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Sweet ‘n’ Chilly Café, AIIMS, Delhi, 8.00 p.m.
I nervously twiddled with the ring on my finger. The four of us were sitting in dismal silence around the table, the red bottle of ketchup staring dolefully back at us. Purva was bleary-eyed; it had been yet another thirty-six-hour shift at the hospital. The mood of the group was sombre for obvious reasons. Anu and Pitajee had just dropped a bomb.
‘So what exactly did Ahya say?’ asked Pitajee. Ahya Goswami is Anu’s rather corpulent and stern mother. She also happens to be an IAS officer, fully capable of instilling the fear of God in the heart and soul of any man on this planet. That she is not very popular in our group is evident from the fact that none of us call her anything but Ahya.
‘That I should not even think of marrying you. If I do, she will chase you to the ends of the world and kill you,’ said Anu, her face glum and voice matter-of-fact.
The five-hundred-kilo Ahya Goswami cut a threatening figure even while standing still and I could understand why that little shudder ran through Pitajee’s body when Anu repeated the threat. No one would want to be chased to the end of the world by Ahya.
‘So what do we do?’ asked Purva.
‘Kill Ahya?’ Pitajee asked innocently. I nodded my head in vehement agreement.
‘Shut up or I will kill you,’ threatened Anu, but her eyes were not angry.
‘What about Govind?’ asked Pitajee, referring to Anu’s father, who was a widely-respected IAS officer as well. Let’s just say that he is not known to be soft-hearted.
Anu shook her head. ‘He is dead opposed to the match.’
‘But why?’ I asked. Pitajee, of course, has no brains but he is good and kind and from a very reputed B-school and also an investment banker. (It is a universal truth that you do not need to have brains to get into a good B-school or land a job as an investment banker, but let’s not get all controversial here). Surely he would be considered a ‘good match’?
‘Mom and Dad think I should only marry an IAS officer.’
‘MBA graduates are no good?’ I asked indignantly, mentally brandishing my MBA degree in front of Anu’s eyes.
‘Marry an IAS officer so that you can spend half your life in a village without ever being able to remember its name?’ contested Pitajee, equally indignantly.
‘Do you want to spend evening after evening sitting on the stage as the wife of the chief guest?’ I continued.
Pitajee shot me a ‘thanks-buddy’ look. ‘Or spend them getting ready for cocktail parties?’ he added.
‘Or get together with the other wives and throw kitty parties?’ I piped up.
‘Or cut ribbons when the local school opens a new lavatory?’ Pitajee chipped in.
‘Or flirt with your IAS husband’s IAS boss, whose wife is too busy flirting with his IAS boss to bother?’
‘Or…’
‘Shut up, you two,’ glowered Anu, interrupting Pitajee. I gave him a ‘tell-me-later-okay?’ look.
Anu settled the dupatta of her salwar-kameez. Ever since her parents have refused to allow her to marry Pitajee, Anu has taken to wearing chikan salwar-kameezes. Her growing love for theatrics is becoming quite evident to us. ‘They even have a boy in mind,’ she a
dded in a small voice.
‘What?’ I almost shouted. This was news.
I noted that Pitajee had stilled, all the goofiness disappearing in an instant. ‘Boy in mind for what?’ he asked.
‘A boy for me to marry,’ said Anu.
‘When did this happen?’ asked Purva.
‘This morning.’
There was silence as the four of us exchanged looks, the gravity of the situation not lost on us. The silence was broken a few seconds later by Anu. ‘There is more…’ she said in an even smaller voice.
Three pairs of eyes turned towards her.
