2 States The Story Of My Marriage (2 page)

'I'm used to hostel food,' I shrugged. 'I've had worse.'

'Hard to imagine worse,' she said.

I coughed as I bit on a green chili. She had a water jug next to her. She lifted
the jug, leaned forward and poured water for me. A collective sigh ran through

the mess. We had become everyone's matinee show.

She finished her two desserts in four bites. 'I'm still hungry. I didn't even have
breakfast.'

'Hunger or tasteless food, hostel life is about whatever is easier to deal with,' I
said.

'You want to go out? I'm sure the city has decent restaurants,' she said.

'Now?' We had a class in one hour. But Ms Best Girl had asked me out, even

though for her own stomach. And as everyone knows, female classmates always

come before class.

'Don't tell me you are dying to attend the lecture,'' she said and stood up,

daring me.

I spooned in some rice.

She stamped her foot. 'Leave that disgusting stuff.'

Four hundred eyes followed us as I walked out of the mess with Ms Ananya

Swaminathan, rated the best girl by popular vote in IIMA.

‘Do you like chicken?’ The menu rested on her nose as she spoke. We had

DX @ www.desibbrg.com

come to Topaz, a basic, soulless but air-conditioned restaurant half a kilometer

from campus. Like all mid-range Indian restaurants, it played boring instrumental

versions of old Hindi songs and served little marinated onions on the table.

‘I thought Ahmedabad was vegetarian,’ I said.

‘Please, I’d die here then.’ She turned to the waiter and ordered half a tandoori
chicken with roomali rotis.

‘Do you have beer?’ she asked the waiter.

The waiter shook his head in horror and left.

‘We are in Gujarat, there is prohibition here,’ I said.

‘Why?’

‘Gandhiji’s birthplace,’ I said

‘But Gandhiji won us freedom,’ she said, playing with the little onions. ‘What’s
the point of getting people free only to put restrictions on them?’

‘Point,’ I said. ‘So, you are an expert on rasam and sambhar. Are you a South

Indian?’

‘Tamilian, please be precise. In fact, Tamil Brahmin, which is way different

from Tamilians. Never forget that.’ She leaned back as the waiter served our meal.

She tore a chicken leg with her teeth.

‘And how exactly are Tamil Brahmins different?’

‘Well, for one thing, no meat and no drinking,’ she said as she gestured a

cross with t he chicken leg.

‘Absolutely,’ I said.

She laughed. ‘I didn’t say I am a practising Tam Brahm. But you should know

that I am born into the purest of pure upper caste communities ever created.

What about you, commoner?’

‘I am a Punjabi, though I never lived in Punjab. I grew up in Delhi. And I have
no idea about my caste, but we do eat chicken. And I can digest bad sambhar

better than Tamil Brahmins,’ I said.

‘You are funny,’ she said, tapping my hand. I liked the tap.

‘So where did you stay in hostel before?’ she said. ‘Please don’t say IIT, you

are doing pretty well so far.’

‘What’s wrong with IIT?’

‘Nothing, are you from there?’ She sipped water.

‘Yes, from IIT Delhi. Is that a problem?’

‘No,’ she smiled, ‘not yet.’

DX @ www.desibbrg.com

‘Excuse me?’ I said. Her smugness had reached irritating levels.

‘Nothing,’ she said.

We stayed quiet.

‘What’s the deal? Someone from IIT broke your heart?’

She laughed. ‘No, on the contrary. I seem to have broken some, for no fault of

my own.’

‘Care to explain?’

‘Don’t tell anyone, but in the past one week that I’ve been here, I’ve had ten

proposals. All from IITians.’

I mentally kicked myself. My guess was right; she was getting a lot of

attention. I only wished it wasn’t from my own people.

‘Proposals for what?’

‘The usual, to go out, be friends and stuff. Oh, and one guy from IIT Chennai

proposed marriage!’

‘Serious?’

‘Yes, he said this past week has been momentous for him. He joined IIMA, and

now he has found his wife in me. I may be wrong, but I think he had some

jewellery on him.’

I smacked my forehead. No, my collegemates can’t be doing this, whatever the

deprivation.

‘So, you understand my concern about you being from IIT,’ she said, picking

up a chicken breast next.

‘Oh, so it is a natural reaction. If I am from IIT, I have to propose to you within
ten minutes?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘You implied that.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s OK. I expected you to be like this. Let me guess- only child, rich parents?’

‘Wrong, wrong. I have a younger brother. And my father works in Bank of

Baroda in Chennai. Sorry, you expected me to be like what?’

‘Some girls cannot handle attention. Two days of popularity and every guy in

college should bow to you.’

‘That’s not true. Didn’t I come out with you?’ She neatly transferred the bare

bones of the chicken on to another plate.

DX @ www.desibbrg.com

‘Oh, that’s huge. Coming out with a commoner like me. How much is the bill?

I’ll pay my share and leave.’ I stood up.

‘Hey,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘I’m sorry. Please sit down.’

I had lost interest in the conversation anyway. If there is nothing as attractive
as a pretty girl, there’s nothing as repulsive as a cocky chick.

I sat back and focused on the food and the irritating instrumental music for the
next ten minutes. I ignored the Brahmin who stereotyped my collegemates.

‘Are we OK now?’ she smiled hesitantly.

‘Why did you come out with me? To take your score to eleven?’

‘You really want to know?’

‘Yes.’

‘I need some friends here. And you seemed like a safe-zone guy. Like the kind

of guy who could just be friends with a girl, right?’

Absolutely not, I thought. Why would any guy want to be only friends with a girl?

It’s like agreeing to be near a chocolate cake and never eat it. It’s like sitting in a racing
car but not driving it. Only wimps do that.

‘I’m not so sure,’ I said.

‘You can handle it. I told you about the proposals because you can see how

stupid they are.’

‘They are not stupid. They are IITians. They just don’t know how to talk to

women yet,’ I said.

‘Whatever. But you do. And I’d like to be friends with you. Just friends, OK?’

She extended her hand. I gave her a limp handshake.

‘Let’s share, sixty each,’ she said as the bill arrived.

That’s right, ‘just friends’ share bills. I didn’t want to be just friends with her.

And I didn’t want to be the eleventh martyr.

I paid my share and came back to campus. I had no interest in meeting my just

friend anytime again soon.

DX @ www.desibbrg.com

2

‘You OK?’ I said going up to my just friend. She remained in her seat as her

tears re-emerged. The last lecture had ended and the classroom was empty.

I hadn’t spoken much to Ananya after our lunch last week. Pretty girls behave

best when you ignore them. (Of course, they have to know you are ignoring them,

for otherwise they may not even know you exist.)

But today I had to talk to her. She had cried in the class. We had auditorium-

style classrooms with semi-circular rows, so everyone could see everyone.

Students sat in alphabetical order. Ananya, like all kids doomed with names

starting with the letter A, sat in the first row on the left side. She sat between

Ankur and Aditya, both IITians who had already proposed to her without

considering the embarrassment of being rejected and then sitting next to the

rejection for the whole year.

I sat in the third row, between Kanyashree, who took notes like a diligent court
transcripter, and five Mohits, who had come from different parts of India. But

neither Ankur, nor Kanyashree, nor the five Mohits had noticed Ananya’s tears.

Only I had caught her wiping her eye with a yellow dupatta that had little bells at

its ends that tinkled whenever she moved.

In the past week, I had limited my communication with Ananya to cursory

greetings every morning and a casual wave at the end of the day. During classes

we had to pay attention to the teachers we had marks for class participation-

saying something that sounds intelligent. Most IITians never spoke while people

from non-science backgrounds spoke non-stop.

Twenty-three minutes into the microeconomics class, the professor drew an L-

shaped utility curve on the blackboard. He admired his curve for ten seconds and

then turned to the class.

‘How many economics graduates here?’ asked Prof Chatterjee, a two-decade

IIMA veteran.

Fifteen students out of the seventy students in section A raised their hands,

Ananya included.

Chatterjee turned to her. ‘You recognise the curve, Ms Swaminathan?’ He read

her name from the nameplate in front.

‘The basic marginal utility curve, sir,’ Ananya said.

‘So, Ms Swaminathan, how would you represent that curve mathematically?’

Ananya stood up, her eyes explaining clearly that she had no clue. The

remaining fourteen economics graduates lowered their hands.

‘Yes, Ms Swaminathan?’ Chatterjee said.

DX @ www.desibbrg.com

Ananya clutched the trinkets on her dupatta so they didn’t make a noise as

she spoke. ‘Sir, that curve shows different bundles of goods between which a

consumer is indifferent. That is, at each point on the curve, the consumer has

equal preference for one bundle over another.’

‘That’s not my question. What is the mathematical formula?’

‘I don’t know that. In any case, this is only a concept.’

‘But do you know it?’

‘No. but I can’t think of any real life situation where a mathematical formula like
this would work,’ Ananya said.

Prof raised his hand to interrupt her. ‘Shsh….’ He gave a sinister smile.

‘Notice, class, notice. This is the state of economics education in our country.

Top graduates don’t know the basics. And then they ask – why is India

economically backward?’

Prof emphatically dropped the chalk on his table to conclude his point. He had

solved what had dumbfounded policymakers for decades. Ananya Swaminathan

was the reason for India’s backwardness.

Ananya hung her head in shame. A few IITians brightened up. Microeconomics

was an elective course in IIT and those who had done it knew the formula. They

were itching to show off.

‘Anyone knows?’ Prof asked and Ankur raised his hand.

‘Yes, tell us. Ms Swaminathan, you should talk to your neighbours more. And

next time, don’t raise your hand if I ask for microeconomics graduates.’ Prof said.

He went to the board to write lots of Greek symbols and calculus equations.

The course started with cute little things like how many people choose between

tea and biscuits. It had moved on to scary equations that would dominate exams.

The class took mad notes. Kanyashree wrote so hard I could feel the seismic

vibrations from her pen’s nib.

I stole a glance at Ananya. As a smug Ankur saw his words inscribed on the

board, Ananya’s left hand’s fingers scrunched up her yellow dupatta. She moved

her left hand to her face even as she continued to write with her right. In subtle

movements, she dabbed at her tears. Maybe Ms Best Girl had a heart, I thought.

And maybe I should cut out my studied ignorance strategy and talk to her after

class.

‘You OK?’ I said again.

She nodded while continuing to wipe her tears. She fixed her gaze down.

‘I miss Topaz,’ I said to change the topic.

‘I’ve never been so humiliated,’ she said.

‘Nobody cares. All professors are assholes. That’s the universal truth,’ I

DX @ www.desibbrg.com

offered. ‘At least where I come from.’

‘You want to see my economics degree? I’ll show you my grades.’

‘No,’ I said.

‘I came third in the entire Delhi University. These wannabe engineer profs have
turned economics from perfectly fine liberal arts subject to this Greek symbol

junkyard,’ she said as she pointed to the formulae on the board.

I kept silent.

‘You are from IIT. You probably love these equations,’ she said and looked up