“I don’t want to marry Manisha,” I told my mother.
My mother looked as if she had been pole-axed. Suddenly there was a metamorphosis in her expression – a distant look across my shoulder followed by a smile of forced geniality.
“Manisha is coming!” my mother whispered.
I turned around quickly and saw Manisha entering the wicket-gate and walking towards us.
She wished my mother and smiled at me. “I want to come and see you off at the airport.”
“Why bother? I’ll go on my own,” I said. “The flights are quite unpredictable. They never leave on time. And how will you come back all the way?”
“You two talk here in the garden,” my mother said. “I’ll go inside and pack your things.”
“I am sorry about last night,” Manisha said, with genuine regret in her voice.
“It’s okay.” I looked at Manisha. Plump and full-faced, with small brown eyes and dusky complexion, hair drawn back into a conventional knot – there was only one adjective to describe Manisha – ‘prosaic’; yes, she looked prosaic – so commonplace, unexciting and pedestrian.
“I’ll go inside and help your mother,” Manisha said, and went inside.
‘Last night’ was the fiasco at the disco. Manisha and I - An unmitigated disaster!
“Let’s dance,” I had asked Manisha.
“No,” Manisha was firm.
“Come on. I’ll teach you,” I pleaded. “Everyone is on the floor.”
But Manisha did not budge. So we just sat there watching. Everybody was thoroughly enjoying themselves. Many of my friends and colleagues were on the floor, with their wives, fiancées and girlfriends. Among them Sanjiv and Swati.
“Who is this wallflower you’ve brought with you?” taunted Sanjiv, during a break in the music.
“My fiancée, Manisha,” I answered, trying to keep cool.
“Your fiancée? How come you’ve hooked on to such a Vern?” Swati mocked. “Come on Vijay,” she said derisively, coming close and looking directly into my eyes. “You are an Executive now, not a clerk. Don’t live in your past. Find someone better. She doesn’t belong here.”
If someone had stuck a knife into my heart it would have been easier to endure than these words. It always rankled; the fact that I had come up the hard way, promoted from the ranks.
“This is too much” I said angrily to Sanjiv.
“Cool down, Vijay,” Sanjiv said putting his hand on my shoulder. “You know Swati doesn’t mean it.”
But I knew that Swati had meant every word she uttered.
“Let’s go,” I told Manisha. “I’ve had enough.”
When we were driving home, Manisha asked innocently, “What’s a Vern?”
“Vernacular!” I answered. And at that moment there was a burst of firecrackers and rockets lit up the sky to usher in the New Year.
That night I could not sleep. I thought of my future, trying to see both halves of my future life, my career and my marriage, side by side. I realized that my career was more important to me than anything else. I had to succeed at any cost. And a key ingredient in the recipe for success was a ‘socially valuable’ wife. It mattered. It was the truth. The blunt truth – whether you liked it or not! Swati was right. Manisha just didn’t belong to that status and class of society of which I was now a part. I had crossed the class barrier; but Manisha had remained where she was. And she would remain there, unwilling and unable to change.
