Family Planning by Karan Mahajan Page B

.”
    “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.”
    “Really?” said Mr. Ahuja, feigning surprise. His own commands were being blamed on Sangita, but he had no intention of clarifying this. “Well, then, you all have to stand up for yourbhaiya. You have to tell Mama that bhaiya is the same as all of you. Say to her—if bhaiya is step, then we are also step!”
    “And if any of you ever treat him like step or ever say anything—” He comically pointed to his clenched fist.
    “But Papa. We wouldn’t do that. He’s our bhaiya!”
    “Yes, we love bhaiya.”
    “He’s our favorite bhaiya.”
    “Yes. He wipes me very hard.”
    Wipes me very hard?
    “He teaches me maths.”
    Mr. Ahuja looked around at his children. They were so eager to please; their small brown limbs were restless; cheap plastic digital watches slid up and down their wrists; major kicking battles were underway beneath the table. He crinkled his eyebrows and said, “But what if I died and your Mama said you should be mean to him? Then? Then what would you do? You’d forget everything I said?”
    It was a trick question. They answered accordingly.
    “Papa you will never die,” said Sahil. A tear rolled down his cheek.
    Then everyone started crying. Soft silent tears. Fake tears.
    “Papa don’t die. We love you more.”
    “Yes Papa. We listen to you, not Mama.”
    “I love you Papa.”
    “I love you Papa.”
    “I love you more than Mama.”
    Mr. Ahuja hugged them one by one, accepting the compliments gracefully. “No, no bacha. Don’t be like this. I was only saying. I will live for many many years. I’ll make sure Mama is not mean.”
    It was such an easy victory—he was an emotional blackmailer, they were drama queens—and yet he felt ecstatic. That was all he wanted from life: A vote of confidence. Proof that even at the rate of an hour a day he could outperform Sangita in popularity, that no matter what he did in his political life, they’d love him. They were the reason he stayed in politics—they sanctified his corruption and confirmed his charisma. Even his youngest children, those who hadn’t learned the deceptions of language, who couldn’t speak at all and hence couldn’t fall for his gregarious sentences, trusted him utterly and completely. He was shaped to be trusted (his head hunched forward kindly). He was an upturned trumpet of honesty (his hands were always thrown up in glee). He had such brutish powers of telepathy (he misheard the way one should). His incisors sank so wonderfully into meat (he taught them to love tandoori chicken). He could tell they loved him when he held them up with a mythical straightening of the elbows; when they gnawed at his knees; when they confided in him; when they replied to the long e-mails he sent them from the road, each one jittery and show-offy with Mr. Ahuja’s memory for details.
    Yes, thought Mr. Ahuja: If they resented Arjun for his closeness with their Papa, they also probably valued him for it. Mr. Ahuja relaxed. All he had to do now was talk to Arjun. “One final thing,” he said. “You all have to promise you willnot ever —I am saying ever —tell Arjun anything I