And that was a silent slap to my memory. She remembered everything about my family. All I could do was say, ‘Hmm … 10 on 10,’ and laugh. But I laughed alone.
‘So, I was saying, Ami di was here this morning. After completing her night-shift she came to Faridabad. She visits us once in a week or two.’
This call was all about her family. I came to know about two more people—Davinder Jiju, Misha di’s husband, and Pushkar, Ami di’s husband. Pushkar and Ami di used to work in the same company and they happened to fall in love, which was not a good idea according to Khushi’s dad. The hurdles they had to
face were no different from any love story in Bollywood movies. Pushkar comes from a Hindu family whereas Ami di belongs to a Sikh family. Pushkar is cool with boozing and non-veg while these things are taboo in Khushi’s family. But then, as we learn from those same movies, Love, in the end, wins all the battles. And, that is what happened here as well. All the youngsters in Khushi’s family successfully convinced their dad to give his approval for the marriage.
In that call, Khushi also mentioned that she used to leave her office around 9.30 at night and reach her home by 11. Which meant that she would be awake for quite a while and I could call her late at night in case I felt the way I had the night before.
So that was how we started calling each other, writing messages, even wishing each other goodnight. But, in our initial calls, we never touched upon the purpose for which we had started interacting—marriage.
But she initiated this, one day, when I forwarded her an e-album of my pictures, with my friends, in Belgium.
‘I noticed one pic with the description—enjoying red wine in a pub,’ she said.
‘Oh yes, that was one of the happening evenings in Belgium.’
‘So you booze?’
‘Hmm … yeah. But very rarely. Once in two or three months, or at times six. Only on some occasions when I am with friends and they insist I give them company,’ I answered coolly.
‘Well, I don’t know how you are going to react on this, but I always wanted a life-partner who abstains from this.’
And I asked myself, ‘So, is she saying that she is going to look for somebody else?’ I wasn’t sure. But the one thing I was sure about was that, finally, we were discussing marriage.
She continued, ‘See, every person has some likes and dislikes. When we talk about marriage, it’s about respecting each other’s feelings; it’s about trust, a few compromises and much more. And if you are going to be my life-partner, I sincerely urge you to choose a life without alcohol.’
She was the first among us to say:
if you are going to be my life-partner
. And in her voice those words sounded so different, so magical.
And, of course, it was the magic of those words which overrode my consciousness and made me say, ‘It’s a gentleman’s promise. If you are going to be my life-partner, I will not booze unless you are comfortable about it. And I mean it.’ I didn’t stop there but continued, ‘The reason I can do this is because alcohol is not something I am addicted to. At the same time, I don’t think it’s bad to booze once in hundred days, just to give company to your best friends. Even then, I have never crossed my limits and got drunk completely. Still, if this becomes a problem between me and my life-partner, I will gladly abstain.’
‘And promises are meant to be kept …’ she reiterated. And, probably, she smiled too.
‘Absolutely!’ The gentleman within me was still talking. ‘But the day you get to know me completely—after six months, or ten, or maybe a year, or maybe more than that. Then, if you think that boozing is not at all a bad case with me, you will have to allow me to have a drink with my best friends. But, again, I will never force you to say that.’
This was another landmark in our saga and, henceforth, she felt much better talking to me. And I felt good, just because she felt good.
Was the second, out of the three things (wealth, women, and I still can’t remember the third) that could make anything happen in this world, making me do this? I didn’t know then, and I don’t know now. The only thing bothering me was, what would I
say to Happy and MP when we sat together with red wine, at our next reunion? ‘Guys, please bear with me as I’ve stopped boozing because of a promise I made to a girl, whom I’ve only talked to on the phone for a week. Yes, only a week. Far lesser time than the years which we all have spent together.’
I didn’t know, then, if that promise was good or bad for me. But what was definitely good was the trust and understanding we gained. And this was just beginning. It was a tough call … But then, something within me wanted her for a long, long time … Forever.
‘What? You haven’t talked to your parents yet? Shona! You promised me you’d do that by now.’
If you are wondering who this new character, Shona, is—it’s me. And the person shouting those questions at me is my Khushi. Yes, she is mine now.
We are in love. For the first time … Sounds crazy?
So, did it happen when we were studying together in college?
Of course not. I am a thousand miles away from her.
Was it love at first sight?
Definitely not. We haven’t even seen each other yet!
—The questions my friends would ask me, and the answers I gave them. (There were some dirty ones too, which I can ignore.) But everyone’s last question was the same.
Are you crazy?
I don’t knnoooowwww …
Indeed, being in love with a person you haven’t even met is a crazy thing. And deciding to marry that person some day, even crazier. Never in my wildest dreams had I thought my love-life would be like this. To be honest, I had never even thought of any love-life.
But, now, I had changed a lot and was no longer the person I used to be till some time ago.
A lot of things had changed, in me and around me. I had started slipping out of conversations with my friends just to give her a call. I slept less and talked more. My phone bills led my monthly spending chart, leaving the house rent miles behind in the race. I started noticing couples: the way they sat together in gardens, hand in hand; the way a girl holds her boyfriend, on a motorbike. I started worrying about the ‘how do I look’ factor. My status on Orkut changed from ‘single’ to ‘committed’. She became the password to my several Internet IDs. Sitting in my office alone, I used to smile, talking to nobody.
Love was in the air.
Ours was such a different story. A 21
st
century love story, whose foundation was modern-day gadgetry. Thanks to Graham Bell for inventing telephones that helped me talk to her, know her better and, finally, fall in love with her. Thanks to the Internet, the World Wide Web and sites like
Shaadi.com
that helped me find her. I discovered myself to be a true software engineer in this hi-tech-love phase. And whether this kind of love was good or bad, was no longer a point to ponder—we were already in it.
Coming back to the reason she was shouting at me.
It was because I had broken a promise. No, not the boozing one. Something else.
Her family knew about me since our first call, but the case wasn’t the same at my end. My family did not know about her yet. In fact, they didn’t even know that their son’s profile was on some matrimonial site. Naturally, she was concerned about this situation. That too, after we had finally decided our destiny.
Her queries about this matter were growing everyday. Gradually, she started feeling uncomfortable because of this very reason. Therefore, a week earlier, I had promised her that I would talk to my family on the coming weekend. But unfortunately, I could not, because of the weekend exam at
IMS. (IMS. Another interesting similarity between us was this MBA preparation center. We both were preparing for MBA, and we had joined the same crash-course in the same institute in our respective cities!)
‘I could not travel to Burla last weekend because I had to appear for a test at IMS,’ I said, trying to calm her.
‘But you promised me Shona …!’My shouting lady turned into an emotional one. She killed me with that name. She loved to call me different names and the best among them all was Shona. And I loved the way she used to say it. With such care and warmth.
‘This weekend I will, for sure. I don’t have any task more important than this one,’ I told her.
And my Shonimoni was happy again. Shonimoni. The name I gave her. Punjabi for cute and sweet; the feminine counterpart to Shona.
The next weekend arrived and I was panicking. After all, I was going to talk to my parents about my marriage. This was definitely going to be a bolt from the blue, for them.
I was smart enough to take my younger brother, Tinku, into confidence the night before we left for Burla. He already knew something was going on between me and some girl. My late night calls had made that much clear. But he had never imagined that all this started at a matrimonial site. Being his elder brother, I did not give him any option except to be on my side when I talked to mom and dad.
Since the moment we arrived at our home in Burla, I was doing strange things, moving here and there, trying to bring the subject up, trying to find just the right moment. But I was not at all sure what the perfect moment was.
I was thinking too much. More than my brain could handle. Should I say it now? Or should I wait till the clock’s minute
hand has covered fifteen more minutes? But even after it had covered a hundred and fifty minutes, I was still waiting.
Every time I was about to spill it out, something would happen: the telephone rang, somebody knocked at the door and, if nothing else, the stupid pressure cooker’s whistle dragged my mom back into the kitchen. The one moment when no such thing happened, I just could not open my mouth.
‘She’s going to cry this time, if I don’t do this,’ I told myself.
After lunch, I somehow gathered enough courage to initiate the dreaded conversation. Even though I thought it was quite bizarre to ask my parents how they met and married each other, I could not think of a better way to bring up the subject.
‘Mumma, tell me one thing. How did you guys find each other and end up marrying?’ I asked.
Mom and dad looked at each other, then at me and smiled. Parents are smart, and what we don’t know is that they know what is going on in our minds. They had probably read, very easily, what the marquee on my forehead was displaying.
Still, they narrated their story, and the moment that was over, Mumma asked, ‘So how is yours getting started?’
I wondered if I should hide my face in the cushions, or say, ‘My story …? I don’t have any,’ before my brain angrily told me, ‘Come on, speak up, you fool!’
And, fortunately, gathering all my shy courage, I narrated my story so far. I even showed them her picture. I was expecting a lot of ifs and buts from my parents, but to my surprise nothing of that sort happened. Even Tinku had asked me more questions than my parents asked!
Mom was happy because, finally, her son was thinking about marriage. Dad was happy because the toughest part—searching for a girl of his son’s choice—was over. He was relieved, though he tried to sound quite diplomatic. I was happy because, finally, I
was able to get this thing out of my heart and place it in front of everybody. And Tinku, he was observing everybody’s reactions. He doesn’t get influenced easily, and that’s something I both like and dislike in him.
A couple of questions from both mom and dad, which I answered with confidence, and that was it. I had never thought that this toughest of hurdles would be over so quickly.
But before we left for Bhubaneswar, on Sunday night, at the bus stop, dad said, ‘We will analyse this, but it’s good that you have become serious about your marriage.’
‘No issues. I understand your point,’ I said to him. Inside, though, I was thinking, ‘Who cares Dad!’
Monday morning, I reached my other home in Bhubaneswar. Stretching out on my bed, I called Khushi up.
‘Mission accomplished,’ I said, waking her up. Those two words conveyed everything to her. And what did I get in response? A fusillade of kisses. The last ones were real passionate. That was the first time she kissed me on phone.
‘Oh boy! So loud? No one is around,
haan
?’ I asked.
She didn’t answer my question but said, ‘I feel like pulling you into my bed right now and kissing you madly.’
Wow! She was so happy, mad and comfortable, knowing that I had finally told my family about her.
Another milestone in our love story was crossed. Both our families now knew about our affair. And, as usual, I was happy because my Shonimoni was happy. But, as they say, ‘Love is a blend of different emotions.’ Soon an evening came when I made her cry. And then I cried because she was crying.
It was another weekend and I was in Burla, sitting in the verandah, busy with my Reading Comprehension—RC—section. I was annoyed, having scored rather badly in my self-exam. I was about to advance to the next passage when she called.
‘Hey, hi …’I said in a depressed tone.
‘What is my baby doing?’ she asked. I loved it when she talked that way, when she called me ‘baby’ in her cutest voice. It sounded so caring. As if she had taken over all the responsibility of looking after me.
‘RC is screwing up your baby and I’m in a very bad mood.’
‘Then talk to me for a while and you’ll be in a good mood again.’
‘No dear. I want to start a new passage and score better this time. Only that will change my mood. Can we talk at night … please?’
‘Hmm … Ok. See you later. But at least say one good thing before hanging up.’
There were so many things specific to Khushi, the little things that were important to her. Like this unique idea of listening to one good thing before we hung up. I liked it, most of the time, unless I was too tired to think up something new and good for her.
‘Khushi! Please understand. My mind isn’t working. I can’t think of anything good at this moment. I’ll tell you two good things at night. Ok?’
‘Ok. You take care.’
‘Bye.’
‘Bye
nahin
, see you,’ she corrected me again.
‘Oh yes. See you,’ and I hung up, still in a bad mood.
Hardly fifteen minutes had passed when I heard my cellphone ringing again. It was her.
‘Now what?’ My voice was a little loud.
‘You know why I called you earlier?’
‘Oho …! Why?’ I was annoyed.
‘Because it’s raining here. And I feel like holding your hands and dancing in the rain.’
‘Khushi!’ My voice grew louder.
‘Ok
baba
, I’m sorry. See you later,’ she said, innocently.
She was about to hang up when I felt bad about how I behaved and said, ‘Hey wait. We can talk for a while. I needed a break from this damned RC thing.’
And she was happy again.
In a little while, the focus of our conversation changed from rain to our promises and priorities. The things we wanted to accept and the things we wanted to give up, for each other. No boozing until she was comfortable with it, preparing myself for a vegetarian environment (at least at home) and a few others things were on my plate. And talking to me and my family in Punjabi was the most important task I put on her plate. (Her family spoke Hindi and she was brought up in that atmosphere. Whereas, my ears badly wanted to hear the language which I was brought up around.) None of our expectations were forced upon each other, though. It was mutual understanding, an attempt to do the best we could for each other. After all, we were supposed to live together for the rest of our lives.
That evening, I asked her mischievously, ‘Hey! Do you mind talking in Punjabi? I never heard you fulfilling my expectations. Or are you going to start after our marriage?’
‘And if I say I won’t do that even after our marriage, what will you do?’ she teased me and laughed. I imagined her jumping off her bed and running to the window to catch a few raindrops.
‘Then I’ll take you back to your home in Faridabad and leave you there.’
All she said was, ‘Shona …?’I could hear the rain falling on the ground outside her window. I realized what I landed up saying. My attempt at humor had badly failed. I did not know how to react. Before I could say anything, she said, ‘Shona, you carry on with the passage. See you later.’ And she hung up very quietly—something she never did.
I felt very uncomfortable, recalling the way I had reacted to her teasing. I could neither call her up to tell her that I didn’t mean what she thought I meant, nor could I concentrate on my RC passages. All my answers for the next passage were incorrect.
Later that evening, around 7 p.m., I rode my bike to the nearest ATM to get some cash for my ticket back to Bhubaneswar. It started drizzling—the first rain of the season. Now I could imagine how she felt when she had called me earlier. I got out of the queue in front of the ATM and dialed her number.
‘Hello?’ she said. Her voice was shaking.
‘Khushi,’ I said.
‘Yes, Shona,’ she promptly responded. Then I heard a choking noise which was enough for anyone to realize that she was crying.
I could not say anything for a moment, during which her tears rolled down further. ‘Hey dear! Please … Please don’t cry. I’m so sorry for having said those terrible words.’
She started sobbing loudly and I felt very ashamed for what I had done to the girl who wanted to hold my hands and dance with me in the rain. I felt as if I had committed the greatest sin—making the sweetest girl on earth, who was only meant for me, cry. How could I have done that? I hit the wall in front of me very hard. The people in the queue looked at me. I moved down the street to where there was no light.
‘I am so sorry, Khushi. I am so sorry. Please don’t cry because of my stupid mistake.’
Silence.
‘Talk to me dear. Say something. Punish me but, for God’s sake, talk to me,’ and with that I too started crying.
After a while she managed to say, ‘Shona, you haven’t even taken me to your home yet and you’re talking of sending me back.’
Her simple, innocent question left me speechless. She was crying, I was crying and the sky was crying with us. It started raining heavily.
‘It took you just a second to say that. But I am a girl. I will be leaving my parents, my brother and sisters, people with whom I have lived my life so far, my home, which holds so many memories, just to become yours. And you said that you will leave me.’
‘I’m stupid, I’m terrible. I really am,’ I shouted, hitting a pole on the side of the street, crying loudly in that rain, not caring if anybody saw me. The clouds thundered. The rain came down hard and noisy. And I kept hitting the pole and crying. There must have been something wrong with me, for I had never cried that way.
And it’s probably the nature of the feminine heart to stop others from crying. So she did what I should have done for her. She wiped my tears first.