It was while studying ancient Indian history that I met Vinod, the man who would be the love of my life. He was one among the twenty- odd students in our class. Not that it was love at first sight; quite the opposite. In fact, my first impression was that he seemed aloof. He was five feet eleven-and-a-half, slim, handsome, a Stephanian, a good cricketer to boot, and immensely popular. Fate intervened to bring us together when we were chosen by two of our respective friends to resolve their lovers’ tiff.
Even though the crisis between the couple did not get resolved, the mediators became friends! I discovered that Vinod was unpretentious, had a sunny temperament that drew people to him, and a quicksilver mind that made him the centre of attraction in any gathering. We enjoyed interacting with each other and I realised that even though our temperaments were vastly different – he was an extrovert, I an introvert – we shared the same values.
In the classroom, the backbenches seemed more inviting to us during that heady phase of discovering each other, be it through a game of noughts and crosses or a joke. Our conversations were unending, but strangely, our families never figured in them. Moreover, such was my comfort level with Vinod that for the first time in my life, I found myself expressing my innermost thoughts and feelings to him as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Vinod would accompany me in the bus all the way to my aunt’s house on Ferozeshah Road so that we could spend more time together.
One day, just before the final examination, we were travelling by Bus No. 10. The bus had just crossed Chandni Chowk when he remarked, “I am going to tell my mother that I have found the girl I want to marry.” I quizzed him, “Have you asked the girl yet?” he said, “No, but she is sitting next to me.” I did not say anything – I was speechless with joy! at home, I told Pam what had happened and spent the rest of the day in a euphoric daze, feeling as if I was floating on air.
A couple of days later, I told my parents about Vinod.
They were taken aback, not because I had chosen somebody or that he was from a different caste (that word did not exist in our family lexicon) or even that we were the same age, but because he was still a student. Without a proper income between us, how would we survive? I told them that having studied in Modern School and St Stephen’s, he would, at the very least, get a peon’s job. I also informed them that he was preparing for the Indian Administrative Service (IAS) entrance examination. During those months, I worked in a neighbourhood nursery school in Moti Bagh run by a Mrs Nathaniel, the widowed mother of a friend, travelling to work and back by bus. I earned a princely salary of Rs 100 a month. Vinod and I did not meet much in those days; I wanted him to focus on his preparation for the IAS examination.
A year later, in 1959, Vinod stood ninth in the IAS merit list. During the interview, he was asked why he preferred the IAS over the IPS. He replied that he had far too many uncomfortable memories of his father being arrested by policemen during the freedom struggle to want to join the IPS! In those days, the names of the first ten successful candidates were announced on all India Radio (AIR) during the nine o’ clock news bulletin, which was an added source of pride and happiness for us, including my parents. Vinod opted for the Uttar Pradesh cadre, the most prestigious IAS cadre at the time. My parents had nothing further to say.
That was the easy part. The struggle ahead was to convince Vinod’s parents, especially his mother. His family inhabited a world far removed from mine.
My future father-in-law, Uma Shankar Dikshit, had participated in the freedom movement and was a well- respected Congressman, close to Prime Minister Nehru. Moreover, the Dikshits, considered to be the highest of the high, orthodox Kanyakubj Brahmins from Unnao in Uttar Pradesh, were deeply rooted in a culture epitomised by the Hindi language. I, who was learning about such sociological categories for the first time, felt a twinge of alarm, but remained comforted by Vinod’s unwavering support.
As an initial confidence building measure, Vinod arranged for me to meet his father at the Alps restaurant on Janpath. He assured me that although Dadda, as his father was known, was grounded in the literary and cultural traditions of Uttar Pradesh, he was liberal in his mindset. After all, he had plunged into the nationalist movement from the time he was a student, inspired by Gandhiji.
At the sight of the tall figure of Dadda, who was wearing a white, khadi kurta-pyjama and a Gandhi topi, I tried to quell my nervousness, for I had never met anybody like him before. But the eyes behind the thick rimmed glasses seemed kind.
Dadda asked me many questions about my background and what I was doing. Equally gently, he told me that his son, who had studied in Delhi, was not reflective of his family, which was rooted in tradition. Informing me that “Hindi bahut bolte hai hamare yahan, aap log angrezi bolte ho”, he politely told me that I would not be able to get by in his part of the world without learning to speak in fluent Hindi, and that was that.
He further explained, “We have a small family. There is my mother, Vinod’s mother, and myself. Vinod, who is our only child, means the world to his mother.” Later, I came to know that even before Vinod was born, his elder brother had died of smallpox, having missed inoculation for the simple reason that Dadda was in prison at that juncture of the freedom movement.
Dadda met my parents soon after to tell them that while he was agreeable to our marriage, he would like to wait until Vinod’s mother had accepted the idea of an inter-caste wedding for her son. He added a rider that it could take ‘a day, ten days, two months or even two years for her to come around’.
To which, punning on the word “Kanyakubj”, Badi Ma exclaimed, “One-eyed (kaana) and hunchbacked (kubj) to boot, and look at their airs!” What else could Vinod do except enjoy her humour? For months Vinod and Dadda tried to convince amma, Vinod’s mother, but she was not able to resolve her apprehensions. Eventually, after about two years, seeing as how all of us – Dadda, Vinod and I – were still waiting for her to come around, she eventually gave up and gave in!
In that two-year period, my parents found themselves feinting two dreaded questions from all and sundry, “Aye-haye, Sheila ki shaadi kab hogi? Ye chhoti bhi toh baithi hui hai abhi (When will Sheila get married, there’s the younger one to think of as well).” But my mother did not open her mouth, because she did not want people saying uncharitable things about amma. The wedding was set for July 11, 1962. Dadda was against any kind of ostentation.
A few days before the wedding, my father suffered a heart attack.
The entire family rallied on the occasion. The marriage ceremony was kept simple. I wore a khadi sari dyed in red and trimmed with silver gota. The baraat, or the groom’s wedding party, of about fifty was an all-male affair, except for one girl, Madhu, the daughter of Vinod’s cousin sister. Women were expected to stay at home and await the arrival of the bride and groom. It was so unlike a Punjabi baraat.
Thankfully, Vinod did not come on horseback; apparently it was not the custom among Brahmins to do so. The only thing my sisters remember of the baraatis was that they were jolly and big eaters! Both families, despite their cultural differences, came together in a pleasant and graceful manner.
We had prepared for a vegetarian lunch, keeping the Dikshits’ sensitivities in mind. But Vinod went up to my mother and said, “Mummy, you have to make meat for my friends!” My mother’s mouth fell open for a second before she recovered her poise, and sure enough, the bridegroom’s friends had their fill. Dadda’s last minute request for kheer precipitated a minor crisis when the maharaj preparing the vegetarian food said he did not have the time for it. Our spirits were restored when the khansama, who had been asked to prepare the non-vegetarian Mughlai dishes, promptly offered to do so. The kheer was so delicious that it was devoured over several helpings.
Excerpted with permission from Citizen Delhi: My Times, My Life, Sheila Dikshit, Bloomsbury.
