Nathan would even painstakingly do some of the calculations or go to the department secretary to ask humbly for her to do the math. First, he would estimate education expenditures for the son, and add a little bribe for getting him a good job because that was necessary and a fact of life. Then he would add two dowries for his two older daughters (Parvati was supposed to be the son, so she was not counted in these grandiose schemes). The secretary would tell him what the total was and Nathan would add an extra ten percent to that amount for incidental expenses (one could never tell what Nathan might encounter as the children were growing up, the wretched girls might fall, or burn themselves in a kitchen fire, or some other demand would be made on his earnings).The total was a very nice sum and eased Nathan’s burdens for many hours.
When in these reveries, he forgot that Parvati was their third child; and after that Nathan’s wife would not let him come near her without a condom, the chance of a son in their future be damned. He tried to reason with her, but her reasoning made more sense than his—she was tired of having children, saving for three dowries was enough, three was enough. Even the government said so. At this, Nathan stayed his arguments, for everywhere he went in the city, the government had family planning boardings picturing two adults and two children. “We are two, we have two.” Nathan and his wife already had three. But three girls? Even the government would pity him. Surely. He was being made to pay for some sin he had committed in a previous life.
Nathan waits for the rice to cool on his plate, separating the grains so that the steam escapes from between them. He nods and his wife adds a dollop of curds on the rice, and another one, and yet another, until he holds his left hand flat across his plate, palm down, to say that it is enough. Nathan never speaks during his meals, and his wife does not expect him to. Instead she talks, feeding him little bits of gossip from the barracks, the happenings of their household, what the girls did, what they said.
In the last three years, she has suddenly become mute, for she is unable to talk of their grandchild to him. She knowsNathan disapproves so greatly that she is afraid the food will curdle in his stomach if she mentions the child. But they live in two rooms, the child has been tottering around them, his little cries of joy and his tantrums fill the air—how does one ignore this? Pretend it does not exist? She sighs as she puts a piece of mango pickle next to the curds and rice. The mango piece falls from the spoon and small flecks of oil splatter on Nathan’s rice. His hand stops on its way to his mouth but he does not look up at his wife. Even that small action is a reprimand in itself. She busies herself with asking if he wants more curds, more pickle, more of anything. He grunts and at that moment, his grandson wails in the room.
Nathan and his wife hear Parvati rise from her place in the other room and rush to her son. She croons to him. “Jo, jo, raja.” Sleep, my king. When she says that word, raja, her voice cracks and falls into a silence, but they can still hear her pat the child back to sleep. Nathan eats steadily, wiping his plate clean, licking his fingers. His heart is laden with hurt at his daughter’s slip of tongue in calling her son raja. For anyone else, this would be a common term of endearment, for her it is only shame. It is a pity, he thinks, that Parvati was not born a son—then none of this would be happening. Why, in the early years there had been nothing to indicate that such misfortune would befall them.
Even as his head filled with unfulfilled son dreams after Parvati’s birth, Nathan worked very hard at his job at theDepartment of Electrical Engineering, and was always respectful to the professors. Their wives hired him in the evenings and on weekends when there was a function or a festival in the house. On the bicycle
When in these reveries, he forgot that Parvati was their third child; and after that Nathan’s wife would not let him come near her without a condom, the chance of a son in their future be damned. He tried to reason with her, but her reasoning made more sense than his—she was tired of having children, saving for three dowries was enough, three was enough. Even the government said so. At this, Nathan stayed his arguments, for everywhere he went in the city, the government had family planning boardings picturing two adults and two children. “We are two, we have two.” Nathan and his wife already had three. But three girls? Even the government would pity him. Surely. He was being made to pay for some sin he had committed in a previous life.
Nathan waits for the rice to cool on his plate, separating the grains so that the steam escapes from between them. He nods and his wife adds a dollop of curds on the rice, and another one, and yet another, until he holds his left hand flat across his plate, palm down, to say that it is enough. Nathan never speaks during his meals, and his wife does not expect him to. Instead she talks, feeding him little bits of gossip from the barracks, the happenings of their household, what the girls did, what they said.
In the last three years, she has suddenly become mute, for she is unable to talk of their grandchild to him. She knowsNathan disapproves so greatly that she is afraid the food will curdle in his stomach if she mentions the child. But they live in two rooms, the child has been tottering around them, his little cries of joy and his tantrums fill the air—how does one ignore this? Pretend it does not exist? She sighs as she puts a piece of mango pickle next to the curds and rice. The mango piece falls from the spoon and small flecks of oil splatter on Nathan’s rice. His hand stops on its way to his mouth but he does not look up at his wife. Even that small action is a reprimand in itself. She busies herself with asking if he wants more curds, more pickle, more of anything. He grunts and at that moment, his grandson wails in the room.
Nathan and his wife hear Parvati rise from her place in the other room and rush to her son. She croons to him. “Jo, jo, raja.” Sleep, my king. When she says that word, raja, her voice cracks and falls into a silence, but they can still hear her pat the child back to sleep. Nathan eats steadily, wiping his plate clean, licking his fingers. His heart is laden with hurt at his daughter’s slip of tongue in calling her son raja. For anyone else, this would be a common term of endearment, for her it is only shame. It is a pity, he thinks, that Parvati was not born a son—then none of this would be happening. Why, in the early years there had been nothing to indicate that such misfortune would befall them.
Even as his head filled with unfulfilled son dreams after Parvati’s birth, Nathan worked very hard at his job at theDepartment of Electrical Engineering, and was always respectful to the professors. Their wives hired him in the evenings and on weekends when there was a function or a festival in the house. On the bicycle
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