Authors: Parul A Mittal
Arranged Love
Arranged Love
PENGUIN METRO READS
Parul A. Mittal is the author of the national bestseller
Heartbreaks & Dreams!: The Girls @ IIT
. Apart from reading and writing fiction, she loves listening to old Hindi music, cannot resist jiving to dance beats, loves to party with friends and has a keen interest in staying fit.
She did her BTech in electrical engineering from IIT Delhi in 1995, followed by master’s in computer science from UMich, Ann Arbor. After twelve years in the corporate world (Hughes, IBM Research and Nextag), she is currently running an e-venture called RivoKids (
www.rivokids.com
). RivoKids offers parents smart ideas to raise bright, happy kids and free online memory books to capture fun parenting moments.
Born in Delhi, she did her schooling at Lady Irwin School, New Delhi and Navrachna School, Baroda. She is married to Alok Mittal and has two daughters—Smiti and Muskaan.
You can read more about her at
www.parulmittal.com
, join her Facebook fan page at
www.facebook.com/parulmittalbook
or email her at
[email protected]
For my Arranged Love, Alok
‘Do women have to be naked to get into the Met. Museum?’ The Guerrilla Girls poster, showing the naked back of a girl wearing a Gorilla mask, said in bold, black lettering. It was designed by a group of radical feminist artists after conducting a ‘weenie count’ at New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art. They had found that less than 5 per cent of the artists in the Met’s modern art sections were women, yet 85 per cent of the nude artworks were female. Jay had gifted me the poster on our first ‘going out together’ anniversary, last month. I had loved its outrageous, raunchy humour, and wanting to make my contribution to the world of art, I had made Jay promise that he would model nude for me.
I had been waiting for the right opportunity to start the painting. So when Neetu, my roommate, told me that she was going to spend the whole Sunday out, canoeing with her boyfriend, I had persuaded Jay to forgo his plans of watching the football match on TV and deliver on his promise. Not that Neetu would mind having a naked guy in her neighbouring room. It’s just that she and her boyfriend were way too noisy and I needed some quiet time to be able to concentrate.
So there he was, sitting naked on my queen-sized bed, patiently posing for the last two hours. I stared at the contours of his tall, athletic body. The broad and powerful chest, the bronzed sinewy arms, the thin
line of golden brown hair running from his chest down to his navel that drew my eye towards his well-toned abs and his lean hips. Having inherited the best of physical features from his Indian mom and American dad, Jayant Guy was as handsome and delectable as it gets. I smiled, as I forced myself not to get aroused by his maleness and focused on the job at hand.
‘Don’t tell me it’s more fun to look at?’ he said, catching a glimpse of naughtiness in my smile.
‘It certainly looks unused,’ I replied, trying to pull his leg.
‘Why don’t you fix it?’ came his quick, playful response.
‘Am trying,’ I chuckled as I applied a thick dab of paint on the brush and applied it on the canvas with harder strokes. ‘One at a time,’ I said teasingly, without looking up at him, as I added another layer of skin-tone to fix the
one
in the painting.
‘Can we take a break? My back is hurting from staying still in one position for so long!’
‘You need some action, huh?’ I said, as I stepped back to look at the canvas.
I felt happy with what I saw. We had made good progress today. I raised my hand above the canvas and gave him a thumbs up.
I heard the faint clicking sound of his strained muscles as he got up from my bed and stretched his arms. Next instant, he was grabbing me by my waist.
‘One would say I deserve a reward after two hours of modelling nude for you.’ I heard him say, his voice slightly muffled, as he kissed my ear lobe.
‘I would say I deserve a beer,’ I said, wriggling out of his grip and heading straight to the kitchen.
Usually painting has a meditative effect on me, but today I felt tired. This was my first experience with painting a nude model, and you have to believe me when I say that it’s an entirely different ball game from painting fruits on a table. In case you are more of a
doer than a listener, try looking at your irresistibly attractive naked boyfriend or girlfriend from a 5-feet distance for over an hour. Okay, we all agree it’s provoking. Now try focusing on the body’s curves and slopes, observe the shadow and the reflection of light on the skin, all the while controlling that excitement. Exhausting, huh? I guess professional artists get used to looking at naked human bodies as just other works of art. But for me, painting was a passion and Jay was rather good-looking.
‘To the Guerrilla Girls!’ I said, raising a toast with my beer can, in the direction of the poster that hung over my bed.
‘As we attempt to increase the count of female artists and naked male artworks,’ toasted Jay, tipping his healthy apple against my calorie-filled can.
Jay had got back into his knickers, so I opened the window shades and allowed the sunlight to fill my room with its own colours and hues. Sitting side by side on the floor rug, we stared outside, admiring the onset of fall colours. The array of two-storeyed, white-coloured apartments with wooden sloping roofs, offered a picturesque contrast to the multitude of colours splashed on the trees around. I noticed the ducks swimming in the pond next to the community centre. Come winter and the pond would transform into an ice-skating rink for the neighbourhood kids. The whole place would undergo bleaching, exchanging its colourful youth for white, serene maturity.
Willowtree Apartments, where we lived, was about a ten-minute walk from the College of Engineering. The North Campus of University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, housing the engineering department, was home to a large Indian postgrad student population. I could see a bunch of these students, carrying back groceries and utilities from Walmart in preparation for the week ahead. A few of our friends were out to the gym while most others were busy in their apartments, slicing onions and frying masala for dinner.
I, on the other hand, was busy enjoying the moment,
soaking in the vibrant colours of nature, while Jay gently rubbed the sides of my back with his thumbs. I took a large swig of the cool drink and let my head rest on his bare shoulders. I didn’t realize when my eyes closed and I drifted off, with Jay lying by my side. I was woken up by the shrill ringing of the phone by my ears. I quickly picked the handset lying next to me on the side table. Dad’s voice from across the Red Sea and the Atlantic Ocean was clear enough to jolt me back to my senses. My mind quickly calculated that it must be early Monday morning in Delhi and suddenly a fear engulfed me. The weekly call from my parents was scheduled for Saturday mornings, their time. A series of random fears crossed my mind in the fraction of a second and it took me some time to register what he was saying.
‘Suhaani. You sound asleep
beta
. Did I wake you up? It’s only 8 p.m. your time. I thought you would be awake,’ I heard him say.
‘I am up, but how come you are calling at this hour?’ I asked hurriedly, lifting Jay’s arm that lay around my waist. Jay tried telling me in sign language that my dad couldn’t see him over the phone, but I shrugged him off.
‘Did you check your email?’ Dad asked eagerly.
My father typically sent me mails before he went to bed, so that I could check them during my daytime. I normally responded immediately as he hated to wait for my answer, but today I had been so absorbed analysing and tracing the male anatomy that I had forgotten to open my laptop. Even as my laptop came back to life, I asked, ‘What’s so important in the mail, Pa? Why don’t you just tell me on phone?’
But all I heard was the disconnect tone. My father had already hung up.
‘So much for the get-back-to-me-at-your-own-convenience protocol of emails,’ commented Jay wryly.
I could see the humour. It was like sending an SMS to someone and then calling and telling the person to check the SMS! Yet, I didn’t like the scorn in Jay’s voice. Just because he doesn’t get any calls from his parents doesn’t give him the right to ridicule others. Besides, his parents were only a few hours away in Chicago and could drop by any time they wanted to. Not that they ever did, at least not in the last year and half that I had known Jay. His interactions with his family were largely restricted to Thanksgiving and Christmas weekends.
Facebook opened up on my browser as my default home page. I briefly stole a glance to see the status updates of my FB friends. There was a picture of Neetu in a swimsuit, squeezed in the canoe with her boyfriend, his arms tightly wound under her breasts. I am sure she had set the privacy settings on this photo such that her parents back in Agra couldn’t see it. A couple of funny one-liners caught my attention. The tall, blond guy from my computer architecture class had posted, ‘Practice makes a man perfect! Now you know why I do it all the time.’ I clicked on ‘Like’ bumping up the count to 25.
My Gmail had loaded in the next window by now, so I clicked on my dad’s mail. I had ruled out robbery, an earthquake or death as the reason for his urgent call and was back to my cheerful self. The mail had no content. There was only the subject line which said, ‘Check out the attachment’. Must be some new family picture or yet another cousin’s wedding invitation. I quickly opened the attached file, and found a repulsive-looking guy, falling on me, with a wide grin on his face. I impulsively moved my face away from the laptop screen.
‘How do you like the guy?’ popped the chat message from my dad on the Gmail chat window.
‘Horrible!’ I said without hesitation. The guy in the picture was still grinning at me. I noticed that he was standing on a rock, at the top of some mountain, his hands outstretched, perhaps to
maintain his balance, as the cold, indifferent wind ruffled his neatly trimmed hair. The shot had been taken by someone lying low on the ground, so it looked like he was falling forward.
Jay prodded me from behind asking if I had asked my old man to send pictures of Gorilla-type Indian male models. I asked him to keep shut and stay away, as if my father could hear him over chat. Unable to control his laughter, he wandered off to the kitchen to fix himself some salad.
Dad: Horrible? That’s a start! Remember, you took three months before you started liking powdered milk?
Me: Pa! I was six months old then!
Dad: And you still love the milk powder sachets that come with tea-makers in resorts.
Me: Very funny
Dad: I met him at my guitar class. The boy is perfect for you.
Me: You joined guitar class like only two months back!
Dad: Oh! But I started liking the food your mother cooks from the day we were married.
Me: What’s your point?
Dad: That I am quick when it comes to liking things while you take your time to develop the taste. But once you like something, you like it forever.
I was completely losing this battle of words and the speed of developing taste, so I decided to get aggressive.
Me: You want me to marry a guy whom you just met at your guitar class?
Dad: C’mon, you know me better. Of course, I did the background check. He is Tanu’s junior’s junior from IIT.
Me: What the fuck, Dad! An IITian—I typed, erased and then retyped—You know I don’t fancy these arrogant, self-important IIT types.
Dad: This guy is different. I am confident he will slowly grow on you.
Me: I am still studying, Pa.
Dad: Of course, we will wait for you to finish your studies. The boy’s email address is there in his biodata. Feel free to drop him a mail.
Me: But, Pa …
Before I could type any further, I realized my father had logged off. In any case, what was I going to tell him? ‘Pa, I have found myself an American dude who is mind-blowing in bed, but doesn’t understand a word of Hindi.’
Jay had come back with his salad bowl and was checking out the word exchange on my chat screen, his eyes wide with amazement.
‘Jesus fucking Christ! Is your dad trying to find you a lover?’ He didn’t try to hide the surprise or the sarcasm in his tone.
‘He is finding me a husband,’ I said, stressing the word with as much disrespect as I could muster. ‘A band that ties you to the house, not a lover,’ I clarified.
‘So honey, I thought you were very close to your dad. Doesn’t he know you abhor the very idea of an arranged marriage and are fully capable of finding a handsome
houseband
for yourself?’
I knew he was trying to needle me. Initially, Jay had problems learning to pronounce my name properly but now he only mispronounced it to tease me and the ‘So honey’ joke continued. Any other time, I would have run behind him, hitting him and biting him for jeering at my dad. Today, I just sat motionless, hands under my chin, too confused and perhaps even a bit angry to defend my relationship with my dad. Realizing that I was not in the mood for bantering, Jay came closer and started massaging my shoulders. He knew how I loved the firmness of his hands around my neck when I was tired and needed to relax. But right now, I needed to be alone. I told him I was not up to any more fun tonight. Bummed
though he was at my sudden change of mood, he got dressed and left without making a fuss. One thing that we can surely learn from Americans is their respect for other people’s privacy.
Lounging on my soft, cushiony bed, munching my favourite cheese-flavoured corn chips, I gazed at the snapshots of my childhood pasted all over my room. There was Dad holding me when I was just born. Dad giving me a bear hug on my first day of school. Dad lifting me in the air while he still could. Dad and I out-screaming each other on a rollercoaster ride. The two of us making a rangoli by the door on Diwali, cheering Tendulkar as we watched World Cup live and clinking glasses just before I took my first sip of wine. These were all evidence of the special bond I shared with my dad. Sure, there was stuff pertaining to boys and sex that I hadn’t told him, especially in the last few years. Like the reason why I had begun to despise IIT guys or my affair with Jay. My mom would inquire once in a while, but my dad had never pried into matters of my heart and I had appreciated that about him. As an only child, I was never denied anything by my parents and I had done my best to live up to their expectations. But everything has its pros and cons, its own free hits and leg byes. Having grown up without any siblings, I had never learned to confront, especially the people who mattered to me. My very presence on this campus, pursuing a master’s degree in engineering, was testimony to that. But, it was one thing to do a course of your parents’ choice and an entirely different thing to do intercourse with your parents’ choice!