Karan Mahajan - Family Planning

Shankar had just left. He’d forgotten his slipper on the floor. Mrs. Ahuja kicked it away and said, “Rohan Trivedi? Who is Rohan Trivedi?”

“Your TV star who died, nah. You only told me about him. I saw many women on the street today. They were doing all sorts of chanting-shanting. On Mathura Road there was a big traffic jam — that is why I was late today.”

“Where are you getting this misinformation. His name is Mohan Bedi.”

Arjun was stunned. “I’m becoming like Papa.”

“He is dead only,” proclaimed Mrs. Ahuja grimly.

“He’s not coming back?”

“How can he come back? He died. Cell-o-phone was in tub.”

Arjun considered this. “Mama, you should have done a protest. Now he is dead. What will happen to his wife? Have you even thought about her?”

“She is having a boyfriend. Boyfriend will become husband, nah.”

This was a revelation for Arjun: that women on Indian TV had boyfriends.

“Mama,” he said, teasing, “did you ever have a boyfriend?”

“Boyfriend? Are you not seeing I am married? So many children I am having.”

“But when you were younger. Before you were married. People in your time had boyfriends also.”

“Of course. That is what I am saying only. I had one boyfriend also.”

“Really? What was his name?”

She gulped. “Chintoo.”

“Chintoo! What a goonda name! How did he become your boyfriend?”

“This much I don’t remember. I am an old lady. I am having a baby. How you expect me to remember?”

Arjun laughed. “Why didn’t you marry him only?”

“I was from rich family. He was from poor family. He was the gardener’s son.” She continued. “When I was little, I thought marriage was a thing between brother and sister. Why? Because my Mummy called my Papa ‘brother’ or ‘brother-what-are-you-saying.’

“Of course, I didn’t know any married people. ‘What is this shaadi business?’ I asked my mother. She said, ‘It is what we did to have you.’ As you are imagining, this was zero help.

“Then one day I was sitting, and this boy Chintoo came and said, ‘Will you marry me.’ I said, ‘Okay.’

“Later, I felt very bad, of course. Because how was I to tell him that we could not get married if we were not brother and sister? So I said to my Mummy, please adopt Chintoo. She said no. End of story.”

“Classic. Classic story,” Arjun said, laughing. “But how did you and Papa get married?”

“Are you not remembering? Arranged.”

He remembered all right. The story the children had been told was this: Mama had once been beautiful. Papa had seen her and been smitten. Children were idiots and believed anything.

“I know! But how?”

“She said why don’t you marry him, and then he said maybe you should and I said yes.”

“Accha? I thought it was different. Papa told me that you tricked him!”

He tried to say this as lightly as possible — to present it as a joke — and he had hoped his tone of voice would convey to Sangita a crucial message: that he knew everything but still loved her. That he was willing to dismiss Papa’s ridiculous claims.

“Eh?”

“Papa told me that you tricked him! That he was shown another girl and then you showed up!”

Mrs. Ahuja’s expression had hardened this time. She pursed her lips and smiled with great effort at the hive of knitted wool she’d picked up. It didn’t work. She simply looked tired and hurt; she slumped in her chair and examined her swollen feet; she refused to smile back at him.

“Yes, yes. That is what happened only,” she mumbled. “Your Papa was tricked. But I was tricked also.”

“I’m joking, Mama!”

But she remained unmoved.

“I’m sorry, Mama,” said Arjun. “I was joking only. Papa was telling me a joke. I love you.”

“What is this love-shove business,” said Mrs. Ahuja. “You think I cannot joke? I was joking also.” Then she segued. “Mohan Bedi was good man. Now he is dead. End of story.” Then another segue. “Babies are crying. Tell Rita and Tanya to come. Babies need milk.”

Tell Rita and Tanya to come . No command could have been more hurtful to Arjun at that moment. There he was, standing at her command, a fully operational baby-watching machine, and she’d asked for younger replacements. Now there was nothing for Arjun to do but despise himself. He was a stepson. Whatever affections he’d garnered from Sangita, he was going to lose for good, he knew it. Mama, Papa, Rashmi: all gone, squandered. Papa lost when Arjun uttered his cruel remark— You came back because your wife died —and banged the car door shut. His siblings ganging up on him and calling him an untouchable stepbrother , misunderstanding. An uprising of the underlings. Him being booed at the concert. He was awful and alone.

His mistake had been to rely on crowds. Crowds could turn against you.

Take the band: What if Ravi’s father confiscated his drums? What if Ravi was slapped and slapped till he quit the band? He’d been foolish to imagine that Mr. Ahuja’s authority in the hospital could outdo the authority of Ravi’s father in his own house. Ravi was probably being scolded right this second for his accident.

Which meant: he’d have to win Aarti on his own.

He switched on the computer in the hallway and logged into Hotmail.

From: Arjun Ahuja

To: Aarti Gupta

Date: April 20

Subject: Stuff

Dear Aarti,

How r u??? sorry 2 b emailing so la8. Just wanted to say: I like you a lot. A lot. Plz don’t feel weird n all bout this. Jus being honest. Also, I made this 4 u.

[Actually he hadn’t “made it”; he hadn’t sat still for hours carefully dropping asterisks over the imaginary stencil of her name. He’d simply patronized one of the many ASCII-generating Web sites.]

Btw — in case ure wunderin, thatz a comma after

Hello.

Gnite!!!!

Arjun

With that e-mail Arjun felt as if his life’s work had been completed. He’d exposed himself. He’d finally braved humiliation. Immediately he was devastated. The spasms of hunger in his stomach came quicker and quicker. He realized he hadn’t eaten dinner: dinner, like lunch, was delayed. And he’d made a mistake. He’d stupidly stated the obvious: I like you. Fool! Idiot! There was a twitching in his back, like the awkward flexing of nubs left by torn wings. He’d be needled endlessly if his friends found out. Even if they didn’t, how would he possibly face Aarti now? What if she never replied to his e-mail? Worse: What if she replied-ALL to her entire school? What if not another word was spoken about this? Did she even like him? What was there to like? His hair combed in a floppy center part? The pants that tickled at his ankles? His affected swagger that friends often said looked like that of a drunken man about to topple over? Wasn’t that a compliment though? How many people of his age were drunk and about to topple over?

Also: Why had he been sent to an all-boys’ school? Didn’t people realize that it produced men capable only of copulation not conversation?

He wrote her another e-mail.

From: Arjun Ahuja

To: Aarti Gupta

Date: April 20

Subject: Stuff

Dear Aarti,

Sorry about the last email. I dint send it — my friends are here and playing a joke. I am sorry.

Arjun

Post-e-mail-#2, it took him exactly five seconds to realize he’d made another mistake. Why would the friends needle him about Aarti unless he’d told them he liked her? Crap. Now he’d sent her not one but two self-incriminating e-mails. Oh well.