When Harish became Harry

It all came to light with a phone-call that I wasn't really supposed to answer. I was over at the Sharmas for a dinner party, and just happened to be the nearest person to the ringing phone at that moment. There was a woman at the other end, with a fast-paced American accent, asking to speak to Harry. Sorry, wrong number, I said, and replaced the receiver. It rang again and it was the same woman. Oh, I'm sorry, she said this time, and put the phone down. And yet again it rang. She got a bit chatty this time. There seems to be some mistake, she said, I keep getting your line – I'm trying to get Harry Sharma. Ooooh, I said, a light going on in my head, well, wait a minute please. Covering the receiver, I looked across at my good friend of many years, good old Harish, once an opinionated youngster, now an opinionated young Software Professional in a top-ranking American BioTech Company and home right now on a short holiday. He was holding court at the moment on his pet subject – What was wrong with the USA and how to right it. Let's forget about the mythical melting pot, he was saying, the main thing is to insist on your own ethnic identity...

"Oh, Harry," I said, interrupting. "Call for you."

He paused, startled, flushed slightly, then demanded, "Who is it?"

"Sally," I said.

He gave me a look, took the phone, and said, cautiously, "Yes?"

There was a static from the other end, his face cleared, and he excused himself from the table. His mother asked at once, "Who's Sally?"

"It's Patricia," he said, going off.

"His work colleague," Mrs. Sharma told the gathering in the tones of one whose hopes have been dashed – yet again. She's been trying to get him married off for ages. Initially her sights had been set on a 'beautiful, homely Punjabi bahu', but Harish put his foot down – if anyone could be beautiful and homely at the same time, he said, they could, as far as he was concerned, stay put in Punjab. Mrs. Sharma stopped being so discriminatory and suggested 'a nice girl from a good family, from anywhere in India'. Why India, asked her son, you think nice girls can't exist elsewhere in the world? Mrs. Sharma became broad-minded late in life and now rooted for 'any girl from anywhere'.

"Work, always work," she said to me now and inquired, pointedly, "I suppose you aren't seeing someone currently?"

I grinned at her. "A new bloke every week, Auntie."

"I don't know why you can't be serious even once," she said annoyed. "Your mother said it's impossible to even talk to you anymore."

"Depends on what you want to talk about, doesn't it?"

"So it's taboo to talk about your future? We're your parents – we shouldn't be concerned?"

"Why on earth? Heck, I mean, I'm not concerned – well, not really – I mean, I do think about the next assignment and what if I don't get it, but that's the peril of freelancing I guess – and I did go into this with my eyes open, you know..."

"I'm talking about marriage," she said witheringly. "And specifically in relation to you and Harish – no, don't roll your eyes – why not? - what's wrong with the idea? - you both need to get married and soon - neither of you are getting any younger."

"Ouch," I said.

"It's true," she said.

"Auntie," I said. "Give up."

"Why not, beta? Why won't you even think about it? Our families have known one another for so long. Your mother is my best friend. And you and Harish, why, all your teachers used to comment on how inseparable you were..."

"We fought like cats and dogs," I interrupted. "And there was nothing they could do about it. That's what they meant by 'inseparable'."

"But you like each other atleast, don't you?"

I sighed. "In small enough doses. Not enough to be able to listen to him every single day. Frankly, Auntie, that would drive anyone MAD! He's such a fathead!"

"He's a nice boy," she said, with injured motherly pride.

"Okay, lovely - just not my type."

"So what's your type?"

"I told you – it keeps changing."

She made a rude sound in her throat. "Impossible!" she said.

"And I'll only improve with age," I said cheerfully, and looked towards Harish as he came back. "Everything hunky-dory, Harry?"

"Knock it off," he said sheepishly. "She can't pronounce Harish."

"Why can't she?"

"Well, she's American, isn't she?"

"How is that related to having a speech problem?"

"Who said anything about a speech problem? It just makes things easier all around."

I made a rude sound, aka his Mom. "You should remember that the next time you give us a lecture about the Call Centre Coolies. And better still before you lose your ethnic identity altogether in the melting pot, Oh Harry!"

Harry didn't answer.

Harish made an even ruder sound.

Good thing we're never getting married.

It would be an impossible household.