When Hari Met His Saali Page 4

  Hari picked up a pack of six in assorted flavors — Vibrant Vodka, Bubblegum, Caramel Coffee, Tiramisu, Honey Dew and Blackcurrant — for tonight. He smiled as the possibilities crossed his mind.

  It’s like a buffet!

  While charging his American Express card, Tish read his name. The expression on his face changed because he knew … what … was … comi …

  ‘Harryprashaad. That’s an Indian name, what does it mean?’ Tish asked him casually while she waited for the transaction to go through. Hari made up an elaborate story about how his ancestors were descendants from a village where the Kama Sutra was written and his name was a derivation of the word used to describe virility. Tish maintained her smiling demeanor even though she knew that Hari was bullshitting her. And he knew that she knew, but he also knew that she was not going to question him as the sale was almost complete and as a sales girl, her forced flirting with him was going to end. She need not believe him and therefore he was free to fictionalize the origin of his name.

  He took a good look at her from top to bottom. He quietly inhaled her.

  Hari’s Trivia # 09: Other than the genitals and the breasts, the inner nose is the only other human body part that routinely swells during arousal — this is because it is made from the same type of erectile tissue as the penis.

  Hari was the kind of a guy that was going to build up the anticipation of tonight all day long and then use it to his advantage. He took mental snapshots of this hot beauty, her milky thighs and her pert buttocks, barely covered by her short skirt, her cleavage and her tight blouse.

  He wanted to make tonight memorable for Tia. After all, it was the sixth anniversary of their going steady with each other. Although he couldn’t care less for such sentiments, he was aware that tonight was important to Tia. He knew she liked celebrating such non-events and no matter how much he verbally flirted with other women, he really loved Tia. He wanted her night to be really special. But how to make a moment special was lost on Hari. In fact, he was clueless and was even clueless that he was clueless. Instead, he thought he knew it all. Such things just didn’t occur to him. Tia planned everything and he was just the executor. He was the meat-and-potatoes guy to Tia’s exotic cannot-do-without-garnishing girl. They were made for each other — he genuinely believed that.

  Hari quickly put the shopping bag in the trunk of his red VW Jetta — a strictly middle-class car — and drove quickly to Tia’s place in Santa Monica.

  That night

  Tia had three Bollywood films ready: Ajab Prem Ki Gajab Kahani, Kal Ho Na Ho and the new release Yeh Jawani Hai Deewani. That Tia was a movie buff was an understatement. She was a movie fanatic. She liked all genres but she loved romcoms.

  She was a romantic herself — or at least she considered herself to be a romantic — but mostly her ideas of romance came from movies and books. This was not uncommon, where else would you get your ideas of romance from? And the ideas were not bad in themselves, but one can get carried away with them. No one had told Tia that.

  Tonight, she had lit scented candles, put satin sheets on her bed and had their drinks ready. Tia liked wine; Hari liked vodka. She had an hour before Hari would show up, so she stepped into her bathtub and added a few drops of musky bath oil to the warm water. She inhaled the fragrance and gradually her mind drifted to her first meeting with Hari.

  Tia had met Hari six years ago when she was rooming with Jenny at UCLA and both were single and unattached. It was Jenny who had introduced them, but in fact Hari had been asked by his father to look for her. Simi, Tia’s younger sister, had casually mentioned to her mother’s sister’s husband — her Mausaji — about Tia being alone in Los Angeles. Simi and Tia’s Mausaji worked for Indian Oil and his boss’s wife, Mrs. Iyer, had suffered a heart attack and had gone to America for treatment. Mausaji had mentioned to Mr. Iyer about his niece studying in Los Angeles all by herself and had casually asked, ‘Dekho na vaha koyi pehchan ka hai kya apna?’ (meaning, did he have any acquaintances in Los Angeles?). He didn’t really think Mr. Iyer would go home and actually ask his wife! Well, from there the degree of separation between Tia and Hari could best be illustrated by a flow chart:

  ‘You are both Indians, what else do you want? Work it out!’ Jenny had told Tia and Hari between throwing up. All three were skunk-drunk. Up until that point Tia had only had one man, a Gora (an American) and that was only because she wanted to make love to a white guy at least once in her life. It was not a bucket list thing to do, but she just wanted to get it out of the way. As it had turned out the intimate session with the white dude was not earth-shattering or anything. It was strictly A-OK. So when she met Hari, Tia was ready and available, which was exactly how she introduced herself to him in a drunken stupor:

  ‘Hi I’m Tia. I am single and ready to mingle!’

  As the night had progressed, Tia developed at least a crush on Hari. They had bonded overnight as if it was meant to be. They had talked all night. What a genuine guy, she had thought. Normally, whenever a guy and a girl were together in a dorm and alcohol was involved, the guy was supposed to get into the girl’s pants. Or at least try to. But this guy didn’t. Which was sweet, Tia thought at the time. She had shared her dreams with him. That she wanted a very bookish American dream, the one that had a two-storied house with a white picket fence (because, since the day she had landed in America, she had heard and read about “white picket fences” non-stop). Hari had asked her if she knew the importance of a white picket fence. Tia had nodded her head confidently. To this day, she had no clue why a two-storied house without a white picket fence was not enough. It was enough that everyone wanted it and so did she. The white picket fence had made it to her Most Desired list pretty fast.

  The middle portion of that night was still hazy but when they had woken up in the morning, they were in the bathtub. Cramped next to each other they were spooning, but strangely fully clothed. They were not sure if something had happened, but it was not discussed. Ever.

  When Hari left, Tia did a mental check: He was not a fresh-off-the-boat Indian, which was good. He was an ABCD (American Born Confused Desi), which was manageable. He was two years older than her, a perfectly marriageable age. And he was sweet. That was an added attraction. He was tall with lush hair and if you looked closely, after a few drinks, he could almost be called handsome. That was enough.

  It helped that she knew he came from a rich family of doctors — always a bonus for Indians. He lived in an upscale Malibu township, was uncomplicated and drove a Mazda Miata to college, which was kinda cute. This boy fitted most requirements on her “Long-term Guy” list. This qualified him as a catch in Tia’s head. She would watch him on the campus and before he could officially realize it, she had made sure that Tia and Hari were going steady. Soon thereafter, she had resolved to get married to him. But that did not mean that she would not question if she had resolved for the right man.

  Tia seesawed a lot. She also liked to relive selective moments from her past, as she was doing now, while putting her apartment in order, waiting for Hari.

  An hour later

  Of course, as expected, Hari was running late. When he eventually got to her apartment, he rushed to the bathroom. ‘Hari, make sure you put the seat down!’ she had screamed.

  ‘Really? We want to behave as a married couple now?’ Hari joked when he came out of the bathroom.

  She noticed he had not even wiped his hands, thankfully he had washed them, but not wiped them dry on the fresh hand towel she had set in the bathroom just minutes earlier. She wanted to let go of it but with her it was not that easy.

  ‘Hari, you’re dripping water everywhere. Wipe your hands.’

  Hari quickly wiped his hands, on his jeans and flopped on the couch.

  ‘OK, I am ready for my punishment. What are we watching?’ he asked as he poured himself a vodka.

  Hari’s Trivia # 108: The word “vodka” derives from the Russian word “voda” meaning water. Vodka is made using rye, corn, or
potatoes.

  He didn’t hear her respond. When he turned around, Tia was staring at him. It took him a minute to absorb her body language. She was standing there, with her cute little hips cocked to one side, her legs slightly apart, her arms folded into her chest, her lips just so open and her eyes squinted, looking towards him.

  Eyes? Eyes? Eyes squinted? I know this body language.

  Hari was aware of this particular pose: it basically meant that he had done something wrong, but she was not going to tell him what, but, instead, she was going to stand there looking at him waiting for him to figure it out.

  Oh oh! What did I do now?

  He looked at his hands — they were dry and his fly was zipped up.

  What am I doing wrong here?

  ‘Thanks for being a gentleman, Hari. I’ll uncork and pour the wine for myself.’ Tia set out some snacks (Cheese Smackers) as she took out a wine bottle.

  Oh that! I was supposed to serve her a glass as well!

  Hari hugged her and took the wine from her hand.

  ‘Sorry, mademoiselle, allow me.’ He could be charming if he wanted but he rarely was. He didn’t get all these formalities. If the actions and places were switched, he would’ve just poured himself a drink. No big deal. But he had learned over the years that the easy way was to just do as Tia wanted. So he poured her some red wine.

  She quickly told him her choice of movies. Hari turned up his nose.

  ‘Those sound like a three-hour-long endurance test. Can’t we watch a Hollywood flick?’ he tried again.

  Tia clicked the remote to bring up the menu on her TV screen.

  ‘You wanna watch P.S. I Love You?’ Tia asked without looking at him … because she knew that he would … convulse.

  Hari almost jumped from the couch as if a spider had got under his T-shirt. He was shivering and had sweat beads on his forehead. He was convulsing.

  ‘No! No! No! Please not P.S. I Love You, anything but P.S. I Love You.’

  Hari’s eyes were rolled inside his head. He looked like he was having an anxiety attack. It looked like he would probably need medical assistance if P.S. I Love You was mentioned one more time. He was hanging by a thread here.

  ‘Please, Tia?’

  For those who have not seen it, P.S. I Love You is a 2007 American drama film based on a 2004 novel of the same name by Cecelia Ahern. In the film, Holly and Gerry are a married couple, who are deeply in love, but fight occasionally over superficial issues. Gerry suddenly dies of a brain tumor and Holly slowly realizes how much he means to her as well as how insignificant their arguments were.

  Tia rolled her eyes. ‘OK, OK, relax. Don’t be so dramatic. It’s a nice emotional film, yaar. It’s a human story. You just don’t have good taste in films. It has Gerald Butler in it, I thought you liked Gerard Butler!’ She was not going to let go so easily.

  ‘I would watch Gerald Butler running around naked with a sword, like in the film 300 three hundred times before I’ll watch that … that!’ Hari still couldn’t say P.S. I Love You even though he was breathing normally again. For those who have not seen it, 300 is a 2007 American fantasy action adventure film based on the 1998 comic series of the same name by Frank Miller and Lynn Varley.

  He wanted to watch something fun like The Hangover, she wanted to watch a nice romcom with Jennifer Aniston, cuddle up to him, and enjoy her wine. She had already dimmed the lights in the house.

  Finally they reached a compromise — which in Tia’s world meant … they were watching The Break-Up with Jennifer Aniston and Vince Vaughn. She thought the film was sensitive, heartbreaking and so lifelike. He thought it was depressing, boring and unneccesary. No one wanted to watch this shit. There were no make-out scenes either. Halfway through the film, when Tia was crying because of the traumatic onscreen break-up, she noticed that Hari was not watching the movie but was instead focused on his mobile. She paused the movie and saw that Hari was watching porn bloopers on his mobile.

  Tia cringed, thinking that she didn’t know what was more cringe worthy; that porn movies had bloopers — the often funny outtakes which for whatever reason are edited out and do not make the final cut — or the fact that Hari had them saved on his mobile.

  You see what I have to put up with? She pleaded as she looked up to the Gods. But she didn’t pounce upon him. Not yet.

  What Hari didn’t realize was that sometimes Tia liked to give him an inch. She wanted him to feel important in the relationship. Sometimes. But she was getting irritated now. And as if that was not enough, Hari proceeded with this gem:

  ‘Hey Tia, do you know why women watch porn till the end?’

  Tia didn’t respond. She was seething inside.

  ‘Because they want to see if the man ends up marrying the woman in the end!’ Hari laughed a snorty-hearty laugh.

  Hari’s Trivia # 18: Contrary to popular opinion, the word “fuck” is not an acronym for the phrase “Fornication Under Command of the King.”

  While Hari was looking at his 4.5-inch phone screen like a dog with a full bladder that had finally seen a fire hydrant, Tia was amused by him and his behavior. He was giggling and chuckling. Then she noticed something …

  Is that snot? Hanging from Hari’s nose?!

  Hari’s tongue was hanging out as well, like a dog.

  Gosh man, you are with a lady. Behave!

  Hari’s this particular behavior was not unusual. In fact, that is how he behaved, almost, all the time.

  Still, the night ended well for Tia when they had made love on her bed. Hari was good in the sack. He was vigorous and manhandled her to the exact degree she liked. They were like a well-oiled machine.

  Tia by now knew that if she aroused Hari well enough and gave him the first three minutes of free hand, she owned him and could make him do whatever she wanted him to do. Today she had insisted that she be underneath and had asked him to take her from behind — her favorite position. Nonetheless, the ebb and flow, the rhythm of hard and gentle, the dirty talk, but not the real dirty-dirty talk, the emotional sex lovemaking quotient between them was just apt. They had a great sex lovemaking life. Tia had trained Hari well and let him think that he had it in him all this time.

  As Hari lay there flaccid, naked and snoring already, Tia looked at him. He was her man, Hari, the love of her life! She felt blessed! God, she loved being an adult. An adult woman! How she had waited to be an adult as long as she could remember. Since Hari was just her second and the only real man she had ever had, she wanted nothing to be left wanting between them. She wanted to try it — lovemaking wise and otherwise — if she had read about it, saw it or if someone had mentioned it. Tia felt her life would be incomplete without experiencing everything. She almost always found a way to do so, so far.

  While still looking at Hari, Tia thanked God. One has to be a chosen one to have had their plans come to them. And her plans had come true, all of them. Some of them, ahead of the schedule she had made for herself. She was outperforming her own timetable. She knew she was blessed, and now she only had to do her part and that was to keep it all together. She sighed and reassured herself that as long as she didn’t mess up big time, nothing was going to come in between her and her man.

  Still, you could have cuddled a bit afterwards, Hari!

  Just as she closed her eyes, her mobile buzzed. It was a message from her sister Simi in India. This was the first contact they had had in eight months and it worried Tia to no end. Not that it had been eight months, but that Simi was connecting with her at all.

  What can she possibly want?

  She kept staring at her mobile screen.

  Didi, let’s Skype soon. Urgent. What time? Urgent. Luv, Simi.

  Tia didn’t sleep that night.

  2

  Sister, Sister

  That day — Nagpur, Maharashtra, India

  The first thing anyone should know about Simi Galhotra was that God exercised his sense of humor through her life. If it were a book, the chapter about Simi, unlike T
ia’s, would be a paragraph long. And it would be an easy-breezy read.

  Such was her story so far.

  Simi worked as a travel agent in a small travel agency in Nagpur — a tier-II (read non-metro) Indian city usually referred to as a “smaller, lazier, poorer” Mumbai. Sure, it was cosmopolitan; but it was a small town with no political or historical significance. Oh, it was known for its oranges and practically every train travelling to and fro from anyplace to anyplace in India went through Nagpur train station. Its people were proud of these details.

  Everyone who lived in Nagpur had been there forever. They spoke the same way, acted the same, hung out at the same places and sounded the same. They even dreamt the same dreams, had the same ambitions, the same inhibitions, and tried hard to not be different. Punjabis, Sindhis, Marwaris, “Hindi Siders” — as the people from U.P. were called — Marathis and even Christians, they all ultimately were consumed by the city and became Nagpuri. This was still not a compliment.

  Like most mornings, Simi was the first one to arrive at her office. It was a small office. Apart from her boss, Mr. Khanna, there was just one other employee — Shabnam. And since Mr. Khanna and Shabnam were having an affair, Shabnam could afford to be late. Simi wanted to leave early today so she called Shabnam on her mobile. Shabnam didn’t take her call. Again.

  Simi was bored, there was nothing to do this morning.

  Shabnam must be humping Mr. Khanna again in some five-star hotel.

  Simi’s thought was interrupted by the arrival of Mrs. Shah, a middle-aged Gujarati aunty. It was obvious to Simi that the aunty was feeling intimidated in the travel agency, but no sooner had she sat down, Mrs. Shah started firing questions.

  ‘How much to go to America and back to Nagpur?’

  Simi smiled. She knew that it must be Aunty’s first trip abroad.

  ‘Depends on where in America you want to go! What city?’

  ‘Some nice city!’ Mrs. Shah said as if it was the only option.