Sample Chapter

I felt like a three-year-old. Only I wasn’t. I was 20. And the two sitting in front weren’t my parents either. But to hear them talk to each other, I wouldn’t have been surprised if they had forgotten about my existence in the back of the car. A three-year-old would have probably got more attention.

Dennis drove a black Ford Fiesta and I watched him over the cream-coloured back rest as he manoeuvred his way out of college onto the main road. His hands rested easily on the steering wheel as he turned to look at Supriya once and smile at her. I looked out of the window.

Would Mr. Paul let me join another team? If I hadn’t conceived this idea, I might have considered asking him but I didn’t want to let go of this because it had been my idea completely.

I decided to ignore the couple sitting in front and took out my notepad to jot down some ideas that had been fermenting in my head. We had to prepare a script for the documentary and there were plenty of questions I needed to ask the family whose house we were visiting.

At 4.30 pm, the traffic was not bad and we didn’t really feel anything inside the air conditioned confines of the car as we slowly made our way to Jayanagar.

My pen had been poised over the notepad but I hadn’t been able to write anything yet. I was too distracted. Dennis was playing a song on the music system rather loudly. And it was the really irritating Celine Dion song from Titanic. I mean, how moronic could he get? Well, I should have a fair idea about that if he was actually Supriya’s boyfriend.

Then, there was the whispered conversation that continued in the front seat. It was rude of them and neither of them seemed to have remembered that I was sitting just behind them. Every five minutes or so Supriya would emit a tinkling laugh and Dennis would join in with her.

I was feeling immensely grateful when we finally reached the house in one of the by lanes of Jayanagar near the 4th Block complex. Dennis reached for the door bell and in a few minutes we were welcomed by a tall chap, who looked younger than Dennis.

This was apparently Imran. He was predictably taken in by Supriya but he also smiled at me and opened the door wider to let us in.

‘Hey come on in guys!’ he said expansively and closed the door when we stepped in.

‘It’s already like a wedding going on here right now even though Heeba’s wedding is still a couple of weeks away!’ he said by way of explanation when we looked around at all the goggling relatives who were actually staring at Supriya.

I felt inanely smug at that moment. Did she really think that by wearing a chudidar she’d fit in here?  Dennis and Imran were talking and Supriya looked discomfited as we stood in the hallway. Dennis was asking them if we could speak to Imran’s parents to ask permission to shoot at the wedding.

‘I’d also like to ask a few questions to some of your other relatives if you don’t mind.’ I said and they looked at me surprised. Maybe they had thought I was just Supriya’s flunkey and had no mind of my own.

‘Sure! Sure,’ Imran said, recovering first. Supriya looked at me with her narrowed eyes.

Imran led us into a room where there were more relatives.

‘Big family!’ he said by way of explanation. I nodded in understanding. I knew enough about how these weddings worked although in recent times relatives chose to start pouring in just a day before the wedding.

Inside the room, there was a bed on which an old woman was seated. Her legs were outstretched and a young girl was pressing them, rocking rhythmically. There was another woman seated at the end of the bed and she was folding some saris and handing them out to a girl who was seated on a mat on the ground. This girl was slipping the saris into plastic covers and there were some suitcases open on the ground where they were finally placing all the saris.

Imran led us towards some chairs and said he’d call his parents so we could speak to them.

Dennis hovered near the doorway, probably unsure if he should sit with us in the presence of so many other women in the room. I understood his reluctance. In Muslim households strange men never crossed the threshold where the women of the house were seated. Dennis was no stranger and he was probably comfortable around Imran’s mother. But to all the other women in the family, he was still technically a stranger. Supriya didn’t understand all these dynamics of course. She beckoned to him smiling and he smiled back at her hesitantly but remained near the door.

The chair where I was seated happened to be close to the old woman whose behaviour made it apparent that she was the matriarch of the family. She spoke to me in Urdu, asking me to come and sit near her.

I moved the chair towards her, wondering what Supriya would make of it. She looked put out, of course.

The old woman was Imran’s dadi. She asked me what we were doing and I explained to her in Urdu about our plans for the documentary. She asked my name and I told her. She seemed a little imperious when she wondered why her son was allowing all this nonsense at her grand-daughter’s wedding.

I couldn’t decide how to answer when she broke into my thoughts asking querulously, ‘kaun woh firangi potti?’ as she nodded at Supriya.

I giggled and looked at Supriya. From the old lady’s point of view, Supriya did look more of a firang than an Indian. Supriya glared at me and whispered loudly, ‘Is she asking about me? And what is potti?’ she asked.

My giggles erupted into full fledged laughter and I turned to see what Dennis made of the exchange. He looked embarrassed and a little uncomfortable but also as though he was trying hard not to smile.

I turned to Supriya. ‘Nothing. It’s just another word for “girl”,’ I said smiling. It was not entirely true but I couldn’t explain further without telling Supriya that it was a derogatory term.

I hadn’t answered the old woman’s question yet so I turned back and told her who Supriya was. The old woman fixed her glare on Supriya again and I was so glad there were actually people out there who didn’t fall for her cutie/hottie act.

Imran came back with his mother, a harassed looking middle aged woman who wore a salwar kameez with a dupatta covering her head modestly. She smiled at us and Supriya looked relieved when she saw that this woman could speak in English.

Still, Supriya was regarded as the outsider and Imran’s mother came and sat down and directed most of her questions to me. Her foremost query was who would see the documentary.

She looked at me apologetically. ‘I mean, we wouldn’t want strange people looking at our family function.’

I nodded, wondering if this had been a good idea. Making a documentary at a Muslim wedding, I mean. I didn’t know how to answer her truthfully because I had no idea what Mr. Paul planned to do with the documentary once it was done.

Dennis spoke then. ‘Don’t worry aunty. It’s just a class project and no one except their class will see it. It’s a very small scale project so you don’t have to worry about anything.’ He assured her smoothly. Aunty looked relieved.

‘Okay then. When will you want to come?’

Supriya sat quietly throughout the exchange. She really didn’t seem to know what to ask or how to put her views forth. But then she’d openly claimed that she was in this class only for Dennis, so I really shouldn’t be surprised.

We discussed the dates and I was glad that the whole project suddenly seemed to depend on my active involvement. I had formed a vague plan while sitting there and I was itching to get back home so I could formulate a script for the documentary.

‘I’d like to come again sometime soon to discuss my plans with you aunty,’ I said and she nodded. She got up then, asking to be excused. ‘So much work left to do!’ she said and walked out. Barely minutes later, her daughter, the bride came in and sat down with us.

Heeba was a pretty girl, very young, probably my age or less. She was wearing a simple cotton salwar and her arms were bare. She was visibly excited and she couldn’t stop gushing. ‘A documentary at my wedding! I’m SO excited!’ she said.

Supriya smiled back, a little patronisingly I felt. Maybe she was genuinely happy to see her. Yeah, and maybe at midnight Supriya turns into a Mother Teresa kind of do-gooder.

I watched them discuss jewellery and makeup and bond over all things I was usually not that aware of. Bored, I looked up to see Dennis watching Supriya with an indecipherable expression on his face.