part0013

Meher’s daily schedule was something like this: Wake up at five thirty. Switch on decoction maker. Do yoga for thirty minutes followed by ten minutes of breathing exercises. Boil milk. Make coffee. Wake up Avi at six thirty. Have coffee. Wake up Avi at six forty-five. Water plants. Have a shower. Do the world’s quickest namaaz .

Eat breakfast with Avi. See what Avi packed for lunch. Complain about it for two minutes. Get dressed. Kiss Avi goodbye. Have Avi drop off at college. Kiss Avi again if no one else was around.

Attend daily staff meeting. Try not to crumple under whatever fresh, hellish task Dean Mathur gave. Attend lectures. Figure out homework assignments. Talk to students who were lagging behind and motivate them.

Spend lunch hour working on extracurricular activities related to the college. More lectures. Wait for rickshaw for five to fifteen minutes, depending on availability. Reach home at six pm. Cut and prep veggies for dinner. Fold clothes and put utensils away. Sit down to grade papers and prepare material for the next day, while fretting about how much was left to finish on her doctoral thesis.

Chat with the group. Hug Avi at nine when he came home. Wait thirty minutes while he made dinner. Have dinner in front of the TV watching either cricket or a streaming show (they took turns picking those out).

Physically and mentally. Whoever said work was worship and marriages were made in heaven was clearly high on something. Work, even work that she loved, was strenuous and impossible given the current economic scenario. Their college had lost on fifty percent of admissions and had even let some of the teaching staff go because they couldn’t justify paying their salaries anymore.

The ones left were grateful to have a job at all. But, it also meant, more work fell on their heads.

For instance, Meher was part of the social events committee – liasoning between students and the trust while organizing the one hundred and twenty fests the college put up year round. She was also part of a group of teachers who did extra tutoring for students who struggled academically and who came from less than ideal socioeconomic backgrounds.

In fact, being part of this group had inspired Meher’s thesis topic – bridging the educational divide between children of different socioeconomic strata in metros. It was a vast, depressing topic because most kids from the slum areas did not even consider attending college, preferring to drop out while in school and working menial jobs.

For them, college was a dream, a utopia that no amount of encouragement and kind words could deliver on.

Meher eventually wanted to start a special funding program for such kids such, offering them scholarships and a small stipend so they could contribute at home while also studying. It was her dream, her utopia.

In the middle of living this strenuous and rewarding but exhausting life, planning a week’s worth of menus for her in-laws was the last thing Meher wanted to do.

Planning for a baby was impossible, she acknowledged. The cost of daycare alone was as much as their mortgage payments.

She typed on her phone furtively while the Dean droned on about being more vigilant about catching smokers on campus.

Tuesday : Lemon rasam with beans and coconut kari with papadam. Breakfast: dosai.

Meher almost jumped out of her seat at being called out. Every single faculty member in the small conference room was looking at her. Some with expressions of glee, others with curiosity and indifference. No one wanted to be in this meeting, but this was entertainment. Watching a fellow faculty being yelled at by the dean.

“I was taking down notes of all that you’re talking about, sir,” she replied.

“I was thinking we could run a funny campaign about how smoking is injurious to kissing and wearing lipstick/gloss,” she said hurriedly.

The teachers tittered, because she’d said kissing. The dean looked interested. “Go on,” he said.

Meher leaned back in her chair. “Everyone sees those ads in the theaters before movies begin – the smoking is injurious to your health ones. And it’s done nothing to prevent teenagers from taking up the habit. After all, it takes decades before their livers and lungs and jaws are infected with cancer.” She found a few nods among the bored faculty.

“But, if we can somehow educate them, in a fun way, about how it could affect their lives right now – activities they enjoy doing at the moment – maybe we could make some difference in their thinking,” she ended lamely.

Dean Mathur was silent for a long moment. Then he pushed his glasses up his nose and nodded. “This is not a bad idea. Please work up a budget proposal for what this campaign will need and present it to me ASAP? Hinduja Ma’am can work with you on this. Is that okay, Hinduja?”

Hinduja Thakur, a veteran of the teaching profession with the grey hair and scars to prove it, nodded, resigned. There was no other answer to give. But she gave Meher a venomous glance. This was just more extra work on top of all the work they had to do.

Meher didn’t blame her. But, this was her first solo project and she was the tiniest bit excited for it, although squeezing in time for making this happen was going to require magic.

Then her heart sank as Mathur droned on about coming in to work on alternate weekends to take care of extracurricular activity planning now that fest season was here.

“So, how’s your first week working out, kunju ?” Meher asked Shashi on video call, as she sat in the auto and pushed back a little bit of her hijab to allow the breeze in. “Kurukshetra Heights, bhaiya ,” she told the auto driver.

Shashi, looking crisp and professional, in her blue blazer and pinstripe pantsuit outfit beamed at Meher from the privacy of her AC cabin. “I love it. It’s just been orientation stuff so far, the real work will begin from Monday. Learning the systems and the chain of command, the good snacks in the vending machines…”

“Best of all, there is another girl Koel, she’s from Punjab and she lives in that complex next to yours, Morningburst?” Shashi asked. “So we are traveling together. She has even given me the bus timings so I don’t have to wait unnecessarily.”

“That’s awesome, kunju . I’m so happy things are great for you. And you look so smart in this pantsuit.”

Shashi shrugged and tucked her hair back in a gesture of false modesty. Her engagement ring glittered on screen. “I have amazing style.”

Meher stuck her tongue out at her best friend. “I have amazing style, dee . And so does Anu. This outfit was her idea, right?”

“Okay, okay. But I picked the earrings to go with it, didn’t I?” Shashi muttered. Showing off cute starfish earrings in oxidise.

“I hate you.” Shashi stuck her tongue out. “My god, you make me forget I’m at work.”

They ended the call a second later. Meher was tucking the phone in her bag when it rang again. It was Avi.

“Hey, you,” Meher said softly. He’d been such a wonderful host to their friends last week, and made enough food that they could live off leftovers till next week. He really was the best, even if he did forget to occasionally buy the groceries.

Meher gestured to the rickshaw backrest and the driver chose that moment to drive over a pothole. She bounced along with the rick.

“Great. I’m going to be a little late leaving work so can you manage cooking dinner? We can leave straight for the airport as soon as I come.”

Meher swallowed the instant denial that wanted to burst out. She smiled at Avi. He looked cute and distracted as he typed furiously on his computer, his phone on the side so half his face was out of the screen.

Avi nodded. “Yes. Dal rice is fine. They’ll have had dinner on the flight anyway. I booked them the in-flight meal because of Appa’s sugar thing.”

“Okay.” Meher kicked herself for forgetting her father-in-law’s diabetes. It was a borderline thing, nothing to worry about, but Avi’s mom fussed over him like he had a pacemaker fitted inside him. She was very Indian like that.

After the call, Meher went into her task list app and typed in Make dal rice to the top of her list. Behind it was a million other things that needed her attention, some work, some personal and she couldn’t actually work tonight because the in-laws would want to talk. Or watch TV.

Or gossip about all the scandals in Tanjavur. And she was a dutiful daughter in law, so she would have to nod and pay attention even though there was an important project that needed her attention.

They weren’t bad people, they’d never said an unkind word to her but she knew…she just knew in her heart, that she wasn’t their first or last choice to carry on their family name. She was just the girl Avi had declared he would marry when he was eighteen.

It meant she had to try a little harder with them. Be nicer. Be more docile. Be more mattaponnu than some entitled Iyer girl who could probably do as she pleased because she was born into the same caste as Avi’s people.

Because the thought of Avi marrying some other girl depressed her and angered her, Meher quickly shut her eyes. She took three deep breaths and let them out slowly, counting backward from ten. The YouTube video guru said there was a lot of tension between our shoulders and on the bridge of our nose – breathing right was one of the ways to loosen those knots of tension.

Meher felt a little better, her shoulders felt looser after the little exercise.

“Owww!” She yelled as she held on to the handle in front of her for dear life. “Bhaiya, aaramse !”

“Why are you wearing a dupatta with this dress?” Avi asked, two hours later, watching Meher pin a chiffon sunflower yellow dupatta on the neon pink sleeveless kurti.

“Because it’s sleeveless.” Meher took the pin out from between her teeth as she answered. She quickly pinned the dupatta against the shoulders of her kurti. The transparent material acted as a shield on her bare arms.

Avi shook his head and sprayed his deo liberally over himself and the room. “I don’t get your fashion sense at all, manaivi . Why would you wear a sleeveless kurta and then spoil it with a dupatta? Don’t wear the kurta only na?”

Meher coughed and gave him an indignant glare. “Why do you always bathe yourself in this freon-polluting nightmare every time you step out of the house?”

Avi grinned. “You have a point there.” He walked over to her and nuzzled her neck. “There, now you smell like me too.”

His wet hair tickled her skin where they brushed close together, his hands biting at her waist, pulling her closer. She melted a little because she could feel how much he wanted her.

“Don’t call me manaivi when your parents are here.” She linked her arms around his neck. “Please.” She kissed him softly.

Meher shook her head and stepped away from the embrace. She checked in the mirror for signs of smudged makeup and lipstick. The new matte shade was holding against Avi’s kiss. Great!

“Yes, we did. But they are your parents. And they get very uncomfortable when you openly declare that all the time, you know? Be nice to them,” she admonished him.

“For someone who is not worried about how they will judge you, you care too much about my parents,” Avi complained as he strapped on his smartwatch (Meher’s Diwali present from last year), placed on the night stand next to their bed. “They’re just people, you know.”

Meher sprayed perfume on her pulse points. A fragrance that she’d harassed Avi into buying for her for Diwali. He’d actually got three bottles for her. He was excessive like that, the idiot.

“They raised you. And they love you. Just like me.” She gave him a pointed glance in the mirror. “Be nice to them, Avi.”

“Fine, manaivi .” He raised his hands in supplication. “Sorry. Fine, Meher !”

“Good.” Meher leaned closer to the mirror and reapplied her lipstick. It was a cute pink shade, nothing too dramatic to scare his parents. Then she took a small sindoor bottle out of the drawer in the makeup dresser and carefully placed it on the middle part of her forehead.

There. Now she looked like Meher Sreedhar, wife of Avi Sreedhar. And because Meher wanted this more than most other things in her life, she smiled happily at her reflection.

She wasn’t smiling so much, when Avi’s parents landed in Mumbai. Their flight was rerouted to the international airport, a huge, sprawling complex of pathways and gates. They got lost and were slightly panicked as they talked non-stop to Avi about finding the right exit - P6 – for Uber passengers.

Avi owned a bike, a Yamaha model, which was good enough for him to go to work and for them to travel when they needed it. A bike was easier to drive in Mumbai traffic than a four-wheeler. But it did mean that picking up Avi’s parents from the airport was a major hassle.

“Amma, I’ve told you four times already,” Avi muttered in Tamil. “Get in the nearest lift. Press the P6 button and we are waiting for you here. I had to cancel two rides already because you’re still not here.”

“Don’t yell at me, da ,” Avi’s mom said tearfully. Since Avi had the call on speakerphone, Meher was privy to every emotionally charged word. “This airport is so big and confusing. We can’t find the exits. Why can’t you come and find us, kanna ?”

“They will arrest me for traveling without a ticket, Ma. Can you please give the phone to Appa? I’ll try explaining to him,” Avi said.

“Oh, he is looking weak, Avi. I’m not going to stress him out more. That meal in the flight was so full of sugar I couldn’t…oh. That is the lift. We found it.”

The call ended because of network issues and Meher unwound the hijab from her head and folded it. She tucked it in her bag, smoothing her hair as she did so.

The lift doors opened and then his parents were here. Avi bent down to hug them briefly, before touching their feet, like a good, Tanjavur boy. He wore shorts and a tee shirt with sports shoes. And, of course, that was what Amma latched on to the second she saw him.

“Avi, why are you dressed like a school boy?” She scolded him, even as she blessed him with a hundred sons under her breath. “Don’t you have full pants? Or those jeans you always begged me to buy for Diwali?”

“Meher picked this outfit, Amma.” He grinned and threw her to the wolves shamelessly.

Meher moved forward and bent down to touch their feet, feeling like a fraud as she did so. Amma patted her head for a microsecond and said, “Sowbhagyamma iru .”

“The food was amazing, Meher.” Appa said, as he hugged her cordially, passing his hand through her hair. Appa was nice to her, when he forgot Amma was watching the both of them. “The payasam was so tasty….”

“Yes, yes, we are all dying to know about the payasam,” Amma muttered. “And who cares if your thumb falls off due to gangrene because you didn’t watch your sugar and ate what you wanted?”

Appa sighed and didn’t answer. In that instant, he looked exactly like Avi did sometimes, when she was yelling at him – rebellious and unable to do anything about it.

She resolved then and there to never yell at Avi again. Their marriage was nothing like his parents’ or hers. They were in love. They were perfect.

“I have stocked the best organic brown sugar for you, Appa,” Meher said. “Avi can make semiya payasam with it.”

“You’ve still not learned to cook then, Meher?” Amma spoke with a lot of judgment.

Avi was busy scheduling another ride for them so he didn’t see Amma’s narrowed eyes and muttered words.