Page 109 of 12 Years
‘We’re not upset, beta. You made a mistake. It happens,’ my mother said.
‘But it’s okay if you’re upset. Or worried. That’s understandable. What’s not okay is you guys pretending like there’s nothing else on your minds apart from matar paneer and Chawla’s Chicken.’
‘I was just—’ my mother said, but I cut her off.
‘Mummy, the problem is that we never discuss our true feelings in this family. I’m guilty of it too. I don’t tell you what I feel about you.’
‘Like what?’ my father said.
‘Forget that. Did Mudit tell you why I ended up drinking so much?’
‘He said there was some girl. She left you, and you took to alcohol, to cope,’ my father said.
‘What else did he tell you?’
‘He didn’t give us any details,’ my father said. ‘And he said it was over now, so it doesn’t matter anyway.’
‘Yes, you don’t have to tell us,’ my mother said. ‘Girls these days are bad. They trap boys for timepass and then—’
‘Her name was Payal. She didn’t trap me. Neither did I trap her. It wasn’t timepass either. We were in love. For a year. We spent a lot of time together. She practically lived with me.’
My mother looked at me, shocked.
‘She did,’ I said. ‘Living in isn’t that uncommon in Mumbai.’
My mother began to tear up.
‘Why are you crying, Mummy?’ I said.
‘You should’ve never left Raashi. It’s hard for you to be alone.’
‘Mummy, please, this isn’t about Raashi. We were totally incompatible.’
‘I don’t know these terms like “incompatible”,’ my mother said. Then, turning to my dad, she said, ‘Listen, you and I, have we ever used words like incompatible?’
My father didn’t respond, assuming the question was rhetorical. He just took another paratha and smeared it with extra ghee.
‘Mummy, stop it. My divorce is done. Please, don’t talk about Raashi ever again.’
‘How much money did she take finally?’ my father said.
I gave them the final figures.
‘2.4 million dollars? That’s like, what, twelve crore rupees?’ My father gasped, his spoon almost slipping out of his fingers.
‘She took twelve crores? That bitch,’ my mother said.
‘Yes,’ I said in a calm voice. ‘And I’m still relieved that it ended.’
My mother broke down in tears. ‘She’s taken all your money,’ she said in between sobs. ‘Then you left your job in the US. And now you’re living in a one-bedroom rental, doing comedy-vomedy.’
‘It’s okay, Mummy. I live in Pali Hill. The rent I pay there will get me a whole house in Chandigarh. And stand-up comedy is my passion. I’ve finally decided to live my life on my own terms.’
‘But you’re not happy. Look at what happened,’ my mother said.
‘That’s different. That’s because Payal and I couldn’t be together.’
‘What was this Payal’s last name?’ my father said. Last names are Indian parents’ two-factor security check: helps figure out the community, fast.
