Chetan Bhagat - 2 States: The Story of My Marriage

Boy loves Girl. Girl loves Boy.
Girl's family has to love boy. Boy's family has to love girl. Girl's Family has to love Boy's Family. Boy's family has to love girl's family.
Girl and Boy still love each other. They get married.

Welcome to 2 States, a story about Krish and Ananya. They are from two different states of India, deeply in love and want to get married. Of course, their parents dont agree. To convert their love story into a love marriage, the couple have a tough battle in front of them. For it is easy to fight and rebel, but it is much harder to convince. Will they make it? From the author of blockbusters Five Point Someone, One Night @ the Call Center and The 3 Mistakes of My Life, comes another witty tale about inter-community marriages in modern India.

Why am I referred here? I dont have a problem, I said.
She didnt react. Just gestured that I remove my shoes and take the couch.
She had an office like any other doctors, minus the smells and cold, dangerous
instruments.
She waited for me to talk more. I hesitated and spoke again.
Im sure people come here with big, insurmountable problems. Girlfriends
dump their boyfriends everyday. Hardly the reason to see a shrink, right? What
am I, a psycho?
No, I am the psycho. Psychotherapist to be precise. If you dont mind, I prefer
that to shrink, she said.
Sorry, I said.
Its OK, she said and reclined on her chair. No more than thirty, she seemed
young for a shrink, sorry, psychotherapist. Certificates from top US universities
adorned the walls like tiger heads in a hunters home. Yes, another South Indian
had conquered the world of academics. Dr. Neeta Iyer, Valedictorian, Vassar
College.
I charge five hundred rupees per hour, she said. Stare at the walls or talk.
Im cool either way.
I had spent twelve minutes, or a hundred bucks, without getting anywhere. I
wondered if she would accept a partial payment and let me leave.
Dr. Iyer
Neeta is fine, she said.
OK, Neeta, I dont think my problem warrants this. I dont know why Dr.
Ramachandran sent me here.
She picked my file from her desk. Lets see. This is Dr. Rams brief to me
patient has sleep deprivation, has cut off human contact for a week, refuses to
eat, has Google-searched on best ways to commit suicide. She paused and
looked at me with raised eyebrows.
I Google for all sorts of stuff, I mumbled, dont you?
The report says the mere mention of her name, her neighbourhood or any
association, like her favourite dish, brings out unpredictable emotions ranging
from tears to rage to frustration.
I had a break-up. What do you expect? I was irritated.
Sure, with Ananya who stays in Mylapore. Whats her favourite dish? Curd
rice?
I sat up straight. Dont, I said weakly and felt a lump in my throat. I fought
back tears. Dont, I said again.
Dont what? Neeta egged me on, Minor problem, isnt it?
Fuck minor. Its killing me. I stood agitatedly. Do you South Indians even
know what emotions are all about?
Ill ignore the racist comment. You can stand and talk, but if it is a long story,
take the couch. I want it all, she said.
I broke into tears. Why did this happen to me? I sobbed.
She passed me a tissue.
Where do I begin? I said and sat gingerly on the couch.
Where all love stories begin. From when you met her the first time, she said. She drew the curtains and switched on the air-conditioner. I began to talk and
get my moneys worth.

She stood two places ahead of me in the lunch line at the IIMA mess. I checked her out from the corner of my eye, wondering what the big fuss about this South Indian girl was.

Her waist-length hair rippled as she tapped the steel plate with her fingers like a famished refugee. I noticed three black threads on the back of her fair neck. Someone had decided to accessorize in the most academically-oriented B-school in the country.

'Ananya Swaminathan--best girl in the fresher batch,' seniors has already anointed her on the dorm board. We had only twenty girls in a batch of two hundred. Goodlooking ones were rare; girls don't get selected to IIM for their looks. They get in because they can solve mathematical problems faster than 99.99% of India's population and crack the CAT. Most IIM girls are above shallow things like makeup, fitting clothes, contact lenses, removal of facial hair, body odour and feminine charm. Girls like Ananya, if and when they arrive by freak chance, become instant pin-ups in out testosterone-charged, estrogen-starved campus.

I imagined Ms Swaminathan had received more male attention in the last week than she had in her entire life. Thus, I assumed she'd be obnoxious and decided to ignore her.

The students inched forward on auto-pilot. The bored kitchen staff couldn't care if they were serving prisoners or future CEOs. They tossed one ladle of yellow stuff after another into plates. Of course, Ms Best Girl needed the spotlight.

'Sambhar,' the mess worker growled.
'Eew, looks disgusting! How did you make it?' she asked.

While our lady decided, the two boys between us banged their plates on the counter. They took the food without editorials about it and left. I came up right behind her. I stole a sideways glance - definitely above average. Actually, well above

average. Infact, outlierby IIMA standards. She had perfect features, with eyes, nose, lips and ears the right size and in the right places. That is all it takes to make people beautiful- normal body parts - yet why does nature mess is up so many times? Her tiny blue bindi matched her sky- blue and white slawar kameez. She looked like Sridevi's smarter cousin, if there is such a possibility.

'What you want?' the mess worker said in a heavy South Indian accent. 'You calling rasam not rasam. You make face when you see my sambhar. I feed hundred people. They no complain.'

The mess worker dropped the ladle in the sambhar vessel and threw up his hands. 'You want complain? Go to mess manager and complain....see what student coming to these days,' the mess worker turned to me seeking sympathy.

I almost nodded.
She looked at me. 'Can you eat this stuff?' she wanted to know. 'Try it.'

I took a spoonful of sambhar. Warm and salty, not gourmet stuff, but edible in a no-choice kind of way. I could eat it for lunch; I had stayed in a hostel for four years.

However, I saw her face, now prettier with a hint of pink. I compared her to the fifty-year old mess worker. He wore a lungi and had visible grey hair on his chest. When in doubt, the pretty girl is always right.

'It's disgusting,' I said.
'See,' she said with childlike glee.
The mess worker glared at me.
'But I can develop a taste for it,' I added in a lame attempt to soothe him. The mess worker grunted and tossed a mound of rice on my plate.

'Give me the rasgullas,' she pointed to the dessert.