Living Together

by Vani Viswanathan

[box]Bonding over food, living together and the entry of orthodox parents. Here’s a tale that is sure to make you smile. Story by Vani Viswanathan.[/box]

I gloomily twirled my spaghetti around.

‘It’s no big deal,’ I heard Karthik say from somewhere distant.

‘Easy for you to say,’ I muttered.

The fact of the matter was that Karthik’s parents were coming to Hong Kong, and that meant I had to move out of his apartment – that was the issue Karthik saw. I read more out of the issue from his reluctance to discuss us with his parents when they would get here. We had been together for over three years, and the step forward was obvious, but he didn’t seem to think his parents would be open to the idea – and didn’t even want to bring it up, ‘this time’, he said.

*******************

Karthik and I had met some four years back in Lun Kwai Fong at someone’s party – I can’t even remember which one it was. He was an investment banker like so many other Indians in Hong Kong, on the right path and earning loads of money. I was an account manager at an ad agency. We had attended one of those innumerable parties that happened every weekend at LKF, which brought together expat Indians from every corner of HK.

The reason Karthik and I bonded was food. When we met for the first time, I was going through an especial bout of homesickness and longing for home-cooked food, given my inadequacy in preparing any of these dishes myself. In the drunken hours of the party, Karthik somehow ended up inviting me home the following Sunday for lunch, and in my stupor, usually-cautious I agreed, and there was I the next day, relishing some of the best Indian curry I’d tasted in recent months.

I was jerked awake from my thoughts by the presence of Karthik close to me. ‘You have spaghetti on your dress,’ he said, helping me scoop it out with a paper napkin. I gave him a warm smile. He was a sensible guy, but why men were so scared of their mothers, I would never understand.

*******************

I wasn’t being unreasonable. I came from a family very similar to K’s – a typical tamil Brahmin one, with strict parents, a weird balance between sticking to tradition and letting go. But I still couldn’t understand why he was so worried about breaking the news to his parents – we were from similar backgrounds after all. I was sure my parents wouldn’t have an issue, traditional though they were – possibly due to my excessive mental preparation over the years by discussing with them the huge numbers of good-looking Caucasian men in Hong Kong, so much so that they even dropped pressuring me to get married. K didn’t want to talk about what the issue was, so I couldn’t think of a way to solve the problem. Doubts about whether he was even serious about his relationship with me loomed large, but I dismissed them after momentary deliberation. You have to be supportive, my mind said.

K’s parents were coming on Saturday, and would be there for two weeks. I wouldn’t meet him during that period except for that one time he would be taking his friends out for dinner. Insulted though I felt, at being clubbed together with the rest of his friends, I had little choice. And so I packed my clothes and moved back to my tiny, lousy apartment that I shared with two other girls I barely knew – still being rented out for situations such as these. He dropped me off home and turned at the door to look at my downcast face that was miserable at the thought of not seeing him regularly for two weeks and the impending moment of truth our relationship might have to face. ‘Hello,’ he said accusingly, ‘can’t you send me off with a cheery face?’ I shrugged, and gave him a cursory hug. Disappointed, he left.

*******************

When I met his parents for the first time three days after they reached HK, I understood why K had been dreading telling his parents about us. I had to do all I could to stop myself from giggling at the sheer oddity they presented against the Hong Kong Central landscape. His mother was a beautiful woman, draped in a rich silk Kancheevaram, a diamond nose stud glistening on each side of her nose. His father was in crisp formals, but had the quintessential three lines of sacred ash on his forehead. My parents were traditional too, but I knew my mother would have chosen to dress in a salwar kameez and my father would not be flaunting his religious identity overseas. I thanked my lucky stars that I had chosen a kurti with jeans over a dress – which is what each of K’s other female friends – Komal, Gunjan and Preethi – had chosen to wear.

Why Karthik chose to take us all to an Italian place was beyond me, when the clear choice would have been any Indian place, if not South Indian specifically. I had the honour of sitting next to K’s mother at the restaurant to help her choose a dish, being the only other vegetarian in K’s group of friends that had also come, K himself being seated next to his father at the opposite side of the table.  ‘Risotto, aunty?’ I suggested. ‘What is it, ma?’ she asked. ‘Somewhat like venn pongal, aunty,’ I said, throwing out the name of the first rice-based South Indian dish that vaguely resembled risotto I could think of. Aunty looked skeptical but agreed to order it; she was hungry.

*******************

Over the course of that dinner, I’d realized his mother was a very nice, innocent lady, the epitome of sweetness, as she politely swallowed her risotto despite the obvious presence of Komal’s tagliatelle that came with a huge lobster on it. His father was a typical The Hindu-loving-filter-coffee-demanding engineer who had retired from BHEL, and was easy enough to get on with if you knew which hot button issues to interest him with.

Some two days before they had to leave, K called me when I was at work, asking me to come home the next day. ‘She’s cooking sambar for you,’ he said. ‘Can you make sure you look traditional?’ he asked. I gritted my teeth. I hated getting told to do anything to please anybody. Look at the bigger picture, my mind told me. ‘Ok,’ I said.

I was overcome with terror as soon as I hung up. Had they gotten wind of what was going on? Much as I wanted them to know about Karthik and me, I wanted it to come from him, not for them to find out. I spent the whole night writhing in agony, wondering about the impending doom of our relationship.

*******************

I was at K’s house at 7 the next evening, going there straight after work. My colleagues were surprised at the bright green, embroidered tunic that I was wearing with red leggings. ‘Big day?’ Jasmine had asked as I was putting on some blusher to make my face look less pale. I’d nodded anxiously. Bless her, she didn’t press for details. ‘Good luck,’ she’d said.

At K’s place, after handing over to aunty the can of gulab jamuns I’d picked up from an Indian store (only to learn both of K’s parents were diabetic), social protocol dictated that I accompany her to the kitchen to help her with the cooking.

‘Do you like cooking?’ she asked. Truth be told, K could cook so much better than me. When we started living together, we agreed after one of my disastrous cooking attempts that he’d do the cooking and I’d simply do the washing. ‘Hardly get time, aunty,’ I told her. ‘Our Karthik loves to cook,’ she replied proudly. I nodded politely, only too aware.  Five minutes later, she deftly came to the topic.

‘Do you know if Karthik has a girlfriend?’

‘Err…’

‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but he’s been away for so long that I thought something like this is bound to happen… And then, of course, there are all those weird toiletries in the bathroom, I’m sure my son won’t be using Peachfruit shampoo…’ I mentally cursed myself for not thinking through my move back thoroughly.

‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘we’re a traditional family, ma. We didn’t restrict our son when he wanted to live abroad, but marriage is a totally different matter, we have to help our children make the right decision.’

I spotted a chance and grabbed it. ‘Yes, aunty. I understand where you’re coming from. My parents would totally agree with what you’re saying!’

Aunty gave a reassured smile and added asafoetida to the sambar.

*******************

About a week after K’s parents left, my parents got a call from his mother, asking if they would be interested in getting us married. K told me in the weeks that followed, of his convincing act about being unsure about marrying someone who was his good friend, so much so that at one point his parents had almost decided to drop the idea (I rolled my eyes).

We celebrated my move back into K’s apartment (this time done after our engagement in India) with special vendekkai sambar, this time cooked by me to a recipe provided by his mother.

Pic : teliko82 – http://www.flickr.com/photos/teliko82/

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