Can This Be Love? Page 4
She spoke, I listened.
She spoke and I smiled.
She continued to speak and I continued to smile.
This seemed to be going fairly well, until now.
‘So, Beta,’ said Anju Aunty chattily. ‘What colour would you like your wedding lehenga to be?’
‘Umm…’ I thought, frantically. Funnily enough, it had never struck me that I would need a lehenga for the wedding. ‘Umm … red, I think.’
‘Very good. I will buy it for you.’
‘Thanks, Aunty,’ I said, smiling again. My cheeks were already hurting from all the smiling I had been doing since I had entered the house.
‘Just like the one we bought for Betu’s wedding,’ she said, as if Betu were my bosom buddy.
‘Ji Auntyji,’ I said, nodding my head. ‘But Aunty, who is Betu?’
‘Arre!’ said Anju Aunty, surprised that I did not know this important personality. ‘Betu! Gilli Masi’s eldest daughter!’
‘Err ... Gilli Masi?’ I asked, hesitating. Why would anyone in their right minds name their child ‘Gilli’, I wondered to myself, as I waited for Anju Aunty to reply.
‘Gilli Masi, Lata Taiji’s youngest daughter-in-law!’
I gulped and did not voice the burning question that gnawed at my insides. Who, for god’s sake, was Lata Taiji?
‘Ohhh…’ I said, slapping my forehead gently. ‘Lata Taiji … of course! I must have confused her with someone else, I think,’ I said, seemingly disappointed with my memory.
‘Don’t worry, Beta,’ said Anju Aunty kindly. ‘I know, you must have confused her with Mala Taiji’s youngest daughter-in-law’s eldest daughter.’
My head reeled for an instant. God, please help me. ‘Really? Why do you think that happened?’ The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them.
‘Mala Taiji’s youngest daughter-in-law’s eldest daughter is called Beti! That’s why!’
‘Her name is Beti?’ I asked, disbelievingly. Really, there was something wrong with the way this family named its daughters! Thoughts of having a daughter named Bitiya Dixit, or something equally insane, struck me.
‘Of course! That’s why you must have confused the names! Beti and Betu are so similar.’
I tried to collect my thoughts as Anju Aunty looked at me, confused at my confusion. Really, I could not be the ideal daughter-in-law if I did not know who Beti and Betu were.
‘Of course! That is exactly why I got confused,’ I agreed, smiling jubilantly.
‘Good! Very good!’ said Anju Aunty, her face beaming with joy, now that I looked a little less zapped. ‘I am glad you know who Mala Taiji is, at least,’ she said, smiling kindly. ‘Lata Taiji’s daughter-in-law’s daughter-in-law did not even know who Mala Taiji was!’ she added, conspiratorially. ‘Even after she got married!’
‘Really?’ I said, aghast at how cheeky daughters-in-law were getting these days. I made a mental note to ask Purva who Lata Taiji was. And Mala Taiji. And Betu. And Beti.
‘So how are your cooking classes coming along?’ asked Anju Aunty, just as I brought the cup of tea to my mouth.
‘Cooking class? Which cooking class?’ I asked nonchalantly, eyeing the samosas that were on the table. I had already had five and Anju Aunty was now watching me with raised eyebrows as I stretched my hand out for the sixth one.
‘Which classes?’ she asked, seeming zapped. ‘You told me you’ve been going for cooking classes every day for the last four weeks?’
I almost sputtered out the tea I was about to swallow. I vaguely recalled lying to her about it and, having uttered the lie, I had completely forgotten about it. ‘Ji … ji…’ I stuttered. ‘Of course … they are good fun and I am learning so many new things…’
‘Really?’ said Anju Aunty, beaming with the sort of pride that only a mother-in-law in the making can beam with. ‘What did you learn in your last class, Beta?’
‘Umm…’ I fumbled, trying to think on my feet but blanking out instead. ‘Pizza!’ I cried.
‘What?’
‘Pizza!’ I said jubilantly, smacking the arm of the sofa in my excitement.
Anju Aunty eyed the cloud of dust that arose from the sofa disapprovingly. ‘But did not you say that it was an Indian cooking class?’
Why do I have to go overboard when I lie?
‘Oh yes!’ I recalled now how I had told her how much Indian cooking excites me and how I would love to be able to cook delicious Indian food for family and friends after the wedding. It was all coming back to me.
Slowly.
‘Beta,’ she said, making a visible effort to reign in her patience. ‘Are they teaching you how to cook Italian food? If that is the case, you should ask them to return your money. If they don’t, let me speak to them. This is not done. In fact, call them up right now. Right now. I will shout at them and get your money back,’ she concluded, her cheeks red with indignation.
‘No … no…’ I said, panicking. I began to rack my brains. ‘Actually, that’s the other cooking class I go to.’
Deathly silence for a few minutes.
‘You are attending two cooking classes?’ Anju Aunty said slowly, unable to hide either her surprise or delight.
‘Ji,’ I said, looking down shyly at my hands that were now neatly folded my lap. ‘Two classes – one for Indian cooking and the other for Italian,’ I purred in a soft, demure voice.
‘Arre … my darling,’ she crooned as she came to me and affectionately patted my head. I had just won about a trillion brownie points and mentally high-fived myself. I wondered if I had moved Anju Aunty enough for her to take off the other gold bangle and press it into my hands. ‘So, what did you learn in your last Indian cooking class?’ she asked, as she made her way back to her sofa. The lone gold bangle rolled around her wrist as she sat down and sipped from her cup of tea.
I looked around helplessly. The madness would not end. ‘Mughlai parantha,’ I said, amazed at how that came out of me. For god’s sake, I have never even seen, leave alone eaten, mughlai parantha.
‘Ohh … that is very nice! How do you make it, Beta? The recipe?’ she said, sipping her tea and looking expectantly at me. This was exactly the kind of chai-time conversation that Anju Aunty had dreamt of having with the bahu – swapping recipes, discussing dal and talking about boiling milk. I gulped. The world swam around me. Why does this always happen to me?
‘What is the need for that, Auntyji? I will cook it. Someday,’ I said glibly.
Anju Aunty laughed delicately, pleased with her future daughter-in-law’s promise to cook mughlai paranthas. ‘Why some day, Beta?’ she said chirpily.
My heart stopped beating as I raised my eyebrows, wondering where all of this was heading.
‘Why don’t you make it today?’ she said, throwing up her hands gleefully.
I could literally feel my eyes pop out. I shook my head.
‘Today?’ I asked, to clarify.
‘Right now!’ she said, in a happy sing-song voice and then paused ‘Why? Any problem, Beta? Aren’t you here to spend the evening till Purva and Vikki return?’
There was no way out.
‘Oh … yes … yes ... no … Auntyji …I mean no problem … I will make tandoori parantha today.’
‘Mughlai,’ she said gently.
‘Eh?’ I asked, lost.
‘Mughlai parantha, Beta, mughlai,’ she corrected me, smiling.
I felt faint. What does Mughlai parantha even look like, I wondered, allowing Anju Aunty to lead me to the kitchen so that I could cook Mughlai paranthas for her, Vikki and Purva.
7
The Kitchen, Anju Aunty’s Apartment, Delhi, 6.30 p.m.
I took a deep breath and looked around.
‘So, Beta, what should I get for you?’
‘Mughlai parantha,’ I said ruefully.
Anju Aunty laughed heartily. ‘Good sense of humour, Beta,’ she said and I tried hard not to grimace. ‘So?’ she continued.
‘So, what?’
‘Ahh.’
‘Hmm?’
‘Ahh,’ I said. After a couple of minutes, during which a debate raged in my head, I said ‘flour’ with a finality in my voice.
The bell rang before Anju Aunty could say anything. She hurried out.
6.32 p.m.
Internet. I immediately fished out my phone but the stupid browser would not work.
I felt my pulse race, my heart beat faster, my breathing become difficult.
6.33 p.m.
Mum. Without further ado, I dialled her number.
‘Betu,’ said Mum chirpily.
‘Mum, don’t call me that,’ I said curtly. The recent conversation with Anju Aunty about the Betus and the Betis was still fresh in my mind.
‘I call you “Koochie”, you have a problem. I call you “Betu”, you have a problem with that also. What should I call you?’
‘Use the same name you have used for the last quarter of a century,’ I said in a firm voice.
Silence.
‘What have I called you for the last quarter of the century?’ said Mum, perplexed.
I groaned out loud. ‘Kasturi,’ I reminded her.
‘Oh, that,’ she said, a little disappointed.
‘You chose the name, Mum!’ I said.
‘But Beta…’
‘Mum, I need help,’ I cut in. There was no time to lose. ‘Mughlai parantha,’ I said, urgently and cryptically.
‘Okay. What do I do with them?’ Mum said, her voice mimicking mine.
I snarled in frustration. ‘Mum! How do you make them?’
‘I don’t.’
‘What!’
‘I don’t make mughlai paranthas!’
‘Why not?’
‘I believe in feeding my family healthy, nutritious…’
‘Mum!’ I cut in again. ‘I really need…’
‘Kasturi,’ said Mum, now cutting me short. ‘How many times do I have to tell you that it’s rude to speak when someone is trying to say something? These CAT coaching centres, they actually teach young people how to not let others complete their sentences. That is why all you MBA people...’
‘Mum … I just need the recipe,’ I wailed, now close to tears.
‘Kasturi, Beta, you are losing it … I am getting worried. Do you want me to book an appointment with the doctor? Pankudi Aunty’s friend was … you know … behaving a little like you and they took him to this doctor for the mentally challenged and…’
I cancelled the call. I could hear Anju Aunty speak with someone at the door. There was no time.
6.36 p.m.
‘Pitajee,’ I barked into the phone.
‘Darling.’
‘Shut up.’
‘I’m hurt.’
‘I don’t care…’
‘How rude!’
‘Shut up!’
‘Okay.’
‘Mughlai paranthas!’
‘What about them?’
‘How do I make them?’
‘How, and more importantly, why would I know?’
‘Idiot, I know you don’t. Google it for me’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t have time to tell you why.’
‘I won’t Google anything unless you tell me why.’
‘How uncool!’
‘Waiting for the whole story. I have all the time. Remember, you don’t.’
That maniac! I quickly told Pitajee the whole story.
‘Serves you right,’ he said politely.
‘Shut up.’
‘For lying to someone who is like a mother to you!’
‘Shut up!’
‘Don’t ever lie again.’
‘Shut up!’
‘Be a little more ladylike.’
‘Shut up!’
‘Okay. Here is the recipe,’ said Pitajee finally and began to rattle off the recipe that I tried hard to memorize.
‘You want to thank me?’ said Pitajee pointedly after he had finished.
‘No, but I want to say something else...’ I said in a soft voice.
‘Go ahead, darling.’
‘You are a maniac,’ I said politely.
‘So are you, my love,’ retorted Pitajee.
‘And that is why we rock,’ I said, now smiling. I could hear Pitajee smile too as he wished me luck and hung up.
9.30 p.m.
I was sitting at the dinner table, when my cell phone beeped.
‘How did the paranthas turn out?’ Pitajee’s text read.
‘Horrible,’ I replied.
‘Poor you.’
‘It gets worse.’
‘?’
‘My parantha was so bad that…’
‘That?’ came Pitajee’s message, the next second.
‘Anju Aunty has asked me to stop going to the cooking classes she thinks I go to. They are obviously no good.’
‘HAHA. Not bad!’
‘There is more.’
‘?’
‘She has called up a friend of hers who runs cooking classes for brides-to-be and specializes exclusively in making Indian bread.’
‘Dear lord.’
‘Yes, dear lord. Anju Aunty has paid for thirty classes. I will have to go twice a week.’
Although Pitajee was about forty kilometres away from me, I could almost hear his crazy laugh.
8
Our Apartment, Delhi, 27 January 2013, 1.00 a.m.
What was that, a squeak? The door opening? Maybe it was a burglar breaking in? Where was that fake plastic pistol I bought from the Diwali mela? Oh no, I’d left it in the office.
Note to self – bring fake Diwali-mela pistol from office and keep it by the bedside.
1.01 a.m.
Not a burglar … a cat maybe?
1.02 a.m.
Two cats? Cats talking to each other? One cat and one burglar? One burglar and his cat?
Still groggy, my head spun.
Was my brain playing tricks on me? Side effect of the cough medicine Purva got for me? Would I begin to hallucinate and die from hallucinations?
This seemed to make sense.
Maybe.
1.03 a.m.
Was that Anu crying?
3.00 a.m.
Anu and I met when I started working in India Telecom Private Limited, where both of us were part of the same management trainee programme. We shared a room during the induction and had been flatmates since then. Through break-ups and patch-ups, leaking taps and overheated boilers, absent maids and milkmen who would not leave, Anu and I had emerged stronger than ever.
In all these years, I had never found Anu awake in the middle of the night, in tears.
‘Anu!’ I said aghast, rushing to her side. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I love Amay,’ she said, referring to Pitajee.
‘Oh yes, of course,’ I said, sitting down beside her on the bed. The warm glow of the lamp cast a melancholy shadow on the hunched-up body, racked with sobs. ‘What’s happened, Anu?’
‘Mom and Dad are adamant, Kas. They won’t listen to me.’
‘Everyone errs, Anu, even our parents. You know my mum, don’t you, how she sometimes does the wonkiest of things but whatever she does, she does with the best intentions. All we need to do is convince Ahya and Govind that Pitajee is the best for you. They really do want you to be happy,’ I said, grabbing hold of Anu’s hands.
Anu shook her head. ‘Mom called me today…’
‘And what did Ahya say?’
‘That Dad has a weak heart. He has gone for various tests over the last couple of months…’
‘Oh, come on,’ I groaned. ‘So you should just marry whichever guy they want you to? Else dad will have a heart attack?’ I asked, my voice dripping with sarcasm.
Anu did not reply.
‘Anu, this is nonsense. Govind is one of the sturdiest men I know. He eats like a healthy stallion,’ I said, recalling, with a shudder, the seven paranthas our cook had made for him the last time
he had come to visit his daughter. Suffice it to say, thanks to my recent interactions with Anju Aunty and the subsequent cooking classes, anything vaguely related to paranthas was prone to make me shudder.
Anu gave me a stern look. ‘His heart, Kas…’
‘Oh, come on, Anu! This is just a cheap trick Ahya is playing on you.’
‘Whatever you say, Kas. I know I won’t be able to fight this…’
‘Which is why Ahya has come up with this master plan. To silence you!’ I said, feeling anger surge inside me.
‘You know, Kasturi, I never understood what love was…’ said Anu, a faraway look on her face. ‘I probably still don’t. But I feel physical pain if I think of a situation where Amay is not with me. I see murder if I imagine Amay with someone else. I … I just … love him,’ she said, looking helplessly at me.
‘Why do you love him, Anu?’ I asked her, more out of curiosity than anything else.
‘I just do, Kas. I don’t have one reason, I don’t have many reasons, I don’t have any reasons … I only know that I love him and I love him with all my soul,’ she said, shrugging at me.
Stupidly, I shrugged in return. I got her.
There was silence for the next few minutes as the two of us sat on Anu’s bed, lost in our own thoughts.
‘My dad cried when I left for engineering college,’ she said quietly.
I patted her hand and tried hard to get rid of the deeply disturbing image of the stallion-like Govind Goswami crying.
‘He used to teach me history, a subject I truly hated, for hours before my exams.’
That, to me, sounded a lot like torture, but well, Anu seemed to think differently, so I let it be and nodded my head sympathetically.
‘He would take me to ballet class … Bharatanatyam class …. oh my,’ she said, getting teary-eyed now.
He would drag you to dance class, I said to myself but patted her back nevertheless.
‘Why should I have to choose one over the other?’ she asked me.
‘I know it won’t come to that, Anu,’ I said firmly, a familiar surge of anger rising in my chest.
‘I know it will come to that, Kasturi,’ Anu said, equally firmly.
Pitajee and Anu are the world’s goofiest, cutest couple. They have to, have to, have to be together.