took out the piece of paper Ananya’s dad had given me.

  ‘I can’t read this,’ Rajji mama said.

  I took the paper back. It said:

  Arulmigu Kapaleeswarar Karpagambal Thirumana Mandapam

  16, Venkatesa Agraharam Street, Mylapore, Chennai

  After three attempts at reading it, I had a headache. I counted the letters, my wedding venue had fifty alphabets in it. Delhi never gets this complicated. One of my older cousins had her wedding in Batra Banquets, another one in Bawa Hall.

  We struggled for twenty minutes on the streets of Mylapore before we reached the venue. Fortunately, the locals had abbreviated the name of the place to AKKT Mandapam. From actors to political parties to wedding halls, Tamilians love to keep complicated names first and then make acronyms for the same.

  ‘What do you mean breakfast is finished?’ Shipra masi said.

  ‘Illa, illa,’ a pot-bellied, dark-complexioned, hirsute chef said and shook his hand. He wore a lungi and a chef’s cap. If he wore the cap to prevent hair in the food, he needed a body sheath, given his hairy arms and chest.

  ‘Orunimishum,’ I said, ‘what happened?’

  ‘Your son speaks Tamil?’ Shipra masi said to my mother.

  My mother rolled her eyes.

  ‘No, I don’t. It’s a common word for wait a second,’ I said.

  ‘Now he belongs to them. They’ll make him do anything,’ my mother lamented loudly.

  ‘Mom, please. Let me resolve this,’ I said.

  ‘What will you resolve? They will make us cook food also,’ my mother said.

  ‘Everybody, please sit in the dining hall,’ I said, then turned to the chef. ‘Can’t you make something?’

  ‘Who will make tiffin then? We have to serve it at eleven,’ the chef said.

  I checked my watch. It was nine-thirty. My family would have medical emergencies if kept hungry for that long.

  ‘We want something now,’ I said, ‘anything quick.’

  ‘What about tiffin?’ the chef said.

  ‘We don’t want tiffin. We’ll only come back for lunch later.’

  ‘Girl’s side wants tiffin. They came for breakfast at 6.30,’ the chef said.

  Rajji mama came up to me. ‘Bribe him,’ he whispered.

  I thought about the ethics of bribing at my own wedding to feed myself.

  ‘Wokay, I go now, I am busy,’ the chef said and mumbled to himself, ‘pundai maganey, thaayoli koodhi.’

  ‘Anna, wait,’ I said.

  The chef looked at me in amazement. How can a person with a heavy Delhi accent toss in a Tamil word or two?

  I kept a hundred-rupee note in my hand and shook hands with him. Perplexed, he examined the currency.

  ‘We are giving you out of happiness,’ my uncle said.

  ‘I can make upma fast,’ the chef said.

  ‘What is upma?’ my uncle said.

  ‘Salty halwa. No, not upma. Can you make dosas?’ I said.

  ‘For dosa one by one making no staff now. Then lunch also delayed,’ the chef said mournfully.

  We settled on idlis. There would be no sambhar. However, the chef had a drum full of coconut chutney, enough to pave roads with.

  My family sat in the dining hall as servers placed banana leaves in front of them.

  ‘We have to eat leaves?’ Shipra masi said, ‘What are we? Cows?’

  ‘It’s the plate,’ I said, ‘and there is no cutlery.’

  ‘They have hardly any expense in weddings, how lucky,’ Kamla aunty said.

  Forty of us consumed at least two hundred idlis.

  Ananya’s father came when we had finished. ‘There wasn’t breakfast? I am sorry,’ he said.

  ‘It’s fine,’ I said, ‘we came late.’

  ‘Hello, Kavita-ji,’ Ananya’s father said with folded hands, as per Ananya’s instructions. He took the bucket of idli from the server and served one to my mother.

  ‘Hello,’ my mother responded, a hint of pride in her voice as her siblings saw her being served by the girl’s father. This is what grown-ups live for anyway, considering they have so little fun otherwise.

  ‘How’s Krish’s father feeling now?’ Ananya’s father said next.

  ‘He’s better, he had soup last night and porridge in the morning. He is taking rest now. He sends his regards,’ my mother said.

  Ananya’s father nodded in concern.

  ‘What are the ceremonies today, uncle?’ I asked for my relatives’ benefit.

  ‘First, we have the Vrutham, the wedding initiation prayers. We also have Nischayathartham, the formal engagement ceremony where we set the auspicious time for the wedding and give gifts to close relatives,’ Ananya’s father said.

  My aunts only paid attention to the last four words.

  We came to the main hall, the centre of action for the next two days. Every ceremony of my wedding took place in this room. In the middle of the hall, there was a fire urn, not too different from Punjabi weddings. However, in our weddings people only came around the fire after eating their dinner and dessert. Here, everyone lived around the fire. I sat down on the floor. Four priests started the mantras. Close relatives sat on the floor, while distant and arthritic ones sat on chairs in the back rows. The priests at the Vrutham chanted so loud, it scared some of my little cousins into crying and made it impossible to talk. My aunts behind me shifted their positions several times.

  ‘Should we do a city tour later?’ Kamla aunty said.

  ‘What is there to see in Chennai? If you want to see Madrasis, there are enough in this room,’ Shipra masi said.

  I saw Ananya’s relatives. I recognised a few aunts. The younger cousins had come down from abroad. They sat in traditional Tamil attire, clutching their mineral water bottles.

  ‘Ananya didi,’ Minti said as Ananya came inside. She wore a maroon Kanjeevaram sari with a mustard yellow-gold border. Her tightly braided hair made her look like a cute schoolgirl. Her face had make up, and Ananya looked prettier than any girl on any Tamil film poster ever made. Her eyes looked deep, due to the kaajal around it. For a few seconds I couldn’t recognise her as my Ananya. Was this the same girl I met in the mess line fighting for sambhar?

  Our eyes met briefly. She gave me a little smile, enquiring on how she looked.

  I nodded, yes she looked more beautiful than she ever had.

  The prayers continued for another hour. Smoke filled the room. The priests kept adding twigs and spoonfuls of ghee to the fire. Ananya and I exchanged glances and smiled several times. Was it really happening? Was I finally getting married, with consent from everyone I shared my DNA with?

  The priest asked for my father. My mother told him he was unwell.

  I thought of dad again. Why are adults so stuck up?

  ‘What’s your grandparents’ village?’ Ananya’s dad asked me. The priests required it for the Nischayathartham ceremony.

  I had no idea. I turned to my mother. She turned to my aunts. My aunts debated what answer to give them.

  ‘Lahore,’ my mother said, aft
er their discussion.

  ‘Lahore in Pakistan?’ Ananya’s father said.

  He seemed worried; I was scared he’d change his mind again.

  ‘My grandparents had come to Delhi after the Partition,’ I explained to him.

  He nodded.

  ‘Uncle, when is the marriage done? Like it is irreversible and no one can object to it afterwards?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ he said.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said as the priest called me to make a donation.

  I gave him a hundred-rupee note. He declined it with full fervor.

  ‘Don’t give him directly, put it in the thamboolam,’ Ananya’s father said, referring to the puja plates.

  I placed the money in the plate. I decorated it with a banana, paan leaves and betel nut. I offered it again and the priest accepted it. He announced the wedding details – the non-abbreviated name of the venue, the lagnam, the star and tomorrow’s date.

  ‘Six-thirty muhurtam,’ the priest said.

  ‘In the morning?’ Rajji mama said, shocked.

  Ananya’s relatives congratulated each other on the formal setting of the time. My relatives were aghast.

  ‘This is a wedding or a torture? It’s like catching an early morning flight,’ Kamla aunty said.

  Fortunately, Ananya’s mother calmed the ladies by bringing in ten bags full of gifts.

  ‘Mrs Kamla,’ she announced, reading out from the first bag. Each gift had the receiver’s name, relationship with me and a code word for what was inside.

  ‘Me,’ Kamla aunty said and raised her hand like a child marking attendance in class. There’s something about presents that turns everyone into kids.

  ‘We’ll open them in our hotel,’ Shipra masi said after the end of the prize distribution ceremony.

  ‘And now, we will have lunch,’ Ananya’s father said, inviting us all to the dining hall to a meal of rice, sambhar, rasam, vegetables, curd and payasam.

  ‘We’re trapped. No paneer here,’ Kamla aunty said as we moved to the paneer-less dining hall.

  61

  ‘So, what’s the plan for tonight?’ Rajji mama said after we came back to the hotel.

  ‘There is dinner at the dining hall at eight,’ I said.

  ‘Please, I can’t have any more rice,’ Shipra masi said. The ladies had opened their Kanjeevaram sari gifts. I had told Ananya to leave the price tags on. My relatives praised Ananya a little more as they noticed each sari cost three thousand bucks.