2 States The Story Of My Marriage (17 page)

asked for time to solve it. He nodded and read the next chapter. The tutor was

being tutored.

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I passed the rest of the hour learning physics from Manju. I stood up to leave. I
reached the living room where Ananya’s dad was making slow love to The Hindu.

Ananya had instructed me to spend as much time with her father as possible. I

waited for ten minutes until he finished his article.

‘Yes?’

‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘I finished the class.’

‘Good,’ he said and flipped another page.

‘How’s the bank, uncle?’

He glanced up from the newspaper, surprised. ‘Which bank?’

‘Your bank.’ I cleared my throat. ‘How is your job?’

‘What?’ he said, stumped by the stupidity of the question. ‘What is there in

job? Job is same.’

‘Yes, sure,’ I said.

I stood for another five minutes, not sure of what I should do. I couldn’t

compete with The Hindu, and a fresh one came every day.

‘I’ll leave now, uncle,’ I said.

‘OK,’ he said.

I had reached the door when he called out, ‘Breakfast?’

‘I’ll have it in the office.’

‘Where is your office?’

‘Anna Salai,’ I said.

‘That’s on my way. I leave at eight-thirty. I can drop you,’ he said.

I realised eight-thirty would mean I’d reach an hour later than my boss. It didn’t
work for me. But the lift also meant I could be in this house for another two hours

and be in the car alone with my father-in-law-in-courtship.

‘That’s perfect. I have to reach at the same time,’ I said.

‘Good,’ he said and went back to hhis paper again.

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We sat for breakfast at seven-thirty. Ananya’s father went to the temple room

to pray, and came back with the customary three grey stripes on his forehead. I

wondered if I should go pray too, but wasn’t sure how I’d explain the three stripes

in office along with my lateness.

We had idlis for breakfast, and Ananya’s mother put fifty of them in front of us.

We ate quietly. Ananya had told me they never spoke much anyway. The best way

to fit in was to never talk.

‘More chutney?’ Ananya’s mother’s question (and my shaking my head) was

the only insightful conversation we had during the meal.

Uncle reversed his Fiat from the garage. He peeked out to look at me several

times. I wasn’t sure if he wanted to avoid me or make a direct hit.

‘Sit,’ uncle said. I went around the car to sit next to him. Sitting with my

girlfriend’s father in a car brought traumatic memories. I took deep breaths. This

is not the same situation, play cool, I said to myself several times.

Uncle drove at a speed of ten an hour, and I wondered what reason I’d give my

boss for not coming to office two hours ago. Autos, scooters and even some

manual-powered vehicles like rickshaws came close to overtaking us.

I wanted to talk but couldn’t think of any trouble-free topic. I opened my office
bag with the dubious ‘Citi never sleeps’ logo and took out my research reports to

read. Dot com stocks had lost 25% last week. The analysts who had predicted

that these stocks would triple every hour now claimed the market had gone into

self-correct mode. Self-correct – it sounded so intelligent and clever it sort of

took out the pain away from people who had lost their life savings. It also made

you sound dumb if you’d ask why didn’t the market self-correct earlier? Or the

more basic, what the fuck do you mean by self-correct anyway?

I had two clients who had lost ten lakh each coming to visit me today. With my

IIMA degree I had to come up with a sleight of hand to make the losses disappear.

the car came to a halt near a red light.

‘You wrote those reports?’ uncle asked.

I shook my head. ‘It’s the research group,’ I said.

‘Then what you do at the bank?’ he was more rhetorical.

‘Customer service,’ I said, not sure how anything I did was service. Asking

people to give you their money and scraping away at it wasn’t service.

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‘Do you know how to write those reports?’ he said.

The cars behind us began to honk. The Fiat didn’t start instantly. Uncle made

two attempts in vain.

‘Illa service quality,’ he cursed at his car as he pulled the choke. I kept the
reports inside as I became ready to push the car. Fortunately, the car started at th
e third attempt.

‘I can write them, why?’ I said, answering his earlier question.

‘Nothing. Stupid joint venture my bank has done. Now they want us to submit

a business plan. And that GM has asked me.’

‘I can help,’ I screamed like a boy scout.

‘Raascal,’ he said.

‘Huh?’

‘That GM Verma. In my thirty years at the bank I haven’t done any report. Now I
have to make a pinpoint presentation as well.’

‘Powerpoint presentation?’ I asked.

‘Yes, that one. Intentionally rascal gave me something I don’t understand,’

uncle said.

‘I can help,’ I said. Maybe I had found a way to bond with uncle.

‘No need,’ uncle said, his voice serious. He realised he had opened up more

than he should have.

‘You get off here,’ uncle said and drove to a road corner. ‘Citibank is hardly

hundred metres.’

I stepped out of the car. I said thanks three times and waved him goodbye. He

didn’t respond. He put his hand on the gear-shift.

‘Don’t meet Ananya too much. We are simple people, we don’t say much. But

don’t spoil her name in our community,’ he said.

‘Uncle, but…’

‘I know you are classmates and you are helping Manju. We can be grateful, we

can fed you, but we can’t let Ananya marry you.’

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I stood at the traffic intersection. Autos blared their horns at each other as if in
angry conversation. It was hardly the place to convince someone about the most

important decision of your life.

‘Uncle, but …’ I said again.

Uncle folded his hands to before pressing the accelerator. The car started to

move. Fuck, how do I respond to folded hands? I thought. Uncle drove past me. Like

a defeated insurance salesman, I lifted my bag and walked towards the bank.

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21

‘Welcome sir, welcome to State Bank of India,’ Bala said. His tone couldn’t hide

his anger, thereby ruining the sarcasm of his lines. He sat on my desk, waiting for

the exact joyous moment when he could squash me.

‘I’m really sorry, my auto met with an accident,’ I lied.

“Your chummery servant said you left at five,’ he said.

‘You called my chummery? It’s only nine. Isn’t that the official time anyway?’

‘No, this is Citibank. Not a public sector bank,’ he said.

‘So, people who work here cannot have life,’ I mumbled.

‘What?’

‘Nothing. Ms Sreenivas is coming at ten today,’ I said.

‘And you haven’t prepared for it. Have you read the reports?’

‘Yes, I have. But the tricky part is she is down ten lakh. And that is because

she believed these reports. So no matter how well I read these reports, she won’t

trust them. Can I sit on my chair?’ I asked.

Bala stared at me, shocked by my defiance. I took my seat. ‘You told me to

push these stocks,’ I said, ‘and now our clients are down. Ms Sreenivas is an old

lady. She will panic. I want you to be prepared.’

‘Prepared for what?’

‘That she, and some other clients too, could move funds elsewhere.’

‘How? How can they? This is Citibank,’ Bala said.

‘Because even as the Citi never sleeps, we make our customers weep.’

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Ms Sreenivas’ panic mode was entertaining enough to attract bankers from other

groups to come to our area. First, she spoke to me in Tamil for two minutes.

When she realised I didn’t know the language, she switched to English.

‘You, you said this will double. It’s down seventy percent-aa,’ Ms Sreenivas

said.

‘Actually madam, the market went into self-correction mode,’ I said. I now

understood the purpose of complex research terms. They deflect uncomfortable

questions that have no answer.

‘But, I’ve lost ten lakh!’ she screamed.

‘Madam, stock market goes up and down. We do have some other products

that are less risky,’ I said, capitalizing on her misery to sell more.

‘Forget it. I am done with Citibank. I told you to do a fixed deposit. You didn’t.

Now I move my account to Vysya Bank.’

My sales rep brought several snacks and cold drinks for her. Ms Sreenivas

didn’t budge.

‘Madam, but Citibank is a much better name than Vysya,’ I said.

‘Give me the account closing documents,’ Ms Sreenivas said. We had no

choice. First hour in office, strike one. The TV in the reception showed the CNBC

channel. Internet stocks had lost another five percent that day.

In the next two weeks, our most trusting customers, hence the most gullible

ones to whom we had peddled companies that did nothing more than make a

website, lost a total of two crore. My own customers’ losses were limited to the

two ladies, as I could never sell those companies well anyway. Bala, however,

with his empire of smart people who rip off rich people, had to answer country

headquarters in Mumbai.

‘I have seven complaints,’ the country head of the customer service group said

in a conference call.

‘Sir, it is just an overreaction to the volatility,’ Bala said.

‘Don’t quote from the research report. I’ve read it,’ the country head said.

The call ended. Bala’s face had turned pale. The bosses had decided to visit

the Chennai branch. I first thought I imagined it, but it was true; Bala shivered a

little at the news. Mumbai said we shouldn’t have marketed Internet stocks to

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individual investors, let alone housewives, in the first place. Of course, they never
complained when the commission kept coming in. but now five customers had

closed their accounts and one customer had sent a letter all the way to the CEO

of Citibank in New York.

At my weekly sales meeting, I told my sales reps not to sell Chennai customers

anything apart from fixed deposits, gold and saris.

‘Sir, we don’t sell saris,’ one of my reps clarified.

‘Sorry, I was trying to be funny. We don’t sell gold either, right?’

‘We do. Gold-linked deposit, sir,’ she said.

Yes, I didn’t even know my group’s products. Actually, I didn’t even know why

I was doing this job. I nodded and smiled. In customer service, you need to smile

more than a toothpaste model.

‘Is it true that Ms Sreenivas lost ten lakh?’ another of my lady customers

walked into the bank. She chuckled, and sat close to the sales rep to get the full

lowdown. Too bad we couldn’t give her the details due to confidentiality reasons.

We couldn’t offer returns, but at least we could have given gossip. Maybe that

would lure customers.

‘Krish, come here,’ Bala came to me like a petrified puppy at seven in the

evening.

I had packed my ‘Citi never sleeps’ bag to go back home and sleep. We had

our bosses coming in two days. I had spent the last two nights making

presentations for them. It was the crappiest, most thankless job in Tamil Nadu.

No matter how wonderful I made my slides, the numbers were so bad, we’d be

screamed at anyway. Last night I had reached home at three and then woke up

again at five to reach brother-in –law dearest. I didn’t want Bala, I wanted a pillow.

‘Bala, I …’ I stopped mid-sentence as he had already turned towards his cabin,

expecting me to follow him.

I went into Bala’s office. He shut the door softly as possible. He drew the

blinds and put the phone off the hook. Either he wants to fire me or molest me, I

though.

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‘How is it going?’ he whispered, quite unnecessarily as people had already left
for the day.

‘Fine. I sent you the presentation. You approved, right?’ I said. He had given

me an OK in the afternoon. The last thing I wanted was another night out.

‘Yeah, that’s fine. Listen buddy, I need a favour from you.’

Bala had never called me buddy. The room smelt coconutty and fishy. The

coconut came from Bala’s hair, the fish from his unspoken intention.