Chapter 12

April 2015, Noida

I was meeting mom after a week. She was struggling with the TV remote and cursing for no apparent reason. She was engrossed in some Ekta Kapoor produced serial. I wondered why in all the soaps, the same theme was being created, again and again! Gaudily-dressed women having ample time on hand to discuss irrelevant things. . . Men with uncountable money, clueless most of the time, while the women wept their lungs out. The background score, a hit Bollywood number with extra-emotional new lyrics, made everyone, including my mom, cry.

I sat in a corner and watched her engrossed in the great Indian drama. On the TV screen, some wedding preparation was going on. In serials, someone was always getting married. I wondered why. Internally, I shouted out to myself, why did the universe only seem to revolve around marriage? I got some uncomfortable vibes from her and thought that I should get out of the room while I still had the opportunity.

‘Where are you going? We need to talk,’ mom’s eyes were still glued to the TV. Moms are different souls. Always busy, trying to finish a million jobs, but always free for kids.

The problem is, I get a shiver, when my mom says we need to talk. Because she would be the only person doing the talking. I will have to listen. I nodded.

‘All well?’ I began the pleasantries.

‘What about marriage?’

‘Whose marriage?’ I was not smart enough to hide my nervousness.

‘Oye, hero! I am talking to you. Whose marriage would I be talking about?’

‘Continue watching these serials, and you will have nothing else to discuss in your entire life.’

She ignored my remark. Parents are seasoned players. They know what their target is, and how to keep the conversation on track.

‘You are thirty-one. We are receiving proposals for your marriage today. When you are thirty-four, we may not get even one.’

If anyone had asked what my age was, she would have said that I was not even thirty. For this argument, I was thirty-one! It seems that without marriage, I was getting a year older every month.

‘Really? Who are the girls who are ready to marry me?’ I taunted.

‘The question is, are you ready?’

‘Mom, I am not. You are the one saying you have the proposals. I just want to know which girls are dying to marry your superstar son.’

‘Are you Shahrukh Khan, that proposals will rain on you from heaven?’

A mom’s anger and a son’s stubbornness can be bewildering. I know that I did term myself a ‘superstar’! If you are looking for logic in our conversation, you would never find it.

‘You didn’t ask about Art of Living .’

‘Do not change the topic!’ She glared at me, ‘How was your Art of Living ?’

‘It was good. I learnt different things. You should join too. You are a religious person. I am sure you will enjoy it a lot more than I did.’

‘Did you make friends?’

‘Ya. . .one.’

‘How did you make a friend? It was supposed to be a silence programme. I am guessing you were not allowed to speak.’

Amazing! She insisted that I make friends, and when said that I did make one, she was applying logic to it!

‘You are right about the programme, but I found a friend.’

‘A girl.’ It wasn’t a question.

What gave her that clue? I had deliberately been trying to keep that hidden.

‘What makes you so sure?’

‘I unpacked your bag. I found this pink-coloured sweater and. . .’

‘What does that mean? Men cannot buy pink sweaters?’

‘You hate that round neck. And then it is not pink. . .it’s red.’

She glowered at me as she said this. Her Sherlock Holmes look said, you cannot mess with me.

‘Enough, mom!’ I bowed to my mother. ‘Yes, I made friends with a girl. You motivate me all the time, to go out and make friends.’

‘Nothing wrong in that. I just need to know one thing.’

I looked at her expectantly.

‘Is she married?’

‘Who?’

‘Your girlfriend.’

‘Oh, mom! Anisha is not my girlfriend.’

‘Whatever.’

‘Whatever’, is the most dangerous word in the world. It means, to hell with your explanation. I do not believe you.

‘She is not married.’

‘What is her name?’

‘I told you, it’s Anisha.’

‘What is her full name?’ I now understood why she was so eager to know the full name.

‘Anisha Gaur.’

‘Is she a Brahmin?’

‘No, mom! Not again. . .please!’

She ignored my helpless plea and said, ‘Whatever.’

I resumed work. The IT industry had not moved an inch forward in the days I had taken a break. It began with the same old chorus. Client. Escalation. Not enough holidays. . .nine hours working, visa, onsite, profile and excel sheets.

I turned my desktop on. I had 500 unread emails. It was impossible to read them all. I selected all in one go and marked them read.

I moved to Gmail. One email sent from Coca Cola UK, asked me to claim a million US dollars. There were hundreds of promotional links, to download several apps, a few unwanted blessings. I ignored them. While scrolling down, I found the mail which was about to change my life.

It was from a publication house. I clicked on it. Suddenly blood started flowing fast, my heart started beating faster, and my eyes were ready to shed their tears again. I read the mail.

Dear Ajay,

We read your manuscript, ‘You are the Best Wife’ and found that it is written straight from the heart.

We wish to work with you on the project with certain changes.

Regards,

Editorial Board

I could not believe it was actually happening. That email transported me to a different world. I did not want to make an exhibition of my emotions. My hands had curled into fists. I rushed to the washroom, entered a cubicle, closed the door from inside and sat on the commode. I took a deep breath, wrapped my arms around my body. Tears flowed from my eyes in a continuous stream. I did not realize it, but I was mumbling, ‘I am not a loser. . .I am not a loser.’