What Sisters are for!

by Vani Viswanathan

[box]Madhu, a teenaged wise owl, played an important role in altering the course of her sister’s life (for the better, of course) – or so she claims. Vani Viswanathan pens a story based on what happened, as narrated by smart alec Madhu, ridden with her parallels to Mani Ratnam movies.[/box]

It was a momentous day – a day of tremendous activity and energy in the household. Mother was in animated talk with her sisters in the kitchen; father was having one agitated conversation after another on his mobile phone; grandfather was in desperate prayer while my grandmother was boring my younger cousins with the story of her marriage for the umpteenth time. I was busy picking a salwar kameez set to wear, and my sister, the star of the day, was sitting in a corner of the room, slouched and sulking, clutching her mobile phone.

It was a momentous day – sister was about to be checked out as a potential bride by a party as large as the one in my house. Parents of the man who might be my brother-in-law had been in touch with my parents for the last few months, and had pounced when he was coming to India from the U.S. for a visa-related procedure, and the whole evening was decided upon in a flash. As a college student, I was incredibly excited; as a 25-year-old, my sister was least amused.

I walked up to Minu and put my arm around her, and felt her taking deep breaths to calm herself down while her heart was hammering wildly in anxiety.

I knew why. For the last nearly-two years, she had been seeing a boy. A Christian boy, I knew.

“What do I do, Madhu?”’

I shrugged in reply. I really didn’t know what to tell her, but I felt really bad for her, I swear. She was usually smart, but I don’t know what made her choose to date a Christian boy and to think of bringing him into our family – a traditional upper middle class Brahmin family. No bad comments about the boy himself, I must clarify – he was a genuinely pleasant boy (I’d met him twice and he’d bought me my favourite brownie both times) that my family would have loved to have acquaintance with – not a familial relationship though, I knew. I know these things – my mother says I’m the more sensible one in the family, and I agree – and I knew that while Minu could try to convince our parents for a hundred other things, she would be pushing her luck to try to get this through.

Her heartbeat had eased and back to normal, and I kept stroking her hair to calm her down further. She suddenly jerked up, hitting mychin in the process; I let out a yowl of pain. ‘I have an idea, Madhu!’ she exclaimed jubilantly. I looked at her quizzically, and then sat up straight. This demanded some attention.

“I’ll meet this U.S. dude today, talk to him and all that, and then tell him about my life story and ask him to please tell everyone he doesn’t like me, so we don’t have to get married, and I can slowly break the news to father and mother about Christian boy.”

I reacted almost immediately. Three things, I told her.

1. What made her think the U.S. dude would agree to this?
2. This sounded too much like a scene straight out of a Mani Ratnam movie. If it went like the scene in Mouna Ragam, he would still say yes and my family would try to persuade her into getting married. If it went like the scene in Alaipayuthey, her bags would be packed and she and the bags would be thrown out of the house. If it went like the scene in Roja, he would come and ask to marry me (I distinctly remember gulping in fear as I mentioned this to her).
3. Finally, he could tell his family (who would eventually blabber to mine) about her life story, and then an apocalypse would follow.

Minu didn’t bother listening to me at all. The crowd from the U.S. dude’s house arrived, all resplendent in shiny silk sarees, men’s bald heads glistening, the dude himself extremely uncomfortable. I knew what he was thinking. He was from the U.S. – he deserved a little more respect to his NRI status, a little less cacophony and embarrassment – the whole world seemed interested in getting him married. Half an hour of useless talk ensued, when everything ranging from the price of onions to the price of a paid seat in my college had been discussed (with my grandfather proudly interjecting that I had got in all by myself, completely through merit) and sweets and savoury had been distributed (with my grandmother shamelessly lying that my sister had made the ribbon pakoda, although it was I who had squeezed the damned ribbons of dough into the hot, hot oil, and Latha atthai who had fried them to perfection). I was wondering why in this day and age people were still bent on convincing prospective grooms and in-laws that their daughters could cook well. Surely the men of today know what girls might and might not know? Sometimes people just don’t think. Anyway, let me get back to the story.

After this half hour of chatter, the families let my sister and the dude to go on a walk around the complex. After giving them about 10 to 15 minutes, I went to the balcony to spy on them. Around three minutes later, I could see them emerge from around the corner. Minu was talking, turning the tassles on her dupatta endlessly. Like Revathi did in Mouna Ragam in a similar setting. Minu was being stupid, and telling the dude about the Christian boy, I knew it.

Some 20 minutes later, they came back up. In the meantime, the two families were somewhat convinced that the two liked each other. The two fathers were in discussion about wedding halls, while my mother told his mother about the jewellery they would be giving her. I sat in the corner, wishing they knew of the bomb that was about to be dropped on their collective heads.

I was right. Dude came in with an agitated face, wiping his sweaty face with a handkerchief. I felt bad for him. I’d tried imagining how I’d feel if a girl whom I’d thought of marrying suddenly told me to tell a large gathering of people that he didn’t like her. Sister on the other hand, was grinning in relief. She caught my eye. I turned my head in disapproval.

It was too much like the scene in Roja. I inched sideways and hid myself behind the bulk of my aunts, not wanting to be seen, and thereby avoiding a situation like in Roja that I’d outlined earlier.

Dude went back to the chair he was sitting on before speaking to my sister. The crowd gathered in our reasonably large living room was quiet. I wantonly dropped a pin and could hear it, I swear. Then someone from his side of the family asked him to say something. Tensions were running high in my head, sister’s and of course, his. He leaned forward and whispered something in his father’s ear. The expression on his father’s face turned from one of expectation to utter alarm. He whispered something in his wife’s ear, whose face changed the same way. He then spoke in hushed voices to my father (for it’s a little weird to whisper into the ears of a stranger). The expression on father’s face turned from happiness to surprise to one of absolute anger as his eyes landed on my sister.

“Very well,” he said in a while. He thanked the guests, who saw the dude’s parents leave with no word or explanation, and were thus compelled to leave in an orderly fashion, although one aunt couldn’t handle her curiosity and asked “But what on earth happened?!” We didn’t hear the reply, although I saw dude’s mother rush to her side and tell her something.

A few minutes later, the news had spread, and finally reached my ears. Dude had been an absolute idiot and told his parents about the Christian boy (I gasped. The point number three I’d told Minu!!). I thought it was an unnecessary and thoughtless thing to do. Why did he have to bring up Christian boy when the only point he had to make was that there was no marriage happening here? I know I’ve already said this in this story, but sometimes people don’t think at all, I tell you.

My aunts stood in silence, taking in the latest scandal in the family. My mother was outraged, and her lips were drawn in a thin, straight line. Minu looked as pale as a ghost. I knew she was cursing her own thoughtlessness and probably cursing the dude so much I worried for his safety as they drove home.

Father cleared his throat. “So who is this Christian boy?”

Minu explained. About how she’d met the boy, how they’d fallen in love, how even I’d met him (at which moment I chipped in with a helpful bit about how nice he was, but mother soon asked me to shut up). The story lasted half an hour, with only Minu talking through stunned silence, and the crowd dispersed after that, as father left the room abruptly after Minu finished talking.

That night, Minu and I lay on our bed wondering what was going to happen. Father’s silence throughout the session had shocked me, and I told her that this might, just might mean some good news. She wasn’t encouraged, she was plain terrified. I could hear father and mother talking in loud whispers in the next room.

When I woke up the next morning, I knew something had changed overnight in the household – the spirit in the house was just different. I ran to find Minu even without brushing my teeth, found her in the balcony and as soon as she saw me, she hugged me and we did a little ridden-with-affection sisterly jig of celebration. Father had agreed to meet Christian boy and speak to his parents.

Reading all this, you’re probably thinking I’ll tell you about a wedding like in Chetan Bhagat’s Two States, where Christian boy wore a veshti and married my sister Tamil Brahmin style, and where Minu wore a white saree (and father was in a suit, mother in a saree [what else!] and me in a pretty dress) for a church wedding. That’s where you are wrong. Minu had made a mistake liking Christian boy.

The problem wasn’t with our family – or his, for that matter. They surprisingly got along as well as cotton and glue. The problem wasn’t even quite with Christian boy. It was with Minu.

Some two months after our parents had met his, somehow convinced each other of getting the two married, Minu fought with Christian boy. Over a petty issue that she refused to tell us about. My parents cajoled and pleaded, but she refused to budge. They called his parents, and a similar story came out from that side as well. It went on like this for two weeks, leaving me extremely distracted during a crucial period of my studies, my third semester exams. After two weeks, we’d all given up. Minu wouldn’t marry Christian boy, and the worst part was we all didn’t know why.

It’s been three years since. Minu eventually went to the U.S. to do her Masters, met a boy there that my parents asked her to meet since the family was good and horoscopes matched, the two hit it off reasonably well, and got married in a wedding where there was only one kind of ceremony – our usual Iyengar style – and there were no hilarious episodes involving the guy’s veshti.

Oh well, whatever works. They’re happily married now – at least so far, I think (the wedding only happened six months back). But I personally am convinced this U.S. dude is much better than the one we’d met three years back; Minu does remind me from time to time about my important role in leading her life this way to happiness, but I shrug it off – what are sisters for, I tell her.

Vani Viswanathan is often lost in her world of books and A R Rahman, churning out lines in her head or humming a song. Her world is one of frivolity, optimism, quietude and general chilled-ness, where there is always place for outbursts of laughter, bouts of silence, chocolate, ice cream and lots of books and endless iTunes playlists from all over the world. Vani was a Public Relations consultant in Singapore and decided enough is enough with the struggle to find veggie food everyday, and returned to India after seven long years away.

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