2 States The Story Of My Marriage (26 page)

‘You are distracted, not in love.’

‘Leave it, Krish, he won’t listen. See how he talks to me. You don’t know how I lived
when you were in hostel.’

My father lunged menacingly towards my mother. He raised a hand to hit her. I

pulled my mother behind me. ‘Don’t,’ I said.

‘Who do you think you are?’ he slapped me hard on my right cheek. I sat down on the
dining room chair.

‘Leave us and go. Why do you even come back?’ My mother folded her hands at him.

‘Don’t beg, mom,’ I said, fighting a lump in my throat. My father had made fun of me
earlier for crying. To him, only weak men cried.

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“Look at his voice, like a girl’s,’ my father mocked. He gave me a disgusted glance
and went to the bathroom to change.

‘Go to sleep, son,’ my mother said.

‘He is sending her away next week,’ I said.

‘What girl have you involved yourself with? You are so young,’ my mother said.

‘I am not marrying her tomorrow.’

‘Is she Punjabi?’ my mother asked.

‘No,’ I said.

‘What?’ she said, shocked as if I’d suggested she wasn’t human.

‘Will you meet her father, once?’

My father came out of the bathroom. He had heard my last sentence, ‘Don’t you dare
go anywhere, Kavita,’ my father said, his eyes wild.

I stared back at him.

‘Go to your room,’ my father said.

I came back to my bed. I heard noises in my parent’s room. I couldn’t sleep. I woke up
and came towards their room. I’d heard enough arguments of my parents throughout my

life to care, but I placed my ear at the door, anyway.

“He is growing up,’ my mother said.

‘With all the wrong values. What does he know about this girl? He is my son, he is
from IIT, see what deal I get for him at the right time.’

There it was, for all my father’s principles, I was his trophy to be sold in the market
to the highest bidder.

‘You are responsible for bringing him up like this,’ my father screamed at my mother.

I heard the sound of a glass being smashed against the wall.

‘What have I done? I didn’t even know about this girl….’

Slap … slap … my father interrupted my mother. I banged the door open as I heard a
few more slaps. I saw my mother’s hand covering her face. A piece of glass had cut her
forearm.

My father turned to me. “Don’t you have any manners? Can’t you knock?’

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‘You don’t teach me manners,’ I said.

‘Go away,’ he said.

I shook my head. I saw the tears on my mother’s face. My face burned with rage. She
had lived with this for twenty-five years. I did know why – to bring me up; I didn’t know
how she did it.

My father lifted his hand to hit me. Automatically, I grabbed his wrist tight.

‘Oh, now you are going to raise your hand against your own father,’ he said.

I twisted his arm.

‘Leave him, he won’t change,’ my mother panted.

I shook my head at her, my eyes staring right into his. I slapped his face once, twice,
then I rolled my hand into a fist and punched his face.

My father went into a state of shock, he couldn’t fight back. He didn’t expect this; all
my childhood I’d merely suffered his dominance. Today, it wasn’t just about the broken
glass. It wasn’t only that the girl I loved would be gone. It was a reaction to two decades
of abuse. Or that’s how I defended it to myself. For how else do you justify hitting your
own father? At that moment I couldn’t stop. I punched his head until he collapsed on the
floor. I couldn’t remember the last time I reveled in violence like this. I was a studious
child who stayed with his books all his life. Today, I was lucky there wasn’t a gun at
home.

This insanity passed after five minutes. My father didn’t make eye contact with me.

He sat on the floor, and massaged the arm I had twisted. He stared at my mother, with a

‘see, I told you’ expression.

My mother sat on the bed, fighting back her emotions. We looked at each other. We
were a family, but pretty screwed up as they come. I took a broom and swept the broken
glass into a newspaper sheet. I looked at my father and vowed never to speak to him

again. I picked up the newspaper with the glass pieces and left the room.

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36

‘That’s it, Guruji,’ I said, tears now dry on my face. ‘I’ve never shared so much

with anyone.’

The sound of the sea could be heard, the waves asymmetrical to my

tumultuous thoughts.

‘Open your eyes,’ Guruji said.

I lifted my eyelids slowly.

‘Come, we will go to the balcony behind,’ Guruji said.

I followed him to a terrace in the rear of the house. The sea breeze felt cool

even in the hot sun. I sat on one of the two stools kept outside. He went inside

and came back with two glasses and a book.

‘It’s coconut water. And this is the Gita. You’ve heard about the Gita?’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘sort of.’ I took a sip of the coconut water.

‘What have you heard?’

‘Like it is the ultimate book. It has all of life’s wisdom. You have to work and
not worry about the reward. Right?’

‘Have you read it?’

‘Parts of it. It’s nice, but a little….’

‘Boring?’

‘Actually, no, not boring. Hard to follow and apply everything.’

‘I’ll give you just one word to apply in your life.’

‘What?’

‘Forgiveness.’

‘Meaning? You want me to forgive my father? I can’t.’

‘Why not?’

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‘Because what he did was so wrong. He has ruined my mother’s life. He has

never loved me.’

‘I am not saying he did the right thing. I am asking you to forgive him.’

‘Why?’

‘For you. Forgiving doesn’t make the person who hurt you feel better, it makes

you feel better.’

I pondered over his words.

‘Close your eyes again,’ Guruji said. ‘Imagine you have bags on your head.

They are bags of anger, pain and loss. How do they feel?’

‘Heavy,’ I sighed.

‘Remove them from your head one by one,’ Guruji said. ‘Imagine you are

wearing a thick cloak that is wearing you down. Pardon the hurt others have

caused you. What they did is past. What is bothering you today are your current

feelings that come from this load. Let it go.’

Strange as Guruji’s metaphors were, I felt compelled to obey the imagery in my

mind. My head felt lighter.

‘And surrender to God,’ he went on. ‘You don’t control anything or anyone.’

‘I don’t understand,’ I said.

‘Do you control your life? Your life depends on so many internal organs

functioning right. You have no control on them. If your lungs don’t cooperate, if

your kidneys fail, if your heart stops, it is all over. You’ll drop dead now. God has
chosen to give you the gift of life, surrender to him.’

He kept me in meditation for the next few minutes.

‘And now, you are free to go,’ Guruji smiled.

I opened my eyes. The sharp afternoon sun shone on Guruji’s face. He went

inside and brought a small cup with grey ask. He dipped his index finger in the

ash and marked my forehead.

‘Thank you’ I said as he blessed me with his hand on my head.

‘You are welcome,’ he said. ‘Anything else I can help you with?’

‘Yes, which way is Hotel L’Orient?’

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‘Oh that,’ Guruji laughed, ‘It is on Rue Romain Rolland. One kilometre from

here.’

I reached L’Orient at four. Ananya was waiting at the entrance. The hotel is a

renovated heritage building and was originally the Education Department Office

when the French had colonised Pondicherry. Now a ten-room boutique property,

it had a small restaurant in the indoor open patio. We ordered coffee and a slice

of ginger cake with custard sauce.

‘Isn’t this place lovely?’ Ananya breathed in deeply.

I nodded, still deep in though.

‘So, tell me, what did you do? And what’s with the tilak on your forehead?’

‘I hit my father.’

‘What?’

‘A long time ago. Remember, how I would always avoid talking about my

father in campus?’

‘Yes, and I never pushed after that,’ she said. ‘But what are you saying?’

I repeated the story of that night.

She looked at me, awestruck

‘Oh dear, I didn’t know your parents were like this.’

‘I nvever told you. It’s fine.’

‘Are you OK?’ she said and moved her hand forward to hold me.

‘Yes, I am fine. And I met a Guruji, who gave me good advice.’

‘What? Who Guruji, what advice?’ Ananya said.

‘I don’t know the Guruji. It doesn’t matter. Sometimes in your life you just meet
someone or hear something that nudges you on the right path. And that becomes

the best advice. It could just be a bit of common sense said in a way that

resonates with something in you. It’s nothing new, but because it connects with

you it holds meaning for you.’

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I explained with such intensity, Ananya became concerned.

‘Are you OK, baby? I shouldn’t have left you.’

‘I’m fine. I’m glad I had time. I feel better.’

‘I love you,’ she said, brushing floppy hair off my face.

‘I love you, too,’ I said and clasped her hand tight.

Our order arrived, she cut the cake in two pieces and passed my half to me. I

wanted to change the topic. She read my mind.

‘So, tell me about this Citibank event. There is a concert?’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘only for clients though.’

‘Do I get to come?’

‘Of course, I’ll get passes for your family.’

‘Who is performing?’

‘S.P. Balasubramanium, Hariharan and….’ I paused.

‘Wow, those are big names. Who else?’

‘Some new singer.’

‘Cool, I’m sure mom and dad will love to come.’

I nodded. I spoke after a few more sips of coffee. ‘I’ve tried enough, Ananya. I
want to go back.’

I told her about my conversation with my mother about transferring back to

Delhi.

‘What do you mean?’ she said, wiping my milk moustache.

‘I can’t work in Chennai forever. I’ll give it a few more weeks, and then I’ll tell
your parents to take a call on me.’

‘Weeks? What if they say no?’

‘Then we’ll see. I’ve surrendered everything to God anyway.’

‘What?’

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‘Nothing, let’s go. I want to hit the road while there’s still light.’ I picked up my
helmet.

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37

‘Aunty, sorry to bother you, but the concert is next week,’ I said over the phone.

I had called Ananya’s mother from my office in the afternoon. I had the design

of the newspaper ad in my hand.

Citibank Priority Banking is pleased to invite its clients

To an enchanting musical evening at Fisherman’s Cove

Featuring maestros:

S.P. Balasubramanium

Hariharan

And new talent, Radha

The concert will be followed by dinner.

By invitation only.

(For passes, contact your customer rep or any of the branches.)

Note: New account holders who open an account before the concert will also

get invites.

I hated the last line as it was too blatant. However, Bala insisted on it.

‘Hello, aunty? You there?’ I said.

‘What have you trapped me in?’ Ananya’s mother wailed.

‘You are practicing, right?’

‘Yes, but….’

‘But what? Have you done any Kaho Na Pyaar Hai songs? Those are hot,’ I said.

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‘Yes, I have. Film songs are easy. It is … my confidence.’

‘You’ll be fine. I am sending the ad to the newspaper today. Your name is in it,
without surname as you insisted. It will come on Sunday, the day of the concert.’

‘Don’t, don’t put my name. What if I decide not to come?’ she asked with a

touch of panic.

‘It’s fine. There are plenty of Radhas in Chennai. Nobody will know which one

did not show up,’ I said.

‘I’ll let you down,’ she said.

‘You won’t.’ I said.

‘Until when can you remove my name from the ad?’

‘Saturday. Don’t think like that, please,’ I said.

‘OK, still wanted to check,’ she said.

‘Fine, and practice the Ek Pal Ka Jeena song. It is number one on the charts,’ I
said.

‘I said take my name out,’ Ananya’s mother called me on Sunday morning at 6

a.m.