2 States - The Story Of My Marriage | Page 4

brother. And my father works in Bank of Baroda in Chennai. Sorry, you expected me to be like what?’ ‘Some girls cannot handle attention. Two days of popularity and every guy in college should bow to you.’ ‘That’s not true. Didn’t I come out with you?’ She neatly transferred the bare bones of the chicken on to another plate.

‘Oh, that’s huge. Coming out with a commoner like me. How much is the bill? I’ll pay my share and leave.’ I stood up. ‘Hey,’ she said. ‘What?’ ‘I’m sorry. Please sit down.’ I had lost interest in the conversation anyway. If there is nothing as attractive as a pretty girl, there’s nothing as repulsive as a cocky chick. I sat back and focused on the food and the irritating instrumental music for the next ten minutes. I ignored the Brahmin who stereotyped my collegemates. ‘Are we OK now?’ she smiled hesitantly. ‘Why did you come out with me? To take your score to eleven?’ ‘You really want to know?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘I need some friends here. And you seemed like a safe-zone guy. Like the kind of guy who could just be friends with a girl, right?’ Absolutely not, I thought. Why would any guy want to be only friends with a girl? It’s like agreeing to be near a chocolate cake and never eat it. It’s like sitting in a racing car but not driving it. Only wimps do that. ‘I’m not so sure,’ I said. ‘You can handle it. I told you about the proposals because you can see how stupid they are.’ ‘They are not stupid. They are IITians. They just don’t know how to talk to women yet,’ I said. ‘Whatever. But you do. And I’d like to be friends with you. Just friends, OK?’ She extended her hand. I gave her a limp handshake. ‘Let’s share, sixty each,’ she said as the bill arrived. That’s right, ‘just friends’ share bills. I didn’t want to be just friends with her. And I didn’t want to be the eleventh martyr. I paid my share and came back to campus. I had no interest in meeting my just friend anytime again soon.

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‘You OK?’ I said going up to my just friend. She remained in her seat as her tears re-emerged. The last lecture had ended and the classroom was empty. I hadn’t spoken much to Ananya after our lunch last week. Pretty girls behave best when you ignore them. (Of course, they have to know you are ignoring them, for otherwise they may not even know you exist.) But today I had to talk to her. She had cried in the class. We had auditoriumstyle classrooms with semi-circular rows, so everyone could see everyone. Students sat in alphabetical order. Ananya, like all kids doomed with names starting with the letter A, sat in the first row on the left side. She sat between Ankur and Aditya, both IITians who had already proposed to her without considering the embarrassment of being rejected and then sitting next to the rejection for the whole year. I sat in the third row, between Kanyashree, who took notes like a diligent court transcripter, and five Mohits, who had come from different parts of India. But neither Ankur, nor Kanyashree, nor the five Mohits had noticed Ananya’s tears. Only I had caught her wiping her eye with a yellow dupatta that had little bells at its ends that tinkled whenever she moved. In the past week, I had limited my communication with Ananya to cursory greetings every morning and a casual wave at the end of the day. During classes we had to pay attention to the teachers we had marks for class participationsaying something that sounds intelligent. Most IITians never spoke while people from non-science backgrounds spoke non-stop. Twenty-three minutes into the microeconomics class, the professor drew an Lshaped utility curve on the blackboard. He admired his curve for ten seconds and then turned to the class. ‘How many economics graduates here?’ asked Prof Chatterjee, a two-decade IIMA veteran. Fifteen students out of the seventy students in section A raised their hands, Ananya included. Chatterjee turned to her. ‘You recognise the curve, Ms Swaminathan?’ He read her name from the nameplate in front. ‘The basic marginal utility curve, sir,’ Ananya said. ‘So, Ms Swaminathan, how would you represent that curve mathematically?’ Ananya stood up, her eyes explaining clearly that she had no clue. The remaining fourteen economics graduates lowered their hands. ‘Yes, Ms Swaminathan?’ Chatterjee said.

Ananya clutched the trinkets on her dupatta so they didn’t make a noise as she spoke. ‘Sir, that curve shows different bundles of goods between which a consumer is indifferent. That is, at each point on the curve, the consumer has equal preference for one bundle over another.’ ‘That’s not