Dilemma

Of the many things that were common between the mothers of Gautam and Anjana, the most prominent one had to be their fervent desire to see their children settled. Both the mothers were equally worried about the advancing age of their children. Gautam and Anjana had both entered the fourth decade of their lives. At 34, Gautam had spent a year more than Anjana in the said decade and had thus grown slightly more reconciled with it. Neither of the two mothers had spent even a single night when they would go the bed without reflecting, with some degree of concern, on the marital prospects of their respective children. Joined by similar worries, separated by geographic distance, and oblivious to each other’s existence, they resided in different places. Anjana’s mother lived in the small town called Firozabad, located about 250 Km away from Delhi (Anjana had moved to Delhi 10 years ago).

 Every morning as Anjana’s mother would stand in her balcony sipping tea with her husband, she saw hawkers moving in the by-lanes selling bangles. The bangles would be heaped up on their carts like vegetables. Red, pink, green, orange...all colours and sizes. Anjana’s mother would long for a day when she would buy them in dozens for Anjana’s wedding.

Anjana’s mother, with the help of her husband, had made a profile for Anjana on a popular matrimonial website. While Anjana would, in words of her mother, fritter away her life on work in Delhi, her mother would religiously check all the proposals that came her way on the said site, back in Firozabad. Most of the proposals that would appeal to the mother would be mercilessly snubbed by Anjana.

Anjana had always been her own person. She had left Firozabad right after her XII board exams and never looked back. Firozabad was now nothing more than an annual affair that would happen only on Diwali when she visited her parents. She was working as the Chief Communication Officer with a Telecom giant in Delhi. She had built a life of her own in the city of Delhi. Survival was a daily struggle for a single woman like her living all by herself in the city that was notorious for being unsympathetic, brutal even, to women. Delhi’s vastness was overpowering yet comforting for her. She would any day prefer to lose herself in Delhi rather than being found in Firozabad for all her life. The bubbles of anxiety and fear that would rise in her head every now and then would be crushed by the prospect of her living the life her mother and her sister led in Firozabad.

The last time she and her mother had a conversation, her mother had talked about this new candidate that she and her father had thought fit for Anjana. She knew this time, too, her mother would invariably insist on her giving this man a chance. “Ek baar mil toh le. Milne me kya jaata hai? 33 ki ho gayi hai...kab settle down hogi, bhagwaan jaane!” the mother would say adamantly. Anjana was not averse to the idea of marriage or, as her mother says, settling down. She thought the chosen procedure to be farcical. She believed that she would run into her life partner someday, somewhere;  she believed that she would strike up a conversation with someone reading the same book as hers on a metro and be amazed at how their taste in books and music is alike; that someday someone would stop by to appreciate the roses and gardenias that she had painstakingly cultivated in one end of the small porch of her Vasant Kunj flat; that she would thank this someone for his appreciation and invite him for a glass of lemonade; that they will have the most delightful conversation over the lemonade; that this rather plain looking chap will actually turn out to be the CEO of a large corporate; that they will meet frequently over some more lemonade, fall in love, and get married thereafter.

Though her clasp over such fanciful notions was growing feebler and feebler year by year. She had now begun to take coach reserved for ladies on the metro. She would not grub out the weeds from her plants on the same day she spotted them and with as much aggression. She would now not mind waiting for the weekend to do the pruning. And now she had begun to relent with a lesser resistance to her mother’s persuasion. The idea of humouring her mother did not seem completely bizarre any more. The declivity that joins fancy to reality is dangerously slippery—one nudge, in form of little persuasion or ticking time, is all it takes to trigger the descent.

Thus she decided to meet this man her mother had shortlisted for her. It was a Saturday anyway. She could not have used work as an excuse to avoid it. He seems like an affable man, her mother had told her. And that, precisely, was the major cause of her worry. This was not the first such meeting she would be participating in. None of the meetings had been fruitful so far. In most cases the other party would express their disapproval either by making demands that she and her family could never fulfil or by stating that she should not stop looking for other possibilities—after having spent two years on the Shadi.com she had developed a keen ear for such cues and a thick skin for rejections.

However, the real problem would arise when she would not approve of the prospect. Anjana suffered from an affliction that many a woman suffer from:  inability to say ‘no’ in so many words. And her discomfiture only rose sharply if the man in question happened to be affable. Affability is not as essential an ingredient for the marital bliss as compatibility, Anjana believed. Nice is nice, but then nothing great has ever come out of nice.

Anjana’s phone rang. She knew it was her mother calling to confirm if she’s meeting the boy today.

“Haan, mummy Namaste...haan aaj jaaungi...theek hai  green wala suit pehenungi...haan okay...nahi mazak nahi karungi. Accha papa ko phone do.”

“Hello Anju. How are you, beta? So you’re going then?” said a firm and distant voice.

“Haan papa, I’ll go. Achha, tell me does he smoke?”

“No...so far as we know he doesn’t. That’s what the profile says. Rama spoke to his mother; she too said he doesn’t smoke. We had told them that smoking is a strict no-no for you. You’ve seen the profile, nahi? Gautam naam hai uska.”

“Yes, I have. Not that I remember much though. Theek hai, so I will call you later to tell you how did it go.”

“Okay, beta. All the best!”

Anjana texted Gautam to check if he’s comfortable meeting over lunch.

“Hi, I am Anjana Dutt from Shadi.Com. Shall we meet at CP in, say, Sarvana Bhawan for lunch? That is if you don’t have any other plans for the day?”

“Hi Anjana. Sure let’s meet. I’ll be there at 1? Okay?”

“Sure. See you then. :)”
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It was a bit too warm for a February afternoon. Winter was retreating. Summer was knocking at Delhi’s door like a hapless waif waiting to be let in; Taking undue advantage of the mercy shown to it, even before you could realise, this helpless waif would turn into a marauder, and soon scoff at the city’s helplessness and misery.

Gautam nearly stumbled in the restaurant. He was late by 15 minutes. He brushed his hair with his fingers. The realisation that his hair had thinned and a lot of his scalp shone through them made him only more conscious. He wiped the thin film of sweat that glazed his forehead from all the rushing and brushing (he could have dropped the sweater). His eyes searched for the face he had examined many times over on his phone before he set out out.  (Click to view photo, zoom in, zoom out, back...click to view photo, zoom in, zoom out...)

There she was. She waved her hand delicately and smiled. Gautam also smiled— more so because he was supposed to than he wanted to.

She rose, held out her hand and said with a smile, “Anjana! I hope I did not spoil your Saturday?”

“Arey...not at all! I am sorry for being late. The metro got stuck before the last station. There was just such rush today. Did you notice?”

“I drove myself here...so I wouldn’t know. But I can imagine,” Anjana said, observing Gautam’s lanky frame and prominent forehead.

“Oh, you drive? That’s great!”

“Yes I do. I take the metro too. But occasionally.  Only when I have to go to Gurgaon for work. I just can’t drive in that crazy traffic,” Anjana said shrugging.

Gautam could not help noticing the sparkling eyes and well formed lips that Anjana possessed as much as he could not help noticing some extra flesh on her face which formed something of a double-chin.

“So should we place the order? Or do you want some more time?” Anjana’s questions distracted him and forced him to deliberate over the menu.

Over the course of the meal Anjana and Gautam both discovered things about one and other that gave them what they were fumbling for—reasons to like or dislike each other. Anjana got to know that Gautam worked as a freelance trainer with a BPO, and that he lived with his aunt upon insistence of his mother, and that his parents lived in Amritsar, Punjab, where they possessed acres of land. Anjana now realised why her mother had been so keen on this proposal. To her mother land meant prosperity and stability. To crown it he had no sibling which meant that Anjana would get to be undisputed heiress. (Neither of these two prospects impressed Anjana half as much as they impressed her mother.)  Gautam discovered Anjana’s wit was as sparkling as her eyes; and that she was extremely fond of books, and that she was fiercely independent; and that she had strong opinions on matters as diverse as spices, nuclear warfare and people who smoke; and that her mannerisms were dainty in spite of her voluptuousness.

“But that’s a, um, shifty job, isn’t it?” Anjana said a bit hesitantly.

“Well, it is. Some months I have a lot of work and sometimes none at all. I won’t call it a stable job, no. Actually that’s one reason I’ve been putting off marriage, but you know how mothers are. Mine insists that I get married before I lose whatever little hair I have left on my head. She thinks that I’ll become more disciplined post marriage,” Gautam said with a note of jest in his voice.

“That’s what all mothers think, I guess. All Indian mothers do at any rate,” Anjana retorted. The next second she realised that she could have avoided saying so. In a bid to cover up for her cheek she added, “so what do you do when you’re not working? I mean, in the months when you don’t have projects?”

“Oh, I watch movies. Lots of them! Movie marathons are my thing,” Gautam said, without looking up and gathering the remnant of rice scattered on his plate with his spoon. “I am sorry to disappoint you but I am not a book-person. I read, but not as much.”

Anjana smiled thinking how Gautam found his lack of interest in books (of all things) worth apologising for. Yet there was something endearing about his confessions. The air of ingenuous with which he spoke and acted made it difficult for Anjana to write him off completely. She observed that if seen independent of the context in which they were meeting, Gautam could well turn out to be interesting company. She was quick to notice that he was a man who was very well aware of his insufficiencies and made no attempts to cover them up falsely.

“The last one I read was by Paulo Cohelo. What was it called...err—“

“Alchemist?” Anjana interjected.

“O yes! That one. Have you read it?”

“I have.” Anjana nodded.

“Aaand how did you like it?” Gautam asked timidly.

“Honestly, I found it an absolute bore. So much for all the hype about it. Such a drag!”

“Thank God! I was scared to say it in as many words. But the book sucks. You’re the first book-sy person I’ve met who dislikes Cohelo.”

“Any siblings?”

“Yes, a sister. Sanjana. So we’re called Anju and Sanju back home. I don’t understand this craze that our parents have for rhyming names.”

“If this goes through then I could be the Ganju.” Gautam chortled. And before Anjana could make up her mind about this remark, he shot another question: “So you’re from Firozabad? Where have I heard that name before? Um...isn’t that the place which is famous for its glassware production?”

“Yes, it is. That and X-Ray!”

“How do you mean?”

“So if you take a stroll in the Firozabad market you’ll see an array of shops for X-Ray. They’ll showcase copies of X-Ray in their shops as photographers showcase their most celebrated photographs. And they do it at dirt cheap prices. You can just walk in and get an X-Ray of any part of your body for, say, 40 bucks. Or maybe less. It’s been quite a while I did that, you see. But it’s funny,” Anjana said as if taking pride in not visiting Firozabad for a very long time.

“Wow. That’s...interesting. Glassware and X-Ray. So Firozabad is all about transparency, eh!”

Anjana giggled. “I never looked at it like that. Good observation.” (She looked pretty when she giggled, bowing her head ever so slightly.)

The meal and the interview came to an end. (Anjana insisted that the sum be split. Gautam did not object.)  This was the most awkward moment usually. What note should such a meeting end on? Should one sound too hopeful to meet again—won’t that make one sound too desperate? Or should one just say a solid bye—won’t that sound too curt? Should one be blatantly honest and leave a very bad aftertaste of the meeting with the other person? Or should one feign nascent affection though there is none whatsoever? Anyone who’s been through such an exercise many times over, like Gautam and Anjana, will reckon these to be some of the most pressing questions that arise in a person’s head in the final moments.

Grappling with such questions and more, Gautam and Anjana made an exit from the restaurant.

“So, I’ll get in touch with you soon. It was great meeting you,” Anjana said taking the lead.

“Sure. I had a great time too.”

“Do you want me to drop you somewhere? I have a car.”

“Oh, no. Thanks. I’ll manage. I have a few errands to run. You carry on,” Gautam said.

“Bye!”

Both of them headed in opposite directions. Both of them were replaying the meeting in their heads, and trying to extract concrete reasons for their decisions. Yes, both of them had made up their minds about one and other.
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Anjana’s phone rang as soon as she sat in the driver’s seat.

“Haan Ma, Namaste...haan mili...bas abhi car me hi baithi hun. Um...nahi ma...ab wajah kya bataun. Aap papa ko phone do.”

“Anju beta, pasand nahi aaya kya? Your mother looks upset,” Anjana heard her father say.

“Nahi papa. I don’t think it will work out...nahi it’s not that...it’s just...no he’s not a bad guy, he’s good...I don’t know...don’t make things difficult for me...I can’t explain everything right now. I am about to drive. But it won’t work out. I’ll call you when I reach home.” She clicked the phone off.

She recalled that because both the Shaheed Bhagat Singh Marg and Panchkuinya Road have turned one-way streets, she’d have to drive past half the circumference of the outer circle to find her way out. She started. (What reason should she give her parents when they’ll call her again at night? He wasn’t a bad guy after all. How she hated this dilemma!)

Gautam walked with a leisurely gait, with his gaze fixed on the road mostly. He took out his phone from his pocket, looked at it, clicked it on to dial a number, and clicked it off again. He took a few more steps and paused near a small stall.

“Ek ultra mild.” He lit the cigarette and took a deep drag. The sensation of the smoke going in brought him the relief that had become so immensely desirable after all the smiling and pretending of the past one hour. As he exhaled a puff of smoke things began to seem clearer to him, the air began to seem more pleasant.  He again reached for his phone from his pocket and rang up his mother.

“Hello, mummy. Kithey? Haan, I met her...kudi toh changi si...nahi...I don’t think so...she’s good, but a bit...umm... chubby...I mean, healthy hai thodi....nahi...won’t work out... Nahi mummy maine soch liya...haan I’m sure, I’ve decided...what do you mean you won’t say no?...arey! how will I say no? You could speak to her mother...and say what? Come on, ma just say something about kundlis, I am sure they follow kundli stuff...O God! Ma we’ll talk about this later....haan changa...theek hai...bye.”

He clicked the phone and ticked the cigarette. The ash came off and spread like pollen, dancing in the air a little before hitting the ground. (How should he turn her down? She was such a lovely woman after all. He wasn't sure if the reason he gave his mother was what he actually felt. How he hated this dilemma!)

As he placed the cigarette-but between his lips to take the last drag, he saw a car halt right across the road. The glass of the window rolled down and from behind the window Anjana peered at him. Her face contorted and, though he could not hear, Gautam was sure, she mouthed an expletive as she drove on.

It’s been a year since that episode, but Gautam still has the vivid image of the face she made the last time he saw her. Neither of them thanked the cigarette though for resolving their dilemma without having to utter even a word. (Discounting that one expletive maybe.)