9
‘Wow, this feels special,’ Ananya said.
She opened her HLL offer letter for the third time at Rambhai’s. I had collected
mine from Citibank the day before and, after confirming the salary, had dumped it
in my cupboard.
‘It’s an invitation to be a slave, don’t get so excited,’ I said as I ordered a
samosa sandwich.
‘Aw, don’t be morbid. They are thrilled about hiring me. HLL has a serious
South India strategy.’
Rambhai’s minions served us tea. During placement time, tips peaked for
them.
‘Do you go to school?’ Ananya asked the thirteen-year-old boy who served us.
‘Yes, Rambhai sends me,’ the boy said.
‘Good, because if he doesn’t, report him to the police,’ Ananya said and gave
the boy a fifty rupee note.
‘They will post you in South India,’ is aid, ‘in one of those unpronounceable
places without an STD code.’
‘No, they won’t. And if they do, my husband will come and rescue me.’ She
winked.
‘Ananya, you don’t get it. We have decided to get married. Our parents haven’t
approved – yet,’ I reminded her.
‘C’mon, mine are a bit conservative. But we are their overachieving children,
the ultimate middle-class fantasy kids. Why would they have an issue?’
‘Because they are parents. From biscuits to brides, if there is anything their
children really want, parents have a problem,’ I said.
‘Your parents will have a problem with me?’ Ananya pulled her hair back to tie
it in a loose bun. She clenched a pin in the middle of her teeth.