Karan Mahajan - Family Planning

“Yes.”

“Goddamn it Sangita, it is hundred percent useless talking to you.”

In the drawing room, Mr. Ahuja’s children greeted him with greater enthusiasm: they told Mr. Ahuja that Arjun was in a rock band to impress a girl.

“So who is this girl?” asked Mr. Ahuja.

“She goes on his bus I think,” volunteered Aneesha. She was eight and still sucked her thumb. She claimed it tasted like tutti-frutti.

“She owes what ?” asked Mr. Ahuja. He undid the strap of his slippers. The house at this hour looked particularly tasteless and shabby — the tables and chairs painted a rudimentary white, the paintings on the wall cocked to the side, a muddy pair of footprints slowly turning the color of dusk, the gloss of dust on the cabinets giving everything an aura of mindless preservation.

The sofa — covered with plastic — crackled loudly as Mr. Ahuja pushed himself up to his full height. The children bent to touch his feet, then withdrew as they encountered the force field of odor protecting them, and said, “She goes on Arjun’s bus.”

“She knows about us? And she still wants to come into this household? This mad place? Look at all of you. How am I going to get you children married? Eh? Can you imagine us living as a joint family ?” Mr. Ahuja slapped his thigh.

The children guffawed.

“Do you want to have ice cream?” said Mr. Ahuja. “Come. Let’s go to Khan Market.”

It was four in the afternoon, and they crossed the street to Khan Market with thrilling success. The two guards came out of their conical hut, blocked the road with giant yellow barriers and provided the children with safe passage (much to the dismay of the honking cars) all the way to Barista. Barista was the Ahuja family’s coffee chain of choice. The old dusty book-shops and fancy foreign-goods-stocked stores were squashed between tiny cement pillars; most of the shutters were drooping. Small galaxies of dust swirled on the pavement. Enormous white shop signs with red lettering were spread the length of the market like rotten teeth about to chomp into the ground.

The server at Barista asked if this was a birthday party. They had a special cake.

Mr. Ahuja said no.

A school trip?

“No,” said Mr. Ahuja. “Get eight cold coffees. And pull together four tables.”

He didn’t foresee the terrible havoc caffeine and sugar would wreak on his already restless children. Instead, he sat them down around the tables — Sahil and Aneesha on his lap — and said, “Now. I want to tell you something about Arjun. You remember I was married once before I married your Mama, correct?”

He saw the bewilderment furrow across their faces; they looked like old, exaggerated Ahujas. Incidents of nose-picking suddenly multiplied. Straws found themselves sucking at empty glasses; they grumbled rudely with air. The children looked at one another and scratched away at their ears.

Then they said, “Correct.”

“Correct.”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

Only Sahil and Aneesha and Rishi were silent, scraping dirt from their uncut nails. Mr. Ahuja indicated them with the back of his palm. “You little ones probably don’t remember.”

Mr. Ahuja at it again! Divide and rule!

Sahil and Aneesha and Rishi protested. “Of course yes Papa!”

“What are you saying ?” Tanya sneered. “You were too little.”

“Yes, beta, Tanya is right. It was a long time ago. Before any of you were born, in fact. Before I married your mama even. When I was younger, I was married to another lady. As you know. But she, God bless her, passed away in a car accident. You remember me telling you, correct?” he asked gruffly. “Real tragedy it was. Like the movies. Unforgettable.”

“Un for get bal,” said Rahul.

“Of course, yes.”

“Hundred percent.”

“Yes Papa.”

“Very sad.”

“Chhoo chhad.”

“It was a Contessa, right, Papa?”

“A WHAT?” Mr. Ahuja said.

“A Contessa Car.”

“Uh, yes — Contessa. Anyway. As you know, she was the one who was Arjun’s real mother. You know this right? Why are you all looking so surprised?”

Surprise was not the word, no — they looked like they’d all just been held down forcefully and given ten injections to their buttocks.

The Insect-O-Flash device at the counter crackled as more and more flies electrocuted themselves on the four parallel bright tube lights.

“Not surprised, Papa,” they lied.

“Yes Papa. We know about Arjun.”

“That’s why he doesn’t like when hero in movies says to villain, Have you drunk your mother’s milk? He feels like a villain when he is with Mama.”

“Ughzactly.”

Mr. Ahuja felt bad that he was playing them — but what choice did he have? Better for them to suppress their surprise and mimic adulthood. Better for them to trick themselves into familiarity with the shocking news — to waste their energies combing their memories rather than aggressively posing questions.

“Yes. Good. Very good memory,” said Mr. Ahuja. “All those years of feeding you duffers cod-liver oil has worked, eh? But yes. We never talk about it because Arjun was only three when your mama became his mama. Do you remember anything from when you were three? No, naah? So that is what I wanted to say. Arjun was feeling a little upset because he’s the only one of you who isn’t born from Mama and he doesn’t even remember his real Mama. He feels left out. He thinks Mama and you all act differently toward him.”

Now the children were caught. Having nodded their way through this manipulative speech, they could not issue a denial. Couldn’t say they had no idea what their Papa was talking about. Instead, they tried to act cool. Tried to pretend they remembered and had, in fact, mistreated Arjun. Breathed heavily through their mouths.

“So basically he’s a stepson, naah,” said Tanya, translating for the other children. At twelve, she considered herself to be their representative. She was buying time.

“Stepson, yes,” said Varun. “Ughzactly.” He was secretly wondering how much Arjun would have to pay him to keep the secret.

“This tho I knew,” Rahul lied. He itched to put the news on his blog.

“Henh?” said Mr. Ahuja. “What is this you’re saying? No beta. Arjun’s not a stepson! He’s my son. He has my blood. If a mosquito bit me and then bit you and bit Arjun, it would be as confused as a person who drinks Diet Pepsi and Diet Coke one after the other. He is my son only. He is as much my son as any of you—”

“But I’m a girl,” said Rita.

“Yes, yes, beta. As much my son as you are my daughter. He just came from a different mother. So he’s my real son and your Mama’s stepson. That is all you need to know.”

“So he is a stepson,” Tanya said, nodding her head gravely at the crowd.

“Like in Cinderella?” said Varun excitedly.

“No stupid,” Rita shushed. “That was a stepdaughter .”

“None of this step nonsense,” said Mr. Ahuja. “Technically he is a half-brother.”

“What’s technically?” asked Sahil.

“Through a special treaty ,” said Rita. “ Technically Britain ruled India. That kind of thing.”

“No, stupid,” said Tanya. “It means by law .”

“And what is a treaty exactly, Tanya? Tell me?”

“You are the true stepdaughter!” Tanya hissed. “You witch!”

“Who is a stepdaughter?” asked Mr. Ahuja.

“Haan-ji?”

“Who is a stepdaughter?” Mr. Ahuja repeated. “Please speak up!”

“No Papa,” said Tanya, “what I was saying was — what I was saying was that Mama treats Arjun bhaiya like a step daughter . That was why I said stepdaughter. She says to us: Don’t let him pick up the babies. Don’t let him change diapers. He can’t play with your toys. Tell him to do homework instead.”