In December, two months after we had first met, V went back to Bangalore for Christmas. He was due to come back for New Year which only now do I recognise for the collosal sacrifice that it was because V had a very happening party scene going in Bangalore while New Year in Bombay tends to be an overdone, overcrowded mess.
Anyway, he lands in Bombay and we have an emotional and erm passionate reunion. And then, as we’re lying on this mattress in complete undress, V springs the question. Which he later tells me he had just figured out he wanted to ask me on the two-hour flight in.
And I just as impulsively say yes.
Somehow it seemed like the most natural thing to say. Never mind that I had pretty much ranted against marriage my whole life (though as I grew older I was resigned to the fact that I would cave in and get married, I never expected it to happen that soon). Never mind that we had just met a couple of months ago. Never mind that we didn’t actually know some very fundamental things about each other.
So, pretty much lying on top of V, I decided (belatedly) to get practical. “Can you afford a house?” I asked. “Because I can’t.”
Poor V. He started off on a brief description of his financial viability, concluding rather sheepishly: “I’ve never been asked my net worth before.”
Now it was my turn to be embarassed. Somehow, growing up in Bombay, I had acquired the belief that people couldn’t get married without having enough money for a house because otherwise they would be condemned to life in an even-more far-flung suburb than they currently lived in on account of having to move out of the parental abode. And this possibility really gave me the heebeejeebies. So I had always assumed that I would only get married if and when either me or the guy had the money for that not to happen.
But anyway, too late for that. I had not only agreed to get hitched, I wanted to. Practicalities could come later.