‘And neither is this formal. My parents said Harish is only coming for a casual
visit.’
Oh, so people match horoscopes casually?’
‘It is the first step. And Shobha aunty did it. Krish, listen ...’
‘Ananya!’ a Tamil-accented scream filled the room.
‘I love you,’ she said, ‘and I have to go now.’ She brushed past me to the door.
‘Why are you wearing this stunning sari?’ I placed my hand on the bolt to stop
her.
‘Because my mother chose it for me. Now, can I go or do you want appa to
come here?’
‘Let’s elope,’ I said.
‘Let’s not give up,’ she stood up on her toes to kiss me. The taste of
strawberry lip-gloss lingered on m lips.
I came outside after five minutes. The hubbub over Harish had settled down a
little. The men opened their newspapers. The women gave each other formal
smiles like ballet dancers. The groom took out his latest Motorola Startac mobile
phone, checking messages. Ananya’s mother served her standard fossilised
snake snacks. No one spoke to each other. In a Punjabi home, if a similar silence
occurred, you could assume that something terrible has happened – like
someone has died or there is a property dispute or someone forgot to put butter
in the black daal. But this is Ananya’s home protocol. You meet in an excited
manner, you serve bland snacks and you open the newspaper or exchange dead
looks.
My re-entry made everyone notice me. Ananya’s mother seemed surprised.
Ananya sat next to her and faced Harish’s parents. I occupied my corner chair.
‘Manju’s tutor,’ Ananya’s mother said. Everyone looked at me, the tutor who
came to teach in a corporate suit.
‘He is Ananya akka’s classmate,’ Manju said, restoring some status to me.
‘You also went to IIMA? I have many colleagues who are your seniors,’ Harish
said.
‘Really? That’s nice,’ I said. I wanted to shove the spiral snacks up his
moustache-covered nose, but I kept a diplomatic smile.
nora
(Nora)
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