taught would automatically transmit itself in gathering concentration, like DDT in the human body or wealth in an economy or each-one-in-a-teach-one, to the underprivileged voiceless baby. What was a baby but a multi-limbed package of stimuli? What was a baby compared to Rita’s first period or Varun’s attempt to set fire to the front garden or Sahil’s discovery that the Coke was so adulterated it tasted of ink? What was he doing kissing his baby when he ought to be talking to Arjun?
The thought—its strains of cost-benefit analysis—made him feel disgusted.
“I’m going to tell Arjun about his mother today,” he said, not turning around to face Mrs. Ahuja, “when he comes back.”
“Good,” she said.
Mr. Ahuja said, “Good? Good? You don’t believe me or what?”
“I do,” said Mrs. Ahuja. “I believe.”
But Mr. Ahuja knew she didn’t. He had used the threat of telling Arjun the secret some one hundred forty-five times in their marriage.
“Then?” Mr. Ahuja said.
“Haan-ji?”
“That’s all?”
“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-pickingsuddenly 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,
The thought—its strains of cost-benefit analysis—made him feel disgusted.
“I’m going to tell Arjun about his mother today,” he said, not turning around to face Mrs. Ahuja, “when he comes back.”
“Good,” she said.
Mr. Ahuja said, “Good? Good? You don’t believe me or what?”
“I do,” said Mrs. Ahuja. “I believe.”
But Mr. Ahuja knew she didn’t. He had used the threat of telling Arjun the secret some one hundred forty-five times in their marriage.
“Then?” Mr. Ahuja said.
“Haan-ji?”
“That’s all?”
“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-pickingsuddenly 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,
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