‘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 sympathising 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.
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 to 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 necks to get a better view. Ananya’s mother looked at me with suspicion. I realised 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.’
‘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.
‘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 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.
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 already taken a window seat behind the driver. I squished myself between the two ladies in the middle.
The Sabarmati Ashram is eight kilometres 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 window. 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 rig
hts 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 said 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 from this ashram. Ananya appointed a guide, for no other 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 practised dramatic 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 kilometres 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.
‘Krish and I, we like each other,’ Ananya smiled.
‘I told you. I smelt something fishy. . . .’ My mother tore her chapatti.
‘There’s nothing fishy. There’s nothing to be worried about. We just wanted to share our happiness. We are just two people in love,’ Ananya said as her mother interrupted her.
‘Shut up, Ananya!’ Ananya’s mother glared at her. I wondered if she would slap her. And I wondered if Ananya would offer her second cheek, considering we were in Gandhi’s ashram.
‘This is what I meant when I said about South Indian girls. There are so many cases in Delhi only,’ my mother said, itching to slam Ananya’s mom again.
‘Mom, chill,’ I said.
‘What have I said? Did I say anything?’ my mother asked.
‘Get up,’ Ananya’s mother said to her husband. Like a TV responding to a remote, he stood. Ananya’s brother followed. ‘We will take an auto back,’ Ananya’s mother said.
Ananya sat under the tree, perplexed.
‘Now you will stay with them?’ Ananya’s mother asked.
‘Mom, please!’ Ananya sounded close to tears.
Ananya’s mother tugged at Ananya and pulled her away. The guide noticed them leave and looked puzzled. I paid him off and came back to my mother. She finished the last few spoons of Topaz’s paneer tikka masala under the tree.
‘They are gone,’ I said.
‘Good. There’ll be more space in the car,’ she said.
Act 2:
Delhi
12
‘What are you reading with such concentration?’ my mother asked as she chopped bhindi on the dining table.
‘It’s the Citibank new employee form. I have to fill fifty pages. They want to know everything, like where was your mother born.’
‘On the way from Lahore to Delhi. Your grandmother delivered me in a makeshift tent near Punjabi Bagh.’
‘I’ll write Delhi,’ I said.
I had come home for the two-month break before joining Citibank.
Even in April, Delhi temperature had already crossed forty degrees centigrade. There wasn’t much to do, apart from calling Ananya once a day or waiting for her call. I sat with my mother as she prepared lunch. My father wasn’t home, nobody really sure or caring about where he was.
‘Is this the form where you fill your location preference?’ my mother asked.
I looked at her hands, a little more wrinkled than before I left home to join college. She cut the top and tail of a bhindi and slit it in the middle.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘You chose Delhi, right?’
I kept quiet.
‘What?’
‘Yes I will,’ I said.
The phone rang. I rushed to pick it up. It was Sunday and cheaper STD rates meant Ananya would call at noon.
‘Hi, my honey bunch,’ Ananya said.
‘Obviously, your mother is not around,’ I said. I spoke in a low volume as my own mother kept her eyes on the bhindi but her ears on me.
‘Of course not. She’s gone to buy stuff for Varsha Porupu puja tomorrow.’
‘Varsha what?’
‘Varsha Porupu, Tamil new year. Don’t you guys know?’
‘Uh, yes of course. Happy New Year,’ I said.
‘And have you sent in your Citibank form yet?’
‘No, have to fill a few final items,’ I said.
‘You’ve given Chennai as your top location choice?’
‘I will . . . wait.’
I picked up the phone and went as far from my mother as the curly landline wire allowed me. ‘My mother expects me to put in Delhi,’ I whispered.
‘And what do you want? HLL has placed me in Chennai. I told you weeks ago. How are we going to make this work?’
‘We will. But if I come to Chennai, she’ll know it is for you.’
‘Fine, then tell her that.’
‘How?’
‘I don’t know. They didn’t give me a choice, else I would have come to Delhi. I miss you sweets, a lot. Please, baby, come soon.’
‘I’m someone else’s baby too, quite literally. And she is watching me, so I better hang up.’
‘Please say “I love you”.’
‘I do.’
‘No, say it nicely.’
‘Ananya!’
‘Just once. The three words together.’
I looked at my mother. She picked up the last bunch of bhindis and wiped them with a wet cloth. Her shiny knife, symbolic of her current position in my love story, gleamed in the afternoon light.
‘Movies I love. You should see them, too.’
‘Aww, that’s not fair,’ Ananya mock-cried at the other end.
‘Bye,’ I said.
‘OK, love you. Bye,’ she ended the call.
I came back to the dining table. Out of guilt, I picked up a few bhindis and started wiping them with a wet cloth.
‘Madrasi girl?’
‘Ananya,’ I said.
‘Stay away
from her. They brainwash, these people.’
‘Mom, I like her. In fact, I love her.’
‘See, I told you. They trap you,’ my mother declared.
‘Nobody has trapped me, mom,’ I said as I thwacked a bhindi on the table. ‘She is a nice girl. She is smart, intelligent, good-looking. She has a good job. Why would she need to trap anyone?’
‘They like North Indian men.’
‘Why? What’s so special about North Indian men?’
‘North Indians are fairer. The Tamilians have a complex.’
‘A complexion complex?’ I chuckled.
‘Yes, huge,’ my mother said.
‘Mom, she went to IIMA, she is one of the smartest girls in India. What are you talking about? And not that it matters, but you have seen her. She is fairer than me.’
‘The fair ones are the most dangerous. Sridevi and Hema Malini.’
‘Mom, stop comparing Ananya to Sridevi and Hema Malini,’ I screamed and pushed the bhindi bowl on the table aside with my arm. The bowl pushed the knife, which in turn rammed against my mother’s fingers. She winced in pain as drops of blood flooded her right index and middle fingers.
‘Mom, I am so sorry,’ I said. ‘I am so sorry.’
‘It’s OK. Kill me. Kill me for this girl,’ she wailed.
‘Mom, I am not. . . .’ A drop of blood fell on my Citibank form. Now would be the time to betray your mother, you idiot, I thought.
‘I am going to write Delhi,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘Nothing. Where are the band-aids? Don’t worry, I will cook the bhindi. Give me the masala.’
I bandaged my mother and had her recline on the sofa. I switched on the TV. I tried to find a channel with a soap opera that didn’t show children disrespecting their parents. I filled each bhindi with masala over the next hour.
‘Do you know how to switch on the gas?’ she screamed from the living room as I hunted for matches in the kitchen.
‘I do. Don’t worry.’
‘I can show you Punjabi girls fair as milk,’ she said, her volume louder than the TV. I ignored her as I checked the cupboard for a vessel. ‘Should we give a matrimonial ad? Verma aunty downstairs gave it; she got fifty responses even though her son is from donation college. You will get five hundred,’ my mother said.