Arranged Love (3 page)

‘Someone is looking ravishing tonight!’ said Ashraf, as we exchanged a sideways, cheek-to-cheek kiss.

Ashraf was the host for the evening. Having managed to convince Neetu’s parents about their inter-community marriage, he was celebrating his DDLJ moment. Dressed in a crisp, white, lucknawi kurta and churidar, he seemed all set to climb the
ghodi
and take the vows.

‘Sorry we are late, AshRough,’ apologized Jay. ‘I was busy exercising.’

‘With a girlfriend like Suhaani,’ said Ashraf, raising his eyebrows and giving me an obvious once-over, ‘I can understand your temptation to (s)exercise.’ He winked at Jay and showed us inside his uncle’s house.

The place was teeming with students from all parts of the world. A self-serve bar, stacked with expensive wines and high-class liquor, was set at the corner table. Plates full of cocktail samosas, veg pakoras, tandoori paneer and chicken lined the snack counter. Ashraf was known for his lavish tastes, wide circle of friends and amazing inter-personal skills, all of which had helped him woo his in-laws. While the
desi
s were guzzling liquor like their bodies were composed of 70 per cent alcohol, the
gora
s gorged on the spicy Indian savouries.

I was searching for familiar faces in the crowd when my eyes locked with Denise’s, Jay’s ex-girlfriend and my sworn enemy. She was one among the many bimbos surrounding Neetu, admiring her bejewelled, backless blouse and designer saree. I wanted to look away but couldn’t stop myself from eyeballing her. She was wearing a short, strapless, body-hugging dress that could barely contain her assets from spilling out. The outfit was a fashion disaster if you ask me, but men rarely notice such stuff.

She gave me a contemptuous smile, turned away, and glided effortlessly in her high heels towards her destination. Next moment, I saw her ‘accidentally’ fall on Jay. I could see a helpless Jay, holding glasses in both hands, unable to stop her body from touching his. Then she flashed her boobs at Jay, while casting a smug glance in my direction. Now, I considered myself reasonably broadminded as far as staying in touch with an ex was concerned. And, I appreciated that Jay shared similar views, but Denise always managed to evoke the worst in me.

Before I could uproot myself and go slap her, she had disappeared among the many people thronging the bar and Jay was standing next to me with two glasses of wine. Feeling furious at her sleazy act, I gulped down my wine in a single shot, and kissed Jay fully on the lips to establish my claim on him. Pleasantly surprised by my public display of affection, Jay shoved me, through the thick of the grooving crowd, to the centre of the dance floor. I wondered what he was doing, for he had two left feet, but a quick look around cleared my confusion. Most couples weren’t dancing. They were dirty dancing! Their bodies grinding against each other, they were gyrating to the beats of music. I felt uneasy. I was cool with casual physical contact in public, but my outdoor limits were governed by what I was comfortable with uploading on Facebook. Today, high on wine and fuelled by jealousy, I had already violated my boundaries. Jay’s fingertips were lightly tracing circles on the exposed skin above
my lehenga. The coolness of his touch sent shivers of excitement down my spine. I tried to pull away but Jay tightened his grip around my waist. Pulling me closer to his body, he started gyrating our hips together in a rhythmic fashion. His other hand was exploring its way up, under the lower hem of my choli. I was struggling to control my own desires and stall Jay’s advances, when suddenly the music stopped and the room was filled with bright lights. Sobering up a little, I managed to get off Jay’s hand from under my blouse.

Ashraf was standing with a mike, in the centre of the room, thanking everyone for their presence. He made a toast to his and Neetu’s togetherness and announced that we would now play a game of ‘Truth or Dare’ and he would have the prerogative to decide the questions.

‘I will start the game and my Dare will be decided by my high-command.’ He stood in front of Neetu, and bowed towards her with exaggerated gestures, making us all laugh. Like a queen, she demanded that he sing a Bollywood number for her. Now that, I thought was unfair. Neetu knew Ashraf couldn’t sing to save his life, not even in the shower, and how he hated being embarrassed in front of other people. Or maybe, that was the bachelor Ashraf I knew! For this recently engaged Ashraf was anything but hassled by Neetu’s demand. He held both her hands in his, looked affectionately into her eyes, and started singing the song,
‘Chaudvin ka chand ho, ya aaftaab ho/Jo bhi ho tum khuda ki kasam, lajawab ho …’

Whether this was a temporary ‘I will do anything for you’ phase or a more permanent ‘who cares how I sing, the girl is mine now’ take-for-granted attitude, or unabashedness caused by alcohol, the moment was full of love.

The song ended to a huge applause, as Neetu rewarded Ashraf with a passionate kiss. He had sung horribly, even unbearably, but I couldn’t help feel envious of Neetu. I looked longingly at them. This is what I wanted. This is what every Indian girl wants. To have a lover
who would praise her and sing for her. To marry the guy she loves, with the consent of her parents. I felt a sudden sadness in my heart, like if I married Jay a part of me would stay empty forever. While Tanu di’s plan could get me my parents’ blessings, I knew Jay would never be able to sing like a Bollywood hero. Damn the wine! I shook myself out of the self-pity. This was my choice.

The next guy decided to tell the ‘Truth’ and Ashraf asked him to name a person that he could have had sex with, but chose not to and the reason for the same. His answer offended the girl concerned, who counterattacked by broadcasting that her current boyfriend was four inches bigger.

The next person opted to ‘Dare’ and was made to expose some body part. She willingly lifted her dress to bare the crawling scorpions tattooed on her butts. As the game progressed, it ruffled some more egos, broke a few couples, and revealed a lot more skin.

When the turn came to Denise, she chose a Dare. Ashraf asked her to kiss a person other than her current beau. ‘I am willing’, ‘I can lend my lips’, ‘Look here baby’—the cries came from many leering mouths. Fluttering her false eyelashes, Denise paraded the room, pretending to be in a fix. She then stopped by my side, gave me a wicked smile, and planted her wet, thick, pink lips on Jay’s. She snogged him for what seemed like the longest kiss ever, before she eventually let go of her grip on him. ‘I have already tasted him before. I thought this couldn’t hurt anyone,’ she explained. Smiling triumphantly, she strode back to her seat among roars of cheers and shouts of ‘good choice’.

I could feel the pitiful glares from all the girls around the room, while guys regarded Jay with new respect. I tried hard to control my anger and keep from blushing. Taking a sip of the wine, I held the glass in front of my face to hide the anger flashing in my eyes and the humiliation contorting my features. I stole a quick look at what Jay was doing. He seemed absolutely normal, like Denise had
cast an imperious curse on him and he was under her control. He even looked back at me and gave me his usual smile.

Unable to withstand any more humiliation, I was about to leave when Jay held my hand and said, ‘Take it easy, hon.’

‘How could you let her smooch you?’ I muttered accusingly, while looking down so that others would not know we were arguing.

‘This is just a game. Be a sport.’ He continued to smile casually and fake interest in the game that was still going on.

‘So a full-blown lip-to-lip kiss by your ex means nothing.’

‘She is an ex, honey! She has kissed me before, on my lips and elsewhere.’

‘By that logic, according to you, it should be okay to have sex with an ex because you had done it before.’

‘You are just overreacting, hon. I didn’t do anything.’

‘My point exactly! You didn’t do anything to stop her.’ I was looking him directly in the eye now.

‘Okay, I am sorry. I didn’t realize it would hurt you.’

What was there to realize? You can’t get kissed by your ex, unless you were dying and needed a kiss of life. Wasn’t this obvious? Surely this was easier than differentiating between mauve and magenta. Men and their inability to understand the simplest of situations! I didn’t know what else to say so I kept quiet. Soon, it was my chance to take part in the hideous entertainment. Having lost my sense of humour and not feeling very bold, I opted for Truth.

‘Lehman Brothers has filed for bankruptcy,’ Ashraf suddenly said with disbelief.

‘Not sure if that is a Truth or a Dare?’ I remarked, rather confused.

Just then someone switched on the TV and I knew the party was over!

Soon after that night, everyone around was talking about the
market crash, lay-offs and debts. Shops were offering huge discounts to boost the economy and make people spend. My lay-off letter came in within a week. To be precise, it was a withdrawal of the provisional job offer due to unforeseen circumstances. The only people celebrating were my parents. Unless I found another job in the next four months, enrolled for a PhD under Professor Girpade, or settled for delivering pizzas—all of which were unlikely—I was home-bound now. Papa had even started scouting for jobs back in Delhi for me.

In those days, after my job offer was withdrawn, I tried all sorts of permutations and combinations on my savings with possible loans from friends. I did spreadsheet analyses multiple times. It all led to the same result: I could survive a maximum of two months after the scholarship ended before running out of cash.

My FB status read, ‘Looking for job with H-1B visa sponsorship. Huge discounts in salary for early bird offers.’

‘How can you make love to a stranger just because you took seven rounds around the holy fire with him?’ I blurted out, my eyes busy scanning the
Sunday Brunch
, and my mind visualizing a jewellery-laden bride, clad in a flaming red saree, sitting on a bed with a naked groom. I was reading an article on how arranged marriages were more successful and led to fewer divorces compared to love marriages in Indian societies. ‘Just like you can have sex with a hot guy at the beach, a cool dude in college or a handsome bachelor in a bar,’ Ma quipped.

I wasn’t expecting any response, least of all from my mom. I had forgotten I was back at home in India, sitting in the living room with my parents. Uncomfortable, the nude groom in my imagination quickly got dressed.

‘Only, the outcome here will be illegitimate in case you forgot to use a condom,’ she added. She was clearly against the notion of random, experimental sex that our generation was eagerly lapping up.

I raised my eyes to examine my mom’s face and read her expressions. Sitting across the room on a sofa, with the laptop creasing her crisp cotton saree, she was busy harvesting crops and milking online cows on Farmville.

I contemplated explaining to her the difference between having
sex and making love, but then I decided against it. Why disillusion a simple, pious lady? However, one thing was clear. On the first night in an arranged marriage, people just have sex.

I didn’t want to bring up the marriage issue with my parents, at least not yet, but the article was slandering love marriages. It was a clear case of confirmation bias.

‘Just because people don’t opt for divorce in arranged marriages doesn’t mean that they are happy.’ I raised my doubts on the article’s underlying assumption.

‘It means, they are trying to make relationships work,’ my mom rationalized, her fingers busy harvesting the ripened crops before they die.

‘Like they have a choice! Girls are financially dependent and guys are scared of their emotionally blackmailing mothers.’

‘I am not financially dependent,’ clarified my mom, who was a maths teacher at a well-reputed school.

‘And I am certainly not scared of my mom, who
is
one hell of an emotional blackmailer by the way,’ informed my dad, who had been quietly braiding my hair all this while.

‘Ditto!’ I chuckled, giving a high-five to my dad, and we all laughed, enjoying the family banter.

The morning was perfect. It was early March. The cool breeze made me curl my fingers around the warm cup of herbal tea and relish its fragrant flavours. The last few weeks had gone by in the blink of an eye.

After I landed in India, Dad had surprised me with a ten-day South Africa, vacation. It had cost him a fortune, and Ma had been upset about the extravagance, but that was typical. Soon, I was amidst the African bush tracking the Big Five. I was having breakfast with giraffes necking a few yards away, admiring the silkiness of zebra skin and drinking beer in a makeshift camp while a rhino marked his territory. When the wildlife got too much for us, we switched
to sunbathing on the beaches with penguins. There had been so much to do and explore that I hadn’t had the time to miss Jay. I had briefly written him emails, updating him on my wild escapades, and promising more details when I got back.

Now suddenly, when back at home with nothing else to occupy my mind, I found myself yearning for Jay. Instinctively, I unlocked the phone lying next to me, and then wistfully locked it back again. The local time in Michigan was 12.30 a.m. The first time I had felt the impact of the earth’s rotation, other than the obvious day and night, was when I had tried to chat with Jay during my stopover at Frankfurt. I had been so disappointed to realize that he was still asleep. I had craved to hear his voice, and the fact I couldn’t do so had made me miserable. I remembered the last night we had spent together in my apartment. He had held me tight, close to his body, and kissed me voraciously over and over again, but he hadn’t asked me even once to stay back. Not that I could if he did. On the whole he had been quiet, casual and composed about my untimed departure. Was he being practical, bold or indifferent? Did he not fear that he could lose me?

I felt Pa’s hand on my shoulders and realized that I had been lost in another world.

‘Mom won’t like it, but you can tell me if you love someone,’ Dad whispered in my ears as he bent down to pick a fallen rubber band from the floor.

I hesitated. Had he seen the restlessness in my eyes? Did he already know there was someone?

I was tempted for an instant to tell him about Jay. He hadn’t mentioned Deepak even once since I got back. As always, Tanu di had guessed correctly. Dad had just wanted me back home. And therein lay the crux of the problem. He may be open to love marriage, but he wasn’t open to my settling abroad. In any case, Jay had at least two years to go before he finished his PhD, and I
was mentally unprepared to have a showdown, just yet. Leaving tomorrow’s troubles to tomorrow, I shook my head in a vague no. Keeping an impassive expression plastered on my face, I pretended to be absorbed in the magazine. Mom was frantically ploughing land so she could earn some farm-coins and buy more livestock.

‘I think I have found my alternate profession, in case I ever get chucked out from my job,’ exclaimed Dad, giving his handy work a satisfactory glance. He had braided some thirty, small-diameter cornrows in the last hour in my hair.

‘She looks like the Swahili girl from the African game reserve,’ commented Ma, examining the tight plaits braided close to my scalp.

‘I will take that as a compliment,’ said Dad and then looking at Ma’s disapproving glare, raised his hands in the air and added, ‘Okay. I won’t take all the credit. Suhaani’s recent perm helped.’

‘Those chemicals are harmful for her hair,’ stated Ma, who had been shocked to see a frizzy mass of curls on my head in place of my smooth, straight mane. She had wasted no time in expressing her displeasure, right at the airport.

‘Sometimes, a little harm can do a lot of good. Haven’t you heard of retail therapy?’ joshed Dad, tickling me on the waist.

I knew he understood my need for a change. I would often experiment with my looks, especially when I needed a morale boost. I had hit the beauty parlour the very day I got my job withdrawal letter.

‘The only harm that can help this generation is self-discipline,’ advocated Mom, and soon sighed, ‘See, you guys distracted me and now the tomatoes I had planted last night have withered.’

‘Ma, your Farmville time is up,’ I reminded.

‘Someone needs self-discipline here,’ remarked Dad gently, who loved picking on Mom.

Knowing well that she can’t win an argument against Pa, Mom closed her laptop and asked if we wanted another round of chai
and pakoras. Suckers that we were for my mom’s cooking, we nodded hungrily, and she retreated to her kitchen kingdom. Pa and I got busy with solving the Sunday crossword. It was good to be back home.

Over the next month however, as the initial excitement of homecoming subsided, I started to see life as it really was. Public toilets were clogged with sanitary napkins and condoms. Bras and panties, hung on clotheslines, proudly adorning the apartment balconies. Aunties left their own gas unattended to see if the neighbour’s milk had overflowed. Drivers made sure to honk when breaking a traffic rule to warn the others. The stars appeared in the sky only on events like the Earth Hour.

I had lived in India for twenty-one years, without noticing and perhaps even contributing my bit to the state of affairs. Now, one short stay at a five-star hotel suite and I was complaining about life at the shack. Yet, these were all external, environmental differences. What I was missing the most—apart from the aroma of the hazelnut coffee, my nude artwork collecting dust in Jay’s apartment and Jay’s check on my daily calorie intake—was company. My college mates and school friends were either studying or working somewhere. Tanu di was again away to the hills, this time searching for the sanjeevani booti to save her own business. Mom had her hands full with home, school and Farmville. Dad had his routine set with office, music classes and IPL matches. That left me alone, most of the time, to do whatever I wanted, and all I did the whole day was eat, eat and eat some more. My clothes were beginning to get tight from my consumption of unrationed calories, and I could feel the extra fat beginning to bulge out of my jeans. I hadn’t even bothered to unwrap the canvas and brushes from their bubble wrap. Enough of lazing around like Garfield. I needed to take a break from my break.

Swallowing my pride, I decided to call DeepAche. Yes, the same Deepak Goyal. No, I wasn’t calling him to ask if he will be my friend. The call was strictly business. Of course, it was my dad’s idea. As soon as I had become jobless, Dad had posted my resume on Naukri. com and started searching for suitable job openings. He had even shortlisted a few companies and a couple of those had expressed interest in hiring me after brief telephonic interviews. I merely needed to make up my mind on which one to join. Apparently, the US realty crash hadn’t hit the IT sector in India so far.

I was unsure how Deepak would react to my call. He might snub me because I hadn’t replied to his email or he might misinterpret the call to mean that I was
maroing line
on him. Worse still, he might not even recall who I was.

I felt a wave of apprehension build up each time I heard a fresh ‘trrrr…ing’ begin and subside as the call went unanswered. I was about to disconnect, when he answered after the seventh ring.

‘Hello!’ he said in a rather charismatic voice, a complete mismatch to the geeky, grotesque image I had in my mind.

‘Hi!’ I said, stupefied.

‘Hey, Meeta!’ he exclaimed enthusiastically. ‘When did you change your number?’

‘No … er … actually I am sorry,’ I stammered. ‘I mean I am Suhaani,’ I replied coming back to my senses. ‘I wanted to …’

‘Can you please hold on for a sec?’ he said, speaking in a more formal tone this time.

I heard a girl’s voice in the background. I caught scraps of their conversation. She was saying something like ‘I am not done yet,’ and he was telling her to hang loose. My single-track mind wondered if I had interrupted something intimate, but I couldn’t hang up now. I had already told him my name. I heard a door open and shut.

‘Hi,’ he said, coming back on line. ‘The signal strength in our office building is very poor, so I just stepped out.’

Shucks! In my all-day-Sunday mode I had forgotten that it was a weekday and Deepak would be at work.

‘But I thought you were with a girl …’ The words escaped before I could pass them through the faux pas filter.

‘You know … we happen to have female staff in our office,’ he replied in a plain voice, but I thought I heard him snicker.

I chided myself for being careless. It was none of my business if he was hobnobbing with female employees.

‘I was wondering if you could help me with my decision. I believe my father has spoken to you about it,’ I asked, coming straight to the point.

‘Who all have you shortlisted?’ he asked offhandedly. This also meant that Dad had spoken to him about it and he was aware of my dilemma.

‘One is in the VLSI design and the other is in the Internet domain,’ I said, without revealing the specific company names.

‘Why don’t you tell me what you think about them?’ he asked, tossing the ball back to me.

This was going like a typical job interview where the interviewer first asks the candidate to describe his or her background even though he has already gone through the resume.

Clearly he considered this discussion a waste of his time.

‘While VLSI is older and more mature, Internet is comparatively young and more fun,’ I summarized my opinion rather than bore him with details.

Something in my response must have been funny, for I heard suppressed laughter in his voice as he asked, ‘Which one has a better package to offer?’

It was apparent that he paid little significance to such superficial
aspects, so I told him that they both were equally attractive and rather alluring in their own ways.

‘What is your comfort level with them?’ He asked a little more seriously, sounding like this was an important parameter to decide upon.

‘Well, I understand VLSI better and hence feel more at home there, but I have always been fascinated by Internet,’ I answered.

‘Guess there is only way to choose then,’ he concluded. ‘Which one do you see spending your entire life with?’

Although he was asking straightforward questions, I got a vague feeling that he was somehow mocking me.

‘None really, I hope,’ I replied candidly. ‘I mean, times have changed, you know. People get bored after a while, find a better package and switch. Won’t you?’

‘I prefer long-term relationships,’ he admitted, his husky voice unknowingly teasing my senses.

Hypnotized, I waited for him to say more.

‘If it’s only a short-term fling that you are looking at, then just go with your gut feel,’ he suggested playfully.

As I am not a gut feel person, I told him that I believed in concrete data points.