She clearly hadn't expected me to carry the tray into the hall. Her dad looked suitably impressed. Now, any decent TamBram household prides itself on the ability to gently woo your senses with the wafting aroma of freshly brewed coffee. That my prospective FIL was impressed was completely beside the point. She seemed to have taken it badly. Her subsequent stuttering greeting was the equivalent of getting to Everest Base Camp.
I had always tried to achieve that petty goal through various cheap means--some genuinely trite (uberlukha, as the gang would say). The dream had finally come through!
Here was the pride of her 180-strong-and-still-growing family, the utterly self-assured and suave Anita. She was the shining proof of the success of a 2400-year old genetic experiment that had culminated in the birth of this near-perfect specimen. She possessed every attribute that her ancestors would have yearned for in a woman. The reverse-Electra complex slightly perplexed me at first. Soon, I had come to terms with the family's obsession for perfection. Each art had to be mastered; each science understood; each whim fulfilled! This was supposed to be the Thule Society's dream come true. She was truly the epitome of Tam Übermensch.
How then could their illustrious existence be called into question by this retard who had just dared serve what was arguably the best coffee they had savored in many years now? Only the coffee at Bhima's in Thirumalai was a notch above this one. The cooks at Annapurna would gladly give an arm and a leg for this heavenly aroma that was floating around the room.
Her intellect was insulted. This humiliation was horrible. She felt a shiver running down her body--the sweat was not a familiar reaction for someone as sure as herself. She hoped I would not notice.
There was no way I could have noticed. I was praying she wouldn't see the sweating palms and forehead. I kept savoring the moment of her ever-so-slight stutter. We had met only a month ago at the Arts Festival, where she was performing, and I was covering an event that seemed extremely arty-farty. It was a chore that had to be completed--a free-lancer does not have the luxury of choosing to ignore an event that would stay on Page 3 for a week at the very least. Her dance performance betrayed excellent skills and several global influences--the music seemed an electric Mozartian fusion with supporting musical reveries by Maheshwari Thailambal and the Bombay Thilakkal Sisters. Adding glamour to this show were the percussionists Bjørnstad twins, Peter Mashrek, the Iranian stringer, and Paul Altos, the pan-European composer and genius on the piano.
It was a magical moment. Not everyone gets to play Cupid for such an unlikely couple. She must have been in a trance when we spoke. The interview showed that. My eyes had nearly fallen out when she asked if I was interested in knowing more about her art and inspirations over a cup of coffee. I quipped "I doubt one cup would last us that long." She grinned; it seemed like my street-humor was finally working with someone. Lucky strike one!
I was a fool by any human standard. It was a wonder I'd survived this long in the profession. Foolish journalists are hardly suited to last beyond a decade without being caught out. I was still in the thick of things, caught in a mild maelstrom of sinking self-esteem and realization that a career as a journalist was perhaps not my true calling.
Wit had always been my savior. It also seemed to desert me in her company. I'd often rant under my breath, of course, "You pedestrian conversationalist, wake up! Can't you figure out something really nice to say now?" "Of course not, you blithering idiot. That would not interest even the mongrel that condescends to worship you."
I rationalized, "All geniuses have these voices running in their heads. My misfortune dictates that I have one with the IQ of a Gorgonzola Cheesehound." Yes, it is indeed difficult to match vanity to reality.
It wasn't easy being me in normal circumstances. She made it all the more impossible. Her icy calm would put Everest to shame. And even Everest had these stormy hours where one would be foolish to seek an introduction to the reasons.
It shouldn't have gone beyond the first date. Perhaps they hadn't bred good judgment into the bloodlines--she deigned to meet me once more. Her boastful attitude should've warned me, "You should taste my coffee. It is truly divine. People tell me the coffee makes my dance seem almost average. I don’t mind that even though I am one of the best performers in the world!"
The second date was followed by two more. I seemed to intrigue her. The complete lack of self-assurance seemed to be a potent weapon in my hands. Garfield would’ve been proud of my Odie imitation. The drooling was hardly matched by the eagerness with which I laid all my pride and self-respect to rest.
The meetings were interesting. Her place was an airy Mediterranean wannabe with large windows, done up with sheer curtains, more for effect than for utility, and expensive furniture to match her tastes. The hallway was decorated by several knickknacks, souvenirs of her trips across the globe. The bedrooms were a treat; although she made it amply clear I was there only to see how truly elegant homes looked like. The elaborate Javanese doorknocker was the ultimate symbol of her classy taste—the little bronze tongue sticking out suitably mocked my peasant sensibilities. Her passion for history and different cultures seemed to be all-consuming. Almost all our conversations ended up as lessons from a worldly-wise one to the incompetent student.
The conversations seemed to be initiated and completed by her. Her condescending manner was beginning to irk me. The coffee definitely tasted progressively bitter in the course of our conversations. For someone used to blabbering three sentences in one breath, the silence in my head was a novel experience. I soon resorted to inane tactics of subverting the conversation. “As if the Aryans ever existed! The first Tamil Sangam period predates them.” “The Ice-age civilizations would have survived only on meat, and therefore our racial claims to superiority based on vegetarianism are completely unfounded.” Bloopers of every variety were soon to disprove all my claims to possessing even an average intellect. At this rate, I would soon be a worthy chief for a chimp tribe on the Malayan peninsula.
It was during the course of one of these conversations that her father had discovered his daughter’s dirty little secret. He had dropped in on his way to Athens, one of the many pleasures that his business offered him. While I dreamt of pretty Mediterranean women with curly tresses and buxom figures, he offered extremely mind-numbing information on the culture and lifestyles on the different islands that formed part of Greece.
I wondered aloud if mainland Greece treats the islands in the manner in which we treat our Lakshadweep, Andaman & Nicobar islands. “Isn’t it surprising the Greeks have known about the Andamans since the second century BC, even if they knew it as the island of cannibals?” He seemed suitably happy with my geographical prowess. My extremely meager knowledge was being wonderfully supplemented by information from the Lonely Planet guide picked up last week from a hawker at Kings Circle.
Here, I digress though. The net result of our interaction was an extremely elated father, happy at the prospect of snaring someone who would keep Anita interested for more than the usual week or so. The interesting specimen was therefore to be displayed to her immediate family. She was off for another short tour of France and so the meeting was scheduled for early next month.
The fortnight passed with ease although each morning would give rise to another wave of panic and either suicidal or homicidal thoughts. My urbane parents would love this occasion though. I was their dirty secret too. All I could do well was make decent coffee. That seemed to be the bane of my existence.
Right now, the uppermost thought in my now-chimp-like brain was surviving the next ten minutes. The tension was palpable. I could still not figure out Anita’s strange tongue-tied behavior. She was completely out of place in my middle-class pad. It had none of the sophistication of either her place or my parents’ home. A diwan in the hall was the best I could manage on my meager earnings. The curtains had been excellent bedspreads in an earlier avatar. Both rooms were spilling over with ancient books, most of which I hardly understood, but read all the same. What was an under-employed journalist to do with his spare time other than read? Especially if the books come at the cost of a cup of tea. The kitchen though, was a disgrace even by my extremely slovenly standards. I hid the unwashed vessels under the sink and hoped the dhoop would disguise the smell of rotting food and spilt beer.
My parents were embarrassed with the apartment, but I had to be “honest” to Anita’s parents. They needed to see exactly what they had wanted their daughter to get into. They had to be dissuaded from making the most important decision of “my” life. I didn’t want to be hitched, especially to this patronizing person who would make life miserable. How could I even stay under the same roof as her? The house would serve as the best defense.
And It seemed to work like a charm. Both sets of parents soon decided to take a stroll in the large park, while Anita and I were left to our devices in the house. “Her first visit to the house, and this is already such a disaster. Simply wonderful!” My smile would betray the intentions, so I tried slinking away to the kitchen on the pretext of cleaning up the dishes. She called out behind me, “You never told me you could make such lovely coffee!” Her tone was now outright derogatory. She clearly wanted to set the record straight—she was the superior being between the two of us. I cringed, “You never asked me. I’m sorry the house is in such bad shape. It’s just that last night’s party at the Press Club went further than I anticipated. I had no time to clean up the place or buy new furnishings or crockery. Hey, but I served your parents coffee in the two cups that weren’t cracked. I can’t help it if they don’t match—the set sort of got destroyed five years ago while moving back from Chennai. I’m really sorry for this embarrassment. Really!”
Anita’s eyes had glazed over. She looked positively spaced out. She stormed out of the house. I could hear the door slam behind her back. Five minutes later, somebody knocked at the door; it sounded almost apologetic.
It wasn’t supposed to be. She was brusque: “I spoke with your parents. They’ve agreed to hold the marriage in April. You have two months to pack your stuff. Don’t forget the Coffee-Filter. No point getting married if you can’t make better coffee than me.”
