‘She’s having a baby?’
‘We are having a baby. That’s what being pregnant means,’ said Dada.
‘I can’t believe it, Dada.’
‘What is so hard to believe?’ asked Dada, smiling.
‘You don’t look happy,’ said Zubeida.
‘But the astrologer—’
‘What astrologer?’
‘Maa–Baba consulted one. He told them your marriage wouldn’t last long and that there would be a problem with your child if you choose to have one. He or she wouldn’t survive the first two years. They asked me to tell you to hold off having the child. They are planning to do a havan at the house to make things all right.’
‘Oh, fuck off!’ snapped Dada. ‘Did they? You can’t be serious? God!’
‘What do you mean make things all right?’ he asked after a pause.
‘Dada, you know. To make the Gangulys whole again? For your marriage problem to go away. They—’
A look of horror passed over his face.
‘They will be praying for my marriage to break?’ fumed Dada. He paced around the car, holding his head. His face flushed red. ‘You go home and tell him, tell Baba that he’s dead to me now. Tell him that he has nothing to do with me any more. You know what . . . You know what . . . tell him that I will convert! I will fucking convert to Islam and then I will see how his ridiculous religion with a thousand gods and contradictory logic and stupid rituals touch me or my wife! TELL HIM THAT, OKAY! ASK HIM TO DO AS MANY PUJAS HE WANTS TO DO. ASK HIM—’
Dada’s voice broke and tears splashed out of his eyes. I rubbed Dada’s back. He coughed and phlegm splattered outside from his nose. He used my handkerchief. The words dried up between us. He leant away from me as if I would infect him with Maa–Baba’s insidious plans against his wife.
‘I’m sorry, Dada. I’m sorry, Boudi.’
Boudi patted my back. ‘It’s not your fault.’ She looked at Dada and said, ‘Don’t worry. My Allah will protect me.’
It seemed funny at the moment. Gods being summoned like Power Rangers.
They left soon after. But on my way home, the PowerBook kept getting heavier for me to carry. It was as if the guilt of betraying Maa–Baba even further seeped into the box and morphed into lead. I called Sahil from a PCO. He couldn’t believe his luck—and neither could I—when I told him I would give him the PowerBook and the CDs for safekeeping. We met outside his house and he asked me if he could use it and was grinning when I told him he could. I told him it’s not his, and he would only keep it if Brahmi refuses.
Maybe Sahil is playing with it as I write this.
I have chosen not to tell Maa–Baba of Boudi’s pregnancy right now. Today I’m going to revel in the imagined future of a little kid calling me Kaku and seeing me as his or her hero. And since we are going that way, he/she’s going to call Brahmi Kaki, and he/she’s going to love spending time with us rather than his/her stupid, stuck-up parents.
In my imagined future, Dada and Boudi are scraping past their expenses while Brahmi and I are the power couple but with a lot of time on our hands to live a fulfilling life.
Today’s not the day to tell Maa–Baba.
25 July 1999
Rishab and Brahmi lost their minds when I told them about Boudi’s pregnancy. Sahil was less enthusiastic.
‘They are potty-producing machines. I see no reason why anyone would go through nine months of pregnancy and three years of potty-training a half-wit when you can easily adopt a trained one,’ said Sahil.
‘Hey! My uncle’s a big doctor,’ butted in Rishab. ‘He handles deliveries of even film stars. If you need any help, just tell me. I will set you up.’
Rishab and Sahil engaged in a no-holds-barred argument about whether kids are a waste of time and resources. Brahmi and I excused ourselves since we were in love now and we could do that. The school has caught on to our relationship as well. Their reaction has mostly been of shock—since we are the only couple in our standard. The shock was tempered only because we are seen as two of a kind. Outcastes and weird, like our rules didn’t apply to them.
‘Are you excited?’ she asked.
‘I think I am.’
‘I am guessing you haven’t told your parents yet!’
