Family Planning (9 page)

He posted the picture of a malnourished African child.

Then another message.

Sorry for previous, just joking!!!!! Picture however is okay.

 

PS>>>Have you ever really loved a woman?

 

 

He posted a picture of the actress Aishwarya Rai.

But he hadn’t even gotten to the reviews.

Bryan Adams’s hit song “Everything I Do” occupied the #1 position on the UK Charts for a record sixteen weeks. The song itself is best described as a ballad-to-permanently-put-an-end-to-the-genre-of-ballads. With his constipated I-ate-Rod-Stewart-for-breakfast vocals, a steadfast desire to rhyme desire with fire, night with right (as in, I am going to do [something sleazy] with you tonight / how could something wrong / feel so right, a construct he has used twenty-one times in his
career), liar with desire, fire with higher (ire, mire, choir, dire, sire are all considered too verbose for his oeuvre) and truly massive ability to insinuate his god-awful crap into just about any soundtrack, Bryan Adams is STILL the best singer-songwriter to emerge from Canada in years.

 

 

Racists! Hating Canadians!

A Customer Comment on Amazon said:

The real problem is that Bryan Adams lacks edge. He is too syrupy to even be a guilty pleasure.

 

 

Now this simply killed him. Guilty pleasure? Excuse me? Clearly, people in the West were so overdosed on luxuries that they’d begun to crave art that was damaging, challenging, difficult, edgy. Perhaps they should come to India for a day. Take a walk in a slum. Get hit by a scooter and lose a couple of limbs while the gathered crowd officiated over your wallet. Feed some suicidal farmers. Or wait: Wasn’t it better for a farmer to commit suicide anyway than to be rich and listen to Bryan Adams? Yes, of course. Stupid fools. They’d start appreciating their so-called “guilty pleasures” if they’d lived through tragedy.

But despite his mental tirade, Arjun was shaken. He’d come into this thinking that Bryan Adams was his last remain
ing friend and had learned, much to his consternation, that
he
was Bryan Adams’s only friend as well.

Then Bryan Adams betrayed him. It happened in the body of an interview that was posted online.

INTERVIEWER:
As long as we are on the subject of “Summer of ’69,” just how autobiographical is the song?

 

ADAMS:
Some parts are autobiographical, but the title comes from the idea of 69 as a metaphor for sex. Most people thought it was about the year 1969.

 

 

“Did you see this?” asked Arjun. “Did you fucking goddamn see this?”

Ravi wasn’t interested. “We should be practicing man—you should be practicing.”

“Sorry man.”

“No, no, it’s fine man,” said Ravi, “but we need to decide what ten songs we’ll start with. Then I need to make sure I’m timed correct with Deepak. We also need balance, man. Balance. How many acoustic songs, how many ballads, how much smashing? You know? Also, are we doing covers or originals?”

No one listened to Ravi. He started to bitch. He emphasized casually that his bandmates were fags and tapped his drums with a light feminine touch to show that he wasn’t exactly thrilled that they were practicing in his house.

Arjun conceded, “Let’s do this, Ravs. You can pick the songs, okay? Any songs you like.”

Big mistake.

Soon they were playing “The End” by The Doors, an eight-minute odyssey during which the band members made various, disarming discoveries about one another, as men often do during long trips. Most monumental of which was that Anurag didn’t really know how to play the bass guitar. This had passed unnoticed at first because Anurag had obviously spent plenty of time studying the
angle
at which a guitar must be slung over one’s shoulder so as to appear unfailingly cool, and also knew that C-Major and D never sounded bad. In fact, if it wasn’t for Deepak, who derived his confidence from deriding others, they might never have noticed.

But now even Arjun came down on Anurag. “Anu, you’re a bloody bastard.”

They remanded him, in a historic decision, to the spot of synthesizer player—a decision that saddened Ravi but one, as he would acknowledge months later, that added a dimension to their sound that none of their compatriots, especially those fuckers Orange Street and Parikrama, could lay claim to.

So it came to be. Of the four of them—Ravi, who asked poignantly why Indians didn’t have garages; Deepak, generally using his sporty sadism to deride his bandmates; and Anurag, who was no longer pretend-plucking his guitar—only Arjun continued having fun. He was screaming. He was singing into a pencil box. He was opening and closing the pencil box, taunt
ing his own lips. He went to the bathroom while a long solo occurred. He rapped a snippet from 2Pac when it seemed apt (“All Eyez on Me”). Launched into esoteric mumbo-jumbo (“Calling on Onion Transit, Calling on Onion Transit, Radio Delete Europe”) while craving a glass of lemon juice. One minute he’d be serenading; the next he was reminiscent of a Doberman tied to a gate barking at oncoming traffic.

The question is: How is he singing?

“How am I singing?” Arjun sneered.

“Okay. Good. Fine,” said Ravi. “But try not to scream. Actually: Don’t. My Dada and Dadi are sleeping two rooms from here. You’re screaming nonstop. Anyway, control it; otherwise your voice will go. There is no good way to fix that. You can drink water and hot chocolate, but—”

“But screaming is what all these fellows do.”

“That’s true. But—”

Troubled silence.

“Let’s suicide him,” said Deepak.

Seconds later, they piled on Arjun, and this time his screams were real. The band had attained its homoerotic ideal.

When they started their next song—once they had tuned and tuned and tuned—the electricity went. At this time the four boys did not recognize how big and important a role power-cuts-as-sound-effect would play in the historic sound they were inching toward; how the Delhi Vidyut Power Board collapsing was the sound of a million people moaning in one syncopation, one forced fadeout of a guitar, only Arjun’s voice and
the drums floating over the remains of what had once been a song.

But the unplugged guitarists improvised. Somehow Anurag and Deepak were able to match the twanging of their bass and rhythm, and now Arjun started to croak and he closed his eyes and the chords clicked into place—and he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t bring himself to imagine Aarti and the song at once. When he sang, he lost Aarti. The small, quiet, dark room made him self-conscious, as if he were singing into a wall of judging listeners. As if he were in a tomb, in a womb, trying to scream his way out.

“I can’t sing in such a small space,” he admitted, speaking into the wall. He licked the wallpaper sensually.

The band members approved of his histrionics.

“Man, that’s good,” said Ravi. “Like whatshisname—Jim Morrison? Kiss?”

“You can even wear mascara.”

“No, I really can’t sing,” Arjun insisted.

Mrs. Mehta—Ravi’s mother—tended to agree. “What are you children doing?” she asked, stepping into the room. “All the neighbors are calling me and asking things? Please do not be doing this. Here are five hundred rupees, go to the market and do your no-good lazy thuggery over there.”

And they did, though not without an air of dejection. Their first practice had failed. They ate ice cream and ogled girls in GK Market. Arjun felt a little relieved that no one had pinned the band’s failure on his complete inability to sing. As they walked through the market, he expressed his deep desire to
scream and the impossibility of viscerally exercising his talent in the company of such mean neighbors. He extolled the virtues of dressing in a tight white T-shirt and jeans (which he would procure for all them, of course). He spoke at length about his vision for the band, an intersection of traditional Indian values (conveyed lyrically) with a distinctly American tradition associated with Bryan Adams (conveyed through tight jeans).

“But he’s a fucking Canadian, you fool,” said Ravi.

Arjun looked at Ravi and replied solemnly: “We need a better place to practice.”

They were sitting in Barista, sipping cold coffees animated with whirling clouds of sugar. Somehow they had lost track of the hours, whiling them away playing video games in United Arcade and putting their feet up on tables at all the new coffee shops that had opened up in GK.

Ravi said, “How about your house? You have a big garden. Your electricity never goes. Your dad gives speeches there—so there must be amps. We can also go on your roof. If there’s noise we’ll go acoustic.”

All this was true, but Arjun wanted to say: the problems are numerous too. To begin with, he had always maintained that he had only six siblings, not twelve. Using a special route through the house—one that took him past the kitchen, with its constant screech of mixies and pressure cookers, and wound around the nursery—he could prevent his friends from noticing at least five of his brothers and sisters who’d be bangled around the TV in Mama’s room, playing on the old, outdated Mega-
Drive video console. But then: the cluster of toothbrushes in the bathroom. The elongated 12 x 30 family photos on the wall. The fifteen table-mats on the table. The shoe rack that was more shoe than rack. The skyscrapers of folded laundry on the peninsular outcropping of the ironing board. The guest bedroom stuffed with pyramids of toilet paper and ointments and tampons and plastic-wrapped diapers and old-fashioned airtight jars containing Lifebuoy Soap, flaxseeds, roasted garlic cloves, gond gum, mango preserves,
Parle G
biscuits—a history of Mama’s cravings. It wasn’t worth the risk. He hadn’t invited his friends to his house in
years
.

And then there was Shankar, that nosy, boisterous servant who existed in an oscillating state of being-fired and quitting, of being drunk and sober, of being playful and interfering, so on, so forth,
ad infinitum
. The last time he was fired, he had written a letter to Mrs. Ahuja—that torturer of servants—saying that he hoped he was reborn as a dog in the Ahuja household, because a dog, he suspected, would be treated better than a servant (he was right). Luckily, Mr. Ahuja got his hands on this letter as well, took pity on the poor man whose handwriting was smudged from the very-same rains that had destroyed his house in Ranikhet (so he claimed), leaving him with nothing, only the cell phone he had once purchased in installments, which in any case was no good in the Himalayas, where he had tried calling from (he claimed) before writing this letter about the prospects of
life as a dog in the Ahuja household
. The point was, Shankar had a strange hold on everyone. He was a season, returning always, fiercer than before, globally warmed
by the TV in the kitchen. He had an opinion on everything. He insisted on humming, for instance, the Offspring song “Pretty Fly for a White Guy,” which he had heard Arjun play on repeat. This awful cooption—this humming by a man who had no idea what the song was about (nor did Arjun, he thought it was about a prettily designed zipper on a pant)—was acceptable only because no one else knew the song.

Arjun himself was humming the song. He nodded vaguely at Ravi and wondered what everyone was doing at home. It was already five in the evening. Arjun was almost never away from the house this long without permission (even though he was sixteen! Sixteen!); he burned with pride as he imagined his parents’ anxiety, their desperate calls to his friends’ homes.

Or maybe, he realized, they wouldn’t notice he was missing.

It was perfectly plausible in a house with thirteen children.

“So?” said Ravi. “Your house?”

“I’ll ask my Dad,” said Arjun.

M
R
.
AHUJA HAD NOT IGNORED
Arjun’s rock band. He couldn’t ignore it. He had followed Arjun to the threshold of the nursery and lost him for the second time in one day. He reached down and lifted up baby Vikram from his crib, held him to his shoulder, burps and all, and was aware suddenly of the immense distance—the strained ropes of time and space—that separated him from his youngest child, the sheer number of intervening boys and girls whom he’d birthed to undertake—in effect—the bidding of the father, their years of training at child rearing slowly cutting away the cumulative minutes Rakesh spent changing Vikram’s diapers and coochy-cooing on his knees beside the crib. The
issues at the top—Arjun, for example—could keep one busy forever. To plunge through the system was to feel, at times, like one’s intelligence was being wasted, that a command once given or a lesson once 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-picking
suddenly 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, “Correct.”

“Correct.”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

Only Sahil and Aneesha and Rishi were silent, scraping dirt from their uncut nails. Mr. Ahuja indicated them with the back of his palm. “You little ones probably don’t remember.”

Mr. Ahuja at it again! Divide and rule!

Sahil and Aneesha and Rishi protested. “Of course yes Papa!”

“What are you
saying
?” Tanya sneered. “You were too little.”

“Yes, beta, Tanya is right. It was a long time ago. Before any of you were born, in fact. Before I married your mama even. When I was younger, I was married to another lady. As you know. But she, God bless her, passed away in a car accident. You remember me telling you, correct?” he asked gruffly. “Real tragedy it was. Like the movies. Unforgettable.”

“Un for get bal,” said Rahul.

“Of course, yes.”

“Hundred percent.”

“Yes Papa.”

“Very sad.”

“Chhoo chhad.”

“It was a Contessa, right, Papa?”

“A WHAT?” Mr. Ahuja said.

“A Contessa Car.”

“Uh, yes—Contessa. Anyway. As you know,
she
was the one who was Arjun’s real mother. You know this right? Why are you all looking so surprised?”

Surprise was not the word, no—they looked like they’d all just been held down forcefully and given ten injections to their buttocks.

The Insect-O-Flash device at the counter crackled as more and more flies electrocuted themselves on the four parallel bright tube lights.

“Not surprised, Papa,” they lied.

“Yes Papa. We know about Arjun.”

“That’s why he doesn’t like when hero in movies says to villain,
Have you drunk your mother’s milk?
He feels like a villain when he is with Mama.”

“Ughzactly.”

Mr. Ahuja felt bad that he was playing them—but what choice did he have? Better for them to suppress their surprise and mimic adulthood. Better for them to trick themselves into familiarity with the shocking news—to waste their energies combing their memories rather than aggressively posing questions.

“Yes. Good. Very good memory,” said Mr. Ahuja. “All those years of feeding you duffers cod-liver oil has worked, eh? But yes. We never talk about it because Arjun was only three when your mama became
his
mama. Do you remember
anything from when you were three? No, naah? So that is what I wanted to say. Arjun was feeling a little upset because he’s the only one of you who isn’t born from Mama and he doesn’t even remember his real Mama. He feels left out. He thinks Mama and you all act differently toward him.”

Now the children were caught. Having nodded their way through this manipulative speech, they could not issue a denial. Couldn’t say they had no idea what their Papa was talking about. Instead, they tried to act cool. Tried to pretend they remembered and had, in fact, mistreated Arjun. Breathed heavily through their mouths.

“So basically he’s a stepson, naah,” said Tanya, translating for the other children. At twelve, she considered herself to be their representative. She was buying time.

“Stepson, yes,” said Varun. “Ughzactly.” He was secretly wondering how much Arjun would have to pay him to keep the secret.

“This tho I knew,” Rahul lied. He itched to put the news on his blog.

“Henh?” said Mr. Ahuja. “What is this you’re saying? No beta. Arjun’s not a stepson! He’s my son. He has my blood. If a mosquito bit me and then bit you and bit Arjun, it would be as confused as a person who drinks Diet Pepsi and Diet Coke one after the other. He is my son only. He is as much my son as any of you—”

“But I’m a girl,” said Rita.

“Yes, yes, beta. As much my son as you are my daughter.
He just came from a different mother. So he’s
my
real son and your Mama’s stepson. That is all you need to know.”

“So he
is
a stepson,” Tanya said, nodding her head gravely at the crowd.

“Like in Cinderella?” said Varun excitedly.

“No stupid,” Rita shushed. “That was a
stepdaughter
.”

“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 your
bhaiya. 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 compli
ments 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 will
not
ever
—I am saying
ever
—tell Arjun anything I have said today. You will
never
call him a stepbrother or a half-brother or anything. You will behave just like you all have been acting, okay? Understood? Otherwise I’ll send you all to a hostel. If even one of you tells Arjun anything I will send all of you to a hostel, understand? I’m serious. I’m very, very serious.”